Where is Orson Welles when you need him?

by Angela K. Durden

The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

Citizen Journalist.  Novelist. Author of other stuff. 

Business writer.  Songwriter.  Protecting creator's copyrights. 

In 1938, totally as Halloween entertainment, Orson Welles did an audio version of the H.G. Wells' novel The War of the Worlds. The broadcast scared a few folks who thought it was real news. 

And from that time until January 2020, broadcast news has been king and king maker as well public confessional and warning prophet. Remember the Y2K debacle? The world was ending all because somebody tried to save some space on hard drives by shortening dates. My own (now ex) husband thought I was going to disappear with my data the night of the changeover. I believe he was disappointed I was still there on Jan 1, 2000.

For some time I've been writing about the FLOTSAM* spewed by all the news agencies I've listed as part of the #CrunkNewsNetwork. But until this January of the year of our Lord 2020, these agencies still had some clout — or so they had us believe.

Remember when to make the news the standard was "If it bleeds, it leads"?

Now that standard is "If it scares, we care".

To show how much they care, they will beat a story to death even if it isn't true.

But the coronavirus killed off any remaining gravitas MSNBC and CNN — and any other agency that emulates them — may have had.

Stick a fork in them. They're done. 

Together, MSNBC and CNN have done everything in their power to start a panic about the coronavirus but nothing is happening. It is now public knowledge they've lost all potency in the market, not to mention any legitimacy they may have had.

I don't feel sorry for them. They have not learned their lesson. They will not change. They are still

I bet Orson Welles could stir up some scary sentiment about coronavirus and not one person would think it had anything to do with beer.

* FLOTSAM means For Liberal Opinion That is Serious and Actually Matters

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Dining Fine, or My Adventures in French Restaurants.

by Angela K. Durden

The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

Citizen Journalist.  Novelist. Author of other stuff. 

Business writer.  Songwriter.  Protecting creator's copyrights. 

Admittedly I was young and unsophisticated, so I don't blame the waiter at the French restaurant for his response after I called him over and quietly whispered, "Excuse me, sir, but can you find some rolls that aren't as hard as hockey pucks?"

After a long look down a longer nose, what he said was, "Excuse me, madam, but those are our finest rolls."

Now it was my turn to stare as my somewhat-new husband tried to disappear. Then I said, "Well, I know where you can get some good soft yeast rolls that don't make your teeth fall out when you bite into them. And did you know —" here I held up one of his rolls "— these are cold?"

I'm sure he was thinking, "What a gauche young woman. What did I do that God should so punish me by sending such a person into my orbit?" I'm sure he was thinking that because, well, it was written all over his face.

I merely bring this up to let you know that Fine French Dining and I simply do not get along. I'm much too practical and I do not impress easily. Those of you who have read my book Conversations In Hyperreality will attest to this. If you have not read the book, then make the damn investment and find out for yourself. You will not be disappointed and you will be supporting The Arts. See what a fine thing you're doing?

Digression over. Back to les grenouilles and their condescending food.

So, years and years pass. How many is none of your business. But my Awesome Aunt Number One [AANO], Pearl, was being visited by Awesome Aunt Number Two [AANT], her sister Virginia. Naturally they wanted to go out to eat and so I picked them up and headed to Pearl's fave eatery, a French restaurant. "My treat!" she yodeled.

This was a real French restaurant, too. Seriously. I walked in and there was a bunch of Catholic priests in their uniforms. I could tell who the top honcho was because he was at a table with no other priests and surrounded by people who were obviously sucking up to God. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was chatting or laughing. [I kid you not. I was looking for the table full of Nazis in full regalia.]

They were there to eat and be seen and by God and Mother Mary and Jesus and all the Saints they were going to eat and be seen doing so, in the right company, of course. This was serious business.

Those poor folks who had to crowd around a table with a lowly priest stared enviously at the main table.

We three non-Catholics stood out like sore thumbs in the hammer aisle at Home Depot. The host condescended to seat us and we got some sort of round booth smack-dab in the middle of the place where absolutely everybody stared at us.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Angela, I hope you didn't say anything stupid this time and just minded your manners and acted all polite and stuff." I'm sorry you are thinking that because that is not what happened.

Not that I didn't try. I did. I tried really hard. But when you find out what happened, you will not blame me this time. This time I was deliberate in my declarations, or as les grenouilles would say, déclarations.

Here is what happened.

AANO and AANT ordered chicken and rice. I ordered some sort of beef with a sauce. There's a name for what I ordered, but I've tried to put it out of my mind, so I do not remember it at this time. Their dishes came and then mine was placed in front of me.

Well, of all the foods I've ever eaten, I can tell you Roasted Gristle Cut-on-the-Grain with Meh Brown Gravy Slopped Over and Presented With Wan Potato Not-Au-Gratin is not my favorite.

AANO and AANT immediately saw the look on my face and they whispered urgently, "Angela, DO NOT COMPLAIN. Just eat it. It's FRENCH." As if that helped.

Well, says I, I ain't paying for this sh---, I mean merde. Right there, in the middle of the restaurant, with everybody looking, I raised my hand and started looking around for our waiter. He saw me and, seeing a possible defector who might just start a riot, hot-footed it over to the table and bent over me with a Oui, puis-je vous aider? Yessir, you can help me, says I.

Firstly, I did not order Roast Gristle. Secondly, your bread is hard as a damn hockey puck.

Both AANO and AANT almost fainted dead away. AANO said, "I'll swap with her and she can have my chicken." I said, "Pearl, your chicken is rubber, you just said so. I don't want to swap gristle for rubber." Then turning to the waiter, who by this time was furious along with the rest of those who were Dining Fine, I said, "Look. You take this back. You tell that chef of yours to cut my piece against the grain —"

He interrupted with, "MahDAHM, NO wahn hassss EVER return a deesh to le chef."

What a frickin' fake French accent. I marveled that he got away with it. But I continued and said, "Shall I walk it back there? Because I can and I will."

And he knew I would.

Those who know me know I'm not lying nor exaggerating.

Anyway, out came a much better piece of meat, this time cut against the grain. Almost fell apart, it was so tender. The gravy was fresh. The potatoes just about stood up and saluted. And the rolls had been heated and buttered. It was all still bland, but it was better. I added salt and pepper and I ate it.

Well, you could have heard a pin drop when this better dish came out. Even the Big Catholic Boss was staring at me. Who the hayle are you to get better food than moi? The waiter was staring from me to the chef hovering in the doorway of the kitchen and back, both had expressions of Qui diable êtes-vous, femme? Glad you asked, sirs. Let me tell you who the hayle I am.

I am a Magnificently Methodical Southern Woman...and don't you forget it. See? That's how we saved your boohineys in WWII. Just saying. 

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Philip Haney: Careful and cautious; never a quitter.

by Angela K. Durden

The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

Citizen Journalist.  Novelist. Author of other stuff. 

Business writer.  Songwriter.  Protecting creator's copyrights. 

I knew Philip Haney. He wrote the foreword to the book by Jedwin Smith that I edited and published called "I AM ISRAEL — Lions and Lambs of the Land". Jedwin and I had lunch with Phil in Downtown Decatur one day. The conversation was great. We were all having such a good time. Not often I've had opportunity to converse with a man of such brilliance and integrity.

While working with him on the foreword to the book, we spoke often on the phone and emailed edits and tweaks back and forth. He always laughed when I said, "Philip, you're wrong, here's why, and you should change it." I'd make my case for his choice of word or phrasing and how it could be misconstrued or made much clearer. He always made the change.

When he spoke to Jedwin, he always called me Firebrand. That made me laugh. He wasn't afraid of much, but he was afraid of me! Even now in my grief, I smile at the memory. I will miss him.

He had recently been widowed when his wife, Francesca, died after very long being ill. She was the love of his life. However, he was still very busy and engaged with projects for agencies that dealt in national security.

He was outspoken against both the Bush and Obama administrations and how political correctness and the Deep State allowed terrorists to get a foothold in the U.S. He tracked funding to U.S.-based cells and could prove where it came from and to whom it went. His book "See Something. Say Nothing." documents what the Deep State attempted to do to shut him up.

Philip Haney was a man of God who loved life in all its many iterations. It would never have entered his mind to kill himself.

However, his life was in danger and he kept on the move. He was careful. He was cautious. But he was not a quitter. Philip Haney did not kill himself.

#PHDNKH

SHERIFF'S OFFICE BACKTRACKS ON SUICIDE.
WHAT HANEY WROTE.
AMERICANTHINKER.COM
THE BOOK WITH HANEY'S FOREWORD.
REPUBLICAN LAWMAKERS "HANEY DID NOT COMMIT SUIDICE".

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The Principles of Engines and Sex

by Angela K. Durden

The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

Citizen Journalist.  Novelist. Author of other stuff. 

Business writer.  Songwriter.  Protecting creator's copyrights. 

Please be advised this content is for non-P-HWPCLDRSFCSJWs*. If you self-identify as a P-HWPCLDRSFCSJW, DO NOT CONTINUE READING.  If you are a distributor of FLOTSAM**, you know how to reach me for clarification of any statement you deem inflammatory, is not approved by P-HWPCLDRSFCSJW or your masters, contains information you've never heard, or for any other fashion you wish. If you want to blame this on President Donald "The Hammer" Trump, please do not contact me, and instead reach out to the White House Office of Press Relations Management and take it up with them. 

Fuel-powered engines operate very simply in theory. Everybody understands how engines work. You put a key in a slot. You turn a key. And boomshakala-Bob’s-yer-uncle, there you are, ready to put’er in gear and move right along.

Never mind the reality that gears and rack and pinion and tires and seals and filters and brakes and oil and other important fluids and parts must also be maintained or else major repairs costing mucho dinero will hound you for years. You see? You understand? The simple theory of how cars work is totally explained in the opening paragraph and that is the simple theory of how people look at their car.

And how they think of sex.

You put a Whangdoodle in a little fill’er neck. You turn this way and that and boomshakalaka-Bob’s-yer-uncle, there you are, put’er in gear and moving right along.

Never mind the reality that over-shoulder-boulder-holders may or may not be involved. Never mind the reality that bits of sheer fabrics and lacy peekaboos may need to be slowly removed or ripped off in a rush, dodged or fondled, and so forth, and if not done properly can result in much heartache. Never mind that just when you think you’re home, the gas runs out; or the aging vehicle can’t keep up with demand; or while you’re happily “driving down the highway”, a seal springs a leak leaving you with future obligations the likes of which you think will never end and you swear off sex…or at least promise to be more careful.

Just like engines look simple but are complicated, so is sex. Chemicals (gas for engines, hormones in bodies) involve internal combustion designed to convert energy in the chemical into mechanical energy. In both cases, “pistons” move up and down in a linear motion inside “cylinders” that, in turn, move “crankshafts” in a rotary motion. If pistons and cylinders are misaligned, not properly milled to spec, or so antique they give in under the pressure, the desired converted energy is lost and the trip is postponed.

You may infer the quotation marks in the above paragraph to imply tongue-in-cheek commentary; that phrase — tongue-in-cheek — is not meant as a pun.

But let’s say that the energy is converted, there is still danger. If the converted energy is weak the “engine” may not know the “trip” has begun much less is over leading to “check engine lights” coming on and somebody whispering that excitement-killing phrase, “Daddy-O, are we there yet?”

We humans simply take engines and sex for granted. We believe they will always work when we want them to and are surprised and angry when they don’t. I once had a mechanical engineer explain to me how engines work in four simple steps. One: Engine intakes air and fuel. Two: Compresses it until it Three: Explodes. Then Four: Exhausts. Or as he said it, and these are his words:

1. Suck. 

2. Squeeze.

3. Pop.

4. Phooey.

Need I say more?

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* P-HWPCDLRSFC is Pussy-Hat Wearing Politically Correct Democrat Liberal RINO Socialist Fascist Commie Social Justice Warriors

** FLOTSAM means For Liberal Opinion That is Serious and Actually Matters

Fuel-powered engines operate very simply in theory. Everybody understands how engines work. You put a key in a slot. You turn a key. And boomshakala-Bob’s-yer-uncle, there you are, ready to put’er in gear and move right along.

Never mind the reality that gears and rack and pinion and tires and seals and filters and brakes and oil and other important fluids and parts must also be maintained or else major repairs costing mucho dinero will hound you for years. You see? You understand? The simple theory of how cars work is totally explained in the opening paragraph and that is the simple theory of how people look at their car.

And how they think of sex.

You put a Whangdoodle in a little fill’er neck. You turn this way and that and boomshakalaka-Bob’s-yer-uncle, there you are, put’er in gear and moving right along.

Never mind the reality that over-shoulder-boulder-holders may or may not be involved. Never mind the reality that bits of sheer fabrics and lacy peekaboos may need to be slowly removed or ripped off in a rush, dodged or fondled, and so forth, and if not done properly can result in much heartache. Never mind that just when you think you’re home, the gas runs out; are the aging vehicle can’t keep up with demand; or while you’re happily “driving down the highway”, a seal springs a leak leaving you with future obligations the likes of which you think will never end and you swear off sex…or at least promise to be more careful.

Just like engines look simple but are complicated, so is sex. Chemicals (gas for engines, hormones in bodies) involve internal combustion designed to convert energy in the chemical into mechanical energy. In both cases, “pistons” move up and down in a linear motion inside “cylinders” that, in turn, move “crankshafts” in a rotary motion. If pistons and cylinders are misaligned, not properly milled to spec, or so antique they give in under the pressure, the desired converted energy is lost and the trip is postponed.

You may infer the quotation marks in the above paragraph to imply tongue-in-cheek commentary; that phrase — tongue-in-cheek — is not meant as a pun.

But let’s say that the energy is converted, there is still danger. If the converted energy is weak the “engine” may not know the “trip” has begun much less is over leading to “check engine lights” coming on and somebody whispering that excitement-killing phrase, “Daddy-O, are we there yet?”

We humans simply take engines and sex for granted. We believe they will always work when we want them to and are surprised and angry when they don’t. I once had a mechanical engineer explain to me how engines work in four simple steps. One: Engine intakes air and fuel. Two: Compresses it until it Three: Explodes. Then Four: Exhausts. Or as he said it, and these are his words:

1. Suck.

2. Squeeze.

3. Pop.

4. Phooey.



Need I say more?

Spitting Excellent Epithetical Expletives Like a Pro

by Angela K. Durden

The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

Citizen Journalist.  Novelist. Author of other stuff. 

Business writer.  Songwriter.  Protecting creator's copyrights. 

Anyone who has read my memoir will understand. Those who have not read my memoir should sure as hell bloody well buy it now so they will.

Notice in the above paragraph how I appropriately commanded you, the reader, by using excellent epithetical expletives [from hence on shortened to E-E-E!]? See? I told you I was a pro — and you will see more examples of my professionalism if you keep reading.

And as well I should be a pro because I studied the art form from the time I was around three years old until I was pregnant with my first child.

You are probably wondering how many years that entails. I will not tell you because, g*d d*mn, how nosy can you [effin'] be?

Growing up around violence, drugs, drink, and other wanton and evil lifestyle choices including the free and easy and quite imaginative use of expletives, you would have naturally assumed that I thought these things were all normal and that I proceeded to beat up people, get high and drunk, be a wild child, etcetera and so forth, and employ E-E-E!

You. Would. Be. Wrong.

I did not utter my first curse words until I was seventeen and to say those were uttered would be a gross understatement. I screamed them to the high heavens right smack dab into the face of my stepfather when I said, "Shutup, you [E-E-E!]" When he asked for clarification of what I just said, I repeated, "I said shut up you [E-E-E! E-E-E!] and furthermore..." Well, it's in the memoir, so buy it.

Everybody was so shocked that Angela cursed. This rocked their little world because Angela did not curse.

Then I did not use another curse word after that for many long years. You see, when I make up my mind not to do something, I don't do it. I have a funny story about when I was twelve and how I made up my mind not to pick my nose because I wanted to be a lady, but I'll spare you that story.

The many long years I did not use curse words ended a couple of years before The Big D — by which time the children were well along into adulthood — and has not abated until this day.

The use of E-E-E! now is so frequent that even as I spit it out I'm sometimes clapping a hand over my mouth and saying "Sorry for the French!" because the timing is just not judicious. Other times I revel in the freedom and young men who think I'm a timid schoolteacher are shocked. I've even had some say "But-but-but...you...you cursed!" like it was some sin or something.

Yet, here I am. Spitting Excellent Epithetical Expletives like a pro — and proud of it.

You are now asking, what makes one professional in the use of E-E-E!? You may check your professional usage of E-E-E! by this list here.

1. You do not deploy E-E-E! casually.
2. You mean E-E-E! every time you employ it.
3. You do not apologize meaningfully for using E-E-E! 
4. You sometimes apologize but everybody knows you really don't mean it, you're just making the faint of heart not hate you as badly.
5. Cups of coffee are never referred to as "[E-E-E!] coffee" unless it was really a bad cuppa and therefore deserved it.
6. You find yourself in front of an audience, getting ready to sing a song you wrote, remembering that the mic is live and working really hard not to blurt out something inappropriate in case young ears happen by.
7. You find  yourself in front of an audience, getting ready to sing a song you wrote, remembering that the mic is live and working really hard not to blurt out something inappropriate in case young ears happen by and working really hard in coming up real fast with appropriate stand-ins for E-E-E! and everybody thinks you're being a comedienne and they laugh because they know what you really were going to say. 

Numbers 6 and 7 may not apply to the general public, but you get the drift. You could be at work. Making a presentation to the Big Bosses. See? Or you may be frustrated because the person you're talking to is saying, "You write...books AND you write...songs?" like a book is something they've never bought and the writing of a song is something reserved for those blessed by the saints they pray to and they cannot believe you are so blessed.

You know what? I'm getting mad right now and my fingers sure are twitching to spit out some E-E-E! But I'm not going to...I know I promised I would...So sue me. I need the free column inches.

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