By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
(Yeah, I stole the bones of this from Ernest Thayer's - "Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sung in the Year 1888". Sue me.)
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Democrats that day;
the Senate Intel committee stood seven to six, with but Comey left to play.
And then when Kamala Harris died at first, and Mark Warner did the same,
a sickly silence fell upon the Progressive patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
they thought, if only Comey could get but a whack at a Trump MAGA hat –
they'd put up even money, now, with Comey at the bat.
But Feinstein praised Comey, as did also many a flake,
and the former was a lulu and the the future of the Dem party was at stake,
so upon that stricken multitude grim hatred sat,
for there seemed but little chance of Comey knocking off Trump's hat.
But Heinrich let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
and Angus King the much despised, tore the cover off the hushed hall;
and when the dust had lifted, and CNN saw what had occurred,
there was Michael Flynn safe at second and Trump a-hugging third.
Then from millions of throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
it knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
for Comey, mighty Comey, was advancing to the mic.
There was ease in Comey's manner as he sat in his place;
there was pride in Comey's bearing and a smile on Comey's face.
And when, responding to the swearing in, he agreed to tell the truth,
no Democrat in the crowd could doubt 'twas Comey would provide
collusional proof.
The New York Times eyes were on him as he prepared to dish his dirt;
Rachel Maddow's tongue applauded when he portrayed a victim hurt.
Then while the writhing audience heard Rubio shoot from the hip,
defiance gleamed in Comey's eye, a smile curled Comey's lip.
And now the words from Comey's leather-covered day planner came hurtling through the air,
and Comey sat a-talking in haughty grandeur there.
Close to the murky main stream media narrative his words unheeded sped--
"Trump's a lying bully," said Comey. "Strike one," the Democrats said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill Trump! Kill Trump!" shouted a Clinton supporter in the stand;
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Comey over played his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Comey's visage shone;
he stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
he signaled to the Chairman, and once more his baseless innuendo flew;
but Comey still ignored knowledge of it, and the Democrats said: "Strike two."
"You poor man!" cried the maddened media, and echo answered this fraud;
but one baleful look from Comey and the Washington Post was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Comey wouldn't get to swing at Trump again.
The smile is fake upon Comey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
he pounds with impotent violence his bat upon Trump's plate.
And now Republicans hold the ball, and wont let it go,
and now even Chris Matthew's is shattered by the whiff of Comey's weak blow.
Oh, somewhere in the Clinton camp the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere in Chappaqua, and few of Hillary's supporters hearts are light,
and somewhere Nancy Pelosi is laughing maniacally for Chuck Todd, and Chuck Schumer is senselessly babbling into a CBS microphone;
but there is no joy in California or New York — mighty Comey has struck out.
Showing posts with label Ecklebob Chiselfritz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ecklebob Chiselfritz. Show all posts
Friday, June 9, 2017
Monday, May 29, 2017
World Peace Through the Power of Music
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
I once got into a fist fight with a guy during wood shop class when I was in high school and the teacher that broke it up sat us down and played a cassette tape of the James Taylor song, You've Got a Friend.
Afterward he asked if we understood the message of the song. We said no and he played it again. Once more he asked if we understood the message Taylor was conveying through his music.
No, we didn't.
Once more he played the song and then asked the same damn question. This time as if a switch had been flipped on in our young heads we both answered yes and proceeded to beat the living hell out of the teacher.
Quite severely.
So I guess the moral of the story is fuck James Taylor.
I once got into a fist fight with a guy during wood shop class when I was in high school and the teacher that broke it up sat us down and played a cassette tape of the James Taylor song, You've Got a Friend.
Afterward he asked if we understood the message of the song. We said no and he played it again. Once more he asked if we understood the message Taylor was conveying through his music.
No, we didn't.
Once more he played the song and then asked the same damn question. This time as if a switch had been flipped on in our young heads we both answered yes and proceeded to beat the living hell out of the teacher.
Quite severely.
So I guess the moral of the story is fuck James Taylor.
Thursday, May 18, 2017
My Old Man: Against the Win
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
My father did the best he could with the cards he was dealt in life.
Alabama born and raised with barely any schooling because his father thought readin', ritin' and 'rithmetic interfered with a childs ability to be his indentured slave...
Let's leave it at gramps was a lazy no account bastard.
My old man left home at 17 and joined the Marines in time to go to Korea and be wounded by Chinese machine gun fire. He also carried shrapnel in the back of his left thigh for the rest of his life.
He never complained and he NEVER talked about his time in battle. Never.
I didn't know he had received the Purple Heart until after he was dead.
That's the kind of man he was.
He was the toughest son of a bitch I have met in my life.
Bar none
I'm gonna leave his biography there for now because I suck as a writer and don't want to be up till dawn writing a book.
I would guess it's 1968 I am eight years old or thereabouts.
The old man is a truck driver.
He's sitting at the kitchen table filling out his log book.
The state of Illinois demanded truckers detail how they spent their time on the highways while on the clock.
They were allowed so many hours behind the wheel and then they had to "rest" for so many hours before they could continue driving.
And they damn well better remember Big Brother is watching!
The old man cheated like a whore who promises every customer she loves only him.
He wasn't alone in doing so.
Truck drivers were paid shit and had families to feed.
So the old man is sitting at the kitchen table penciling in how he might have spent a couple hours driving legally and lying about how he was off road when actually he drove non stop the entire time.
He looked up from his literary endeavour and asked, "How do you spell whin?"
My next oldest brother replied, "w.i.n."
The old man said, "No, whin."
My brother giggled and once again said, "w.i.n."
The old man is frustrated by this time. He hated having to fill out the log. I don't blame him. He worked like a dog and this always cut into his drinking time.
But God love him, he tried one more time.
"How do you spell whin?"
My brother the smart ass was exasperated by now and goes "W.I.N. like when you win a game. Isn't that what you mean?"
The old man replied, "No, I mean whiiiin! Like whiiiin I kick your ass."
Game. Set. Match.
My father did the best he could with the cards he was dealt in life.
Alabama born and raised with barely any schooling because his father thought readin', ritin' and 'rithmetic interfered with a childs ability to be his indentured slave...
Let's leave it at gramps was a lazy no account bastard.
My old man left home at 17 and joined the Marines in time to go to Korea and be wounded by Chinese machine gun fire. He also carried shrapnel in the back of his left thigh for the rest of his life.
He never complained and he NEVER talked about his time in battle. Never.
I didn't know he had received the Purple Heart until after he was dead.
That's the kind of man he was.
He was the toughest son of a bitch I have met in my life.
Bar none
I'm gonna leave his biography there for now because I suck as a writer and don't want to be up till dawn writing a book.
I would guess it's 1968 I am eight years old or thereabouts.
The old man is a truck driver.
He's sitting at the kitchen table filling out his log book.
The state of Illinois demanded truckers detail how they spent their time on the highways while on the clock.
They were allowed so many hours behind the wheel and then they had to "rest" for so many hours before they could continue driving.
And they damn well better remember Big Brother is watching!
The old man cheated like a whore who promises every customer she loves only him.
He wasn't alone in doing so.
Truck drivers were paid shit and had families to feed.
So the old man is sitting at the kitchen table penciling in how he might have spent a couple hours driving legally and lying about how he was off road when actually he drove non stop the entire time.
He looked up from his literary endeavour and asked, "How do you spell whin?"
My next oldest brother replied, "w.i.n."
The old man said, "No, whin."
My brother giggled and once again said, "w.i.n."
The old man is frustrated by this time. He hated having to fill out the log. I don't blame him. He worked like a dog and this always cut into his drinking time.
But God love him, he tried one more time.
"How do you spell whin?"
My brother the smart ass was exasperated by now and goes "W.I.N. like when you win a game. Isn't that what you mean?"
The old man replied, "No, I mean whiiiin! Like whiiiin I kick your ass."
Game. Set. Match.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
#happymothersday - My Mom and Her Little Yellow Chicken
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
It was early July of 1995 and my mother was dying. She had first been diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 1987. She said she could beat it and I had no doubt she would. She was my mom. The only person in the world who never gave up on me. Never. And I supplied ample reason and opportunity over the years for her to resign the position.
She fought the cancer for eight years with courage, dignity and grace.
A herculean task given the indignities and pain the progression of cancer visited upon her body and mind over the course of what must have been eight torturous years.
It was July of 1995 and I was sitting on the edge of her bed holding her hand. There was so much I wanted to say, but nothing would come out of my mouth. I love you, mom. Thanks for not abandoning me when I was young, mom. It would have been so easy for you to do given the circumstances and the times.
We held hands. We smiled at each other. And we smiled some more. I wasn't smiling inside, but I was unable to speak. I wasn't afraid to talk because it might make me cry. I just couldn't speak.
Mom squeezed my hand and called me something she hadn't since I was a small child. It was her nickname for me back when I was a blond toddler with a crewcut,
"My little yellow chicken."
I knew then and accepted she was dying.
Mom died a couple days later. I held her hand and talked non stop as she first slipped into a coma and then into the arms of Jesus. I told her everything.
I gave my lifes confession.
I was her little yellow chicken.
It was early July of 1995 and my mother was dying. She had first been diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 1987. She said she could beat it and I had no doubt she would. She was my mom. The only person in the world who never gave up on me. Never. And I supplied ample reason and opportunity over the years for her to resign the position.
She fought the cancer for eight years with courage, dignity and grace.
A herculean task given the indignities and pain the progression of cancer visited upon her body and mind over the course of what must have been eight torturous years.
It was July of 1995 and I was sitting on the edge of her bed holding her hand. There was so much I wanted to say, but nothing would come out of my mouth. I love you, mom. Thanks for not abandoning me when I was young, mom. It would have been so easy for you to do given the circumstances and the times.
We held hands. We smiled at each other. And we smiled some more. I wasn't smiling inside, but I was unable to speak. I wasn't afraid to talk because it might make me cry. I just couldn't speak.
Mom squeezed my hand and called me something she hadn't since I was a small child. It was her nickname for me back when I was a blond toddler with a crewcut,
"My little yellow chicken."
I knew then and accepted she was dying.
Mom died a couple days later. I held her hand and talked non stop as she first slipped into a coma and then into the arms of Jesus. I told her everything.
I gave my lifes confession.
I was her little yellow chicken.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Me, Zack and the old mans flat tire
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
It wasn't often that our phone was on when I was a kid. Ma Bell had a nasty habit of shutting off service if you didn't pay your bill. I don't remember it ringing on that Sunday morning in 1967, but it did and my mother answered it. Our shack was small. I mean small. Mice looked at us as white trash and preferred to live in the barn. So yeah, I more than likely heard the phone ring and I listened to my mother's side of the convo.
My old man had gone on one of his benders and was stranded in Chicago with a flat tire and no spare. Being eight years old and a seasoned veteran of a tug of war between my mom who would always puke after one drink of any type of alcohol and my dad who would puke if he couldn't get hold of any alcohol I didn't have any questions or wonder why dear old dad was calling from thirty some odd miles away needing help. It was a change of pace from stepping over his prone form on Sunday morning in order to use the bathroom as was per usual. Doesn't every family have its rituals?
My mother couldn't drive. I mean she could not drive. The old man had tried to teach her how and on one lesson she buried the nose of his '63 Ford Falcon into the side of a grain barn.
She. Could. Not. Drive.
Plus, she was pregnant at the time with my little sister.
After five boys I'm sure she was ecstatic.
Mom always said that once she found out what was causing her to have babies she stopped doing it.
My mother hung up the phone and told my thirteen year old brother Zack he had to hustle over to neighboring farmer Al Schroeder's place and borrow his pick up truck and take the old man the spare tire that was in a corner of the pump house.
I was indifferent to the old man at that stage of my life. Zack hated his guts. And the feeling was mutual. My indifference led to me being ignored while one of my younger brothers was favored. Zack's hatred was my fathers excuse for beating one of my other brothers. And...it's complicated.
I doubt Zack told Al what was going on. Hell, everyone in our rural community knew what the score was concerning our family. It was early morning and Al had thirty some cows to milk.
I went out to the pump house and found the tire. It had to be Spring because that is just the way I remember the weather after all these years.
Then it hit me.
Zack had to drive all the way into Chicago?
We drove all over creation with tractors. It was a way of life for us. We were given limited access to cars/trucks. Yeah, we could drive the back roads from point A to point B.
But I-90 into Chicago?
Zack pulled up and told me to throw the tire in the bed of the truck and get in.
I obeyed and climbed in because he is my brother.
Age be damned, brothers instinctively know when one another needs help.
I knew we were going East because the Sun was in our eyes as it was rising. Other than that I don't know how Zack found the old man, but he did.
I don't remember what car the old man had at the time, but I'm sure it was a piece of shit.
I do know only three of the tires had air in them at the time.
He was standing in the street by his car when we pulled up with his toolbox open on the ground alongside the aggrieved tire.
The old boy was too drunk to help so Zack began changing the tire and told me to watch the truck. I didn't know what he meant. I'm eight years old. What does watch the truck mean?
But I watched the truck.
I also watched a short balding guy in shabby clothes pick the old mans tool box up and scurry down the sidewalk with it.
I thought he was putting it away for safekeeping.
So help me God I did.
I was too embarrassed to say anything once I realized Sparky wasn't coming back with it.
Alls well that ends well. We made it back home to Waltons Mountain and...
That would have been nice if true.
We did make it home with no incident other than Zack telling me the entire ride home what a prick the old man was.
To this day I have not told anyone about what happened to the old mans tool box.
Let's keep it between us.
Okay?
It wasn't often that our phone was on when I was a kid. Ma Bell had a nasty habit of shutting off service if you didn't pay your bill. I don't remember it ringing on that Sunday morning in 1967, but it did and my mother answered it. Our shack was small. I mean small. Mice looked at us as white trash and preferred to live in the barn. So yeah, I more than likely heard the phone ring and I listened to my mother's side of the convo.
My old man had gone on one of his benders and was stranded in Chicago with a flat tire and no spare. Being eight years old and a seasoned veteran of a tug of war between my mom who would always puke after one drink of any type of alcohol and my dad who would puke if he couldn't get hold of any alcohol I didn't have any questions or wonder why dear old dad was calling from thirty some odd miles away needing help. It was a change of pace from stepping over his prone form on Sunday morning in order to use the bathroom as was per usual. Doesn't every family have its rituals?
My mother couldn't drive. I mean she could not drive. The old man had tried to teach her how and on one lesson she buried the nose of his '63 Ford Falcon into the side of a grain barn.
She. Could. Not. Drive.
Plus, she was pregnant at the time with my little sister.
After five boys I'm sure she was ecstatic.
Mom always said that once she found out what was causing her to have babies she stopped doing it.
My mother hung up the phone and told my thirteen year old brother Zack he had to hustle over to neighboring farmer Al Schroeder's place and borrow his pick up truck and take the old man the spare tire that was in a corner of the pump house.
I was indifferent to the old man at that stage of my life. Zack hated his guts. And the feeling was mutual. My indifference led to me being ignored while one of my younger brothers was favored. Zack's hatred was my fathers excuse for beating one of my other brothers. And...it's complicated.
I doubt Zack told Al what was going on. Hell, everyone in our rural community knew what the score was concerning our family. It was early morning and Al had thirty some cows to milk.
I went out to the pump house and found the tire. It had to be Spring because that is just the way I remember the weather after all these years.
Then it hit me.
Zack had to drive all the way into Chicago?
We drove all over creation with tractors. It was a way of life for us. We were given limited access to cars/trucks. Yeah, we could drive the back roads from point A to point B.
But I-90 into Chicago?
Zack pulled up and told me to throw the tire in the bed of the truck and get in.
I obeyed and climbed in because he is my brother.
Age be damned, brothers instinctively know when one another needs help.
I knew we were going East because the Sun was in our eyes as it was rising. Other than that I don't know how Zack found the old man, but he did.
I don't remember what car the old man had at the time, but I'm sure it was a piece of shit.
I do know only three of the tires had air in them at the time.
He was standing in the street by his car when we pulled up with his toolbox open on the ground alongside the aggrieved tire.
The old boy was too drunk to help so Zack began changing the tire and told me to watch the truck. I didn't know what he meant. I'm eight years old. What does watch the truck mean?
But I watched the truck.
I also watched a short balding guy in shabby clothes pick the old mans tool box up and scurry down the sidewalk with it.
I thought he was putting it away for safekeeping.
So help me God I did.
I was too embarrassed to say anything once I realized Sparky wasn't coming back with it.
Alls well that ends well. We made it back home to Waltons Mountain and...
That would have been nice if true.
We did make it home with no incident other than Zack telling me the entire ride home what a prick the old man was.
To this day I have not told anyone about what happened to the old mans tool box.
Let's keep it between us.
Okay?
Monday, May 8, 2017
Pete and Barb
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
Mark was my best friend when I was sixteen. For a time he had a girlfriend named Barb. I knew Barb before she and Mark became an item because she was one of the cadre of girls we ran around and partied with. I remember she really, really, really, really liked Grace Slick of the Jefferson Airplane. Other than that I don't remember too much about her.
I don't remember how I met Pete.
I do remember kicking his older brother Tom's ass one night, but I don't remember why.
Given another night and different circumstances he probably could have kicked my ass.
Whatever.
Me and Pete got along fairly well and drank a lot of beer and smoked a lot of dope together.
I would play poker with Pete, Tom and a couple other guys occassionaly. Small stakes. I was there more for the alcohol and dope than the love of the game. One time we were playing cards and having a blast. Very casually Pete pulls out a kit and proceeds to hit himself up with heroin. I stay cool while watching this, but I was horrified. I mean we all did a lot of different drugs. We were young and bullet proof. I was no angel, but needles were not among the toys I played with. Nor was heroin.
Well, Pete passes the shit over to his brother Tom and he partakes of the shit using the same needle. By this time I'm ready to jet. These fuckers are too crazy for me. Tom finishes up...and passes the rig to Andre who is more than ready for his turn using the same needle as Pete and Tom have already used.
I'm out of there and I believe that was the last time I ever saw Pete.
Flash forward almost fifteen years to around 1991...
Me and Mark drifted apart years ago. Apparently so did he and Barb because I heard her and Pete married and had three kids.
I'm married with three kids. I'm working too much. Drinking too much. And my marriage is on the rocks limping toward an inevitable conclusion.
I'm getting ahead of myself here.
Did I mention Barb stabbed Pete to death in 1989?
I had heard about it, but really gave it no thought because I was so wrapped up in all the misery I was creating in my own life.
I'm out in the street unloading and carrying my family's possessions into a rental duplex because we moved a lot in those days.
A car slows down and I hear a female voice call my name. I turn around and it's Barb. I was kind of shocked because I thought she was in jail for killing Pete, but lo and behold she's not. Actually she lives three doors down from the place I'm moving into. We lived in that duplex for two years and I never saw Barb again after that first time.
I had assumed she had just gone off the deep end and murdered Pete because both of them were whacked out on drugs. I hadn't given it any thought because as I alluded to earlier. My life was a mess and I was too wrapped up in myself to give a damn about people I hadn't seen for years.
I don't know what possessed me to think about Pete and Barb after so many years. I Googled their names today and now I feel shame for not taking time to reach out to Barb and at least offer a shoulder for her to cry on when she probably would have appreciated it.
April 27, 1989
Chicago Tribune
Mark was my best friend when I was sixteen. For a time he had a girlfriend named Barb. I knew Barb before she and Mark became an item because she was one of the cadre of girls we ran around and partied with. I remember she really, really, really, really liked Grace Slick of the Jefferson Airplane. Other than that I don't remember too much about her.
I don't remember how I met Pete.
I do remember kicking his older brother Tom's ass one night, but I don't remember why.
Given another night and different circumstances he probably could have kicked my ass.
Whatever.
Me and Pete got along fairly well and drank a lot of beer and smoked a lot of dope together.
I would play poker with Pete, Tom and a couple other guys occassionaly. Small stakes. I was there more for the alcohol and dope than the love of the game. One time we were playing cards and having a blast. Very casually Pete pulls out a kit and proceeds to hit himself up with heroin. I stay cool while watching this, but I was horrified. I mean we all did a lot of different drugs. We were young and bullet proof. I was no angel, but needles were not among the toys I played with. Nor was heroin.
Well, Pete passes the shit over to his brother Tom and he partakes of the shit using the same needle. By this time I'm ready to jet. These fuckers are too crazy for me. Tom finishes up...and passes the rig to Andre who is more than ready for his turn using the same needle as Pete and Tom have already used.
I'm out of there and I believe that was the last time I ever saw Pete.
Flash forward almost fifteen years to around 1991...
Me and Mark drifted apart years ago. Apparently so did he and Barb because I heard her and Pete married and had three kids.
I'm married with three kids. I'm working too much. Drinking too much. And my marriage is on the rocks limping toward an inevitable conclusion.
I'm getting ahead of myself here.
Did I mention Barb stabbed Pete to death in 1989?
I had heard about it, but really gave it no thought because I was so wrapped up in all the misery I was creating in my own life.
I'm out in the street unloading and carrying my family's possessions into a rental duplex because we moved a lot in those days.
A car slows down and I hear a female voice call my name. I turn around and it's Barb. I was kind of shocked because I thought she was in jail for killing Pete, but lo and behold she's not. Actually she lives three doors down from the place I'm moving into. We lived in that duplex for two years and I never saw Barb again after that first time.
I had assumed she had just gone off the deep end and murdered Pete because both of them were whacked out on drugs. I hadn't given it any thought because as I alluded to earlier. My life was a mess and I was too wrapped up in myself to give a damn about people I hadn't seen for years.
I don't know what possessed me to think about Pete and Barb after so many years. I Googled their names today and now I feel shame for not taking time to reach out to Barb and at least offer a shoulder for her to cry on when she probably would have appreciated it.
April 27, 1989
Chicago Tribune
Me and Mark
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
Mark was my best friend when I was sixteen years old. Minus any semblance of parental supervision we were both wild as weeds and free to roam. He always referred to me by my last name. I can't remember him ever using my given name. I was the type of kid who took any perceived slight to heart and only vengeance would right the wrong. He was the kind of guy who never took anything seriously.
Mark was driving the night we went into Chicago to see Emerson, Lake and Palmer at the Chicago Stadium. We were high as kites on the way there and higher by the end of the concert. Neither of us were human GPS sensors as we headed the thirty miles west toward home and we soon found ourselves lost. I doubt we would have cared about being lost except for the fact of where we were. Chicago's South Side. We were rural farm kids, but we weren't hayseeds. This was not where white kids stopped for anything. Even red lights. Especially after Sundown.
So Mark blew thru a red light and as if by magic a police car appeared behind us announcing its presence with a car top light show. The cop wanted to know what the hell we were doing in THIS neighborhood.
"Blah, blah, blah, here's how you get home from here...now get the hell out of here and don't let me catch your asses back here. Oh, and take this ticket with for blowing the red light."
"Thank you, officer."
Mark pulls away from the curb and is telling me he smelled whisky on the breath of the cop and we pull up to a red light and Mark blows thru it. I'm losing my mind.
"What the hell is wrong with you. We're stoned out of our minds and the cop let us go. How could you do something so freaking stupid?"
Referring to me by my last name and waving the ticket in my face, Mark said,
"Relax, the cop gave me this piece of paper saying it's okay."
We both laughed like maniacs for the next couple of miles.
Continued HERE
Mark was my best friend when I was sixteen years old. Minus any semblance of parental supervision we were both wild as weeds and free to roam. He always referred to me by my last name. I can't remember him ever using my given name. I was the type of kid who took any perceived slight to heart and only vengeance would right the wrong. He was the kind of guy who never took anything seriously.
Mark was driving the night we went into Chicago to see Emerson, Lake and Palmer at the Chicago Stadium. We were high as kites on the way there and higher by the end of the concert. Neither of us were human GPS sensors as we headed the thirty miles west toward home and we soon found ourselves lost. I doubt we would have cared about being lost except for the fact of where we were. Chicago's South Side. We were rural farm kids, but we weren't hayseeds. This was not where white kids stopped for anything. Even red lights. Especially after Sundown.
So Mark blew thru a red light and as if by magic a police car appeared behind us announcing its presence with a car top light show. The cop wanted to know what the hell we were doing in THIS neighborhood.
"Blah, blah, blah, here's how you get home from here...now get the hell out of here and don't let me catch your asses back here. Oh, and take this ticket with for blowing the red light."
"Thank you, officer."
Mark pulls away from the curb and is telling me he smelled whisky on the breath of the cop and we pull up to a red light and Mark blows thru it. I'm losing my mind.
"What the hell is wrong with you. We're stoned out of our minds and the cop let us go. How could you do something so freaking stupid?"
Referring to me by my last name and waving the ticket in my face, Mark said,
"Relax, the cop gave me this piece of paper saying it's okay."
We both laughed like maniacs for the next couple of miles.
Continued HERE
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Friday, March 31, 2017
My Ian Hunter Story
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
About a hundred years ago I saw Ian Hunter at Rockford, Illinois Speedway. Cheap Trick were the headliners as they were hometown boys and had just broken big nationaly with their album In Color and Black and White. Heart was on the bill too. They were on the charts with Dreamboat Annie. Well, Ann and Nancy Wilson came out smoking with Kick it Out and another one or two Zeppelin inspired songs since that's where they got their musical chops from and then...Ann Wilson asked the audience to get mellow for the next tune. Mellow?!? Probably Dog and Butterfly. Because what teenage boy doesn't go to a concert to drink beer and maybe do a couple other illicit substances and..be mellow...while he's far from home? I have never heard a Heart song since that doesn't make me remember that day.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
Ian Hunter came on before Heart.
I still think that's a crime.
But at the time Heart was charting higher than Hunter and he didn't have breasts.
He had just released his album Welcome to the Club. It's a freaking classic.
He came out. Sat at the piano. Looked at the sky. Said, "It looks like rain. I don't care. I'll go back to my trailer. I already got paid."
Then he gave his famous Mott the Hoople laugh and rocked his ass off.
This vid features the late Mick Ronson on lead guitar. Ronson made David Bowie a star with his guitar work on the album Ziggy Stardust.
Enjoy.
About a hundred years ago I saw Ian Hunter at Rockford, Illinois Speedway. Cheap Trick were the headliners as they were hometown boys and had just broken big nationaly with their album In Color and Black and White. Heart was on the bill too. They were on the charts with Dreamboat Annie. Well, Ann and Nancy Wilson came out smoking with Kick it Out and another one or two Zeppelin inspired songs since that's where they got their musical chops from and then...Ann Wilson asked the audience to get mellow for the next tune. Mellow?!? Probably Dog and Butterfly. Because what teenage boy doesn't go to a concert to drink beer and maybe do a couple other illicit substances and..be mellow...while he's far from home? I have never heard a Heart song since that doesn't make me remember that day.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
Ian Hunter came on before Heart.
I still think that's a crime.
But at the time Heart was charting higher than Hunter and he didn't have breasts.
He had just released his album Welcome to the Club. It's a freaking classic.
He came out. Sat at the piano. Looked at the sky. Said, "It looks like rain. I don't care. I'll go back to my trailer. I already got paid."
Then he gave his famous Mott the Hoople laugh and rocked his ass off.
This vid features the late Mick Ronson on lead guitar. Ronson made David Bowie a star with his guitar work on the album Ziggy Stardust.
Enjoy.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Obamacare and Paul Ryan Plan: Lipstick on a Pigs Premiums and Deductibles
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
Health insurance companies used to price policy premiums and deductibles utilizing criteria that included, but was not limited to...
(1) A cap on the policy holders annual benefits
(2) A cap on the policy holders lifetime benefits
(3) A "grading" of preexisting conditions
Obamacare erased all three parameters.
Now the consumer has a government mandated health insurance blank check for life that is blowing up in the policy holders faces like letter bombs.
Health insurance policies MUST cover policy holders even if their annual/lifetime claims exceed something as obscenely out of sight as our national debt. There is no limit.
The same with preexisting conditions. Insurance companies used to be able to say, "Dude, you and your family all have leprosy. Therefore your premium is going to cost more than a family of non lepers."
Not anymore. Insurance companies have to accept everyone. No caveats or exclusions.
Insurance companies used to put a cap on annual/lifetime bennies so they would have a real world baseline formula to calculate premiums/deductibles.
Now that the sky is the limit on annual/lifetime benefits so is the sky on premiums/deductibles.
Someone has to pay the Socialist piper.
Anything the GOP does to fiddle and fart around with Obamacare is totally meaningless if these issues aren't addressed.
There is no simple or painless fix since Obama let the genie out of the bottle.
Health insurance companies used to price policy premiums and deductibles utilizing criteria that included, but was not limited to...
(1) A cap on the policy holders annual benefits
(2) A cap on the policy holders lifetime benefits
(3) A "grading" of preexisting conditions
Obamacare erased all three parameters.
Now the consumer has a government mandated health insurance blank check for life that is blowing up in the policy holders faces like letter bombs.
Health insurance policies MUST cover policy holders even if their annual/lifetime claims exceed something as obscenely out of sight as our national debt. There is no limit.
The same with preexisting conditions. Insurance companies used to be able to say, "Dude, you and your family all have leprosy. Therefore your premium is going to cost more than a family of non lepers."
Not anymore. Insurance companies have to accept everyone. No caveats or exclusions.
Insurance companies used to put a cap on annual/lifetime bennies so they would have a real world baseline formula to calculate premiums/deductibles.
Now that the sky is the limit on annual/lifetime benefits so is the sky on premiums/deductibles.
Someone has to pay the Socialist piper.
Anything the GOP does to fiddle and fart around with Obamacare is totally meaningless if these issues aren't addressed.
There is no simple or painless fix since Obama let the genie out of the bottle.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
You might be a hypocrite: "#WeAreAllTexas
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
You have a wood privacy fence surrounding your backyard to keep people out, yet you object to fences that delineate the borders of countries?
And what's up with the chain link fence in front of your house? You say it is there to keep your dogs from running off, but aren't those hounds there to protect your family from strangers who want to invade your space contigo su permiso?
But, those iron bars on your doors and windows are a dead giveaway about how you really feel about people in general.
You don't want just anyone walking into your house.
You wouldn't have locks on your doors if you did.
You have a wood privacy fence surrounding your backyard to keep people out, yet you object to fences that delineate the borders of countries?
And what's up with the chain link fence in front of your house? You say it is there to keep your dogs from running off, but aren't those hounds there to protect your family from strangers who want to invade your space contigo su permiso?
But, those iron bars on your doors and windows are a dead giveaway about how you really feel about people in general.
You don't want just anyone walking into your house.
You wouldn't have locks on your doors if you did.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Don't Cry For Me, Trump Or Mother Russia
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
I look forward to the day when all of Americas democrats regardless of their race, creed, gender, STD and/or balance on their Food Stamp cards will find it in their hearts to hold hands and forgive Russia for abandoning Communism.
Call me a starry eyed dreamer.
Just don't call me late to Happy Hour.
I look forward to the day when all of Americas democrats regardless of their race, creed, gender, STD and/or balance on their Food Stamp cards will find it in their hearts to hold hands and forgive Russia for abandoning Communism.
Call me a starry eyed dreamer.
Just don't call me late to Happy Hour.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Ariana Grande horrified after being objectified as a piece of meat
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
Let's begin with a recap of the horrified one spitting on some doughnuts in a bakery two years ago.
Now for this mornings lesson in objectivity...
Yahoo
...The "Side to Side" hitmaker explained that she was out with her
boyfriend, Mac Miller, when "a young boy" approached the couple to share
that he's a fan of the rapper.
"I
am not a piece of meat that a man gets to utilize for his pleasure,"
Grande continued. "I'm an adult human being in a relationship with a man
who treats me with love and respect."...
READ MORE
Let's begin with a recap of the horrified one spitting on some doughnuts in a bakery two years ago.
Now for this mornings lesson in objectivity...
Yahoo
...The "Side to Side" hitmaker explained that she was out with her
boyfriend, Mac Miller, when "a young boy" approached the couple to share
that he's a fan of the rapper.
"He
was loud and excited and by the time M was seated in the driver's seat,
he was literally almost in the car with us. I thought all of this was
cute and exciting until he said 'Ariana is sexy as hell man. I see you, I
see you hitting that!!'" she wrote.
The
23-year-old explained, "This may not seem like a big deal to some of
you but I felt sick and objectified. I was also sitting right there when
he said it."
"I
am not a piece of meat that a man gets to utilize for his pleasure,"
Grande continued. "I'm an adult human being in a relationship with a man
who treats me with love and respect."... READ MORE
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Trump Wins
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
Here at Righting on the Wall we have held the feet of both major candidates to the fire during this election cycle. Speaking for myself I have been extra hard on Hillary Clinton because she is a criminal. No doubt about it. She should be occupying a cell in the bowels of Leavenworth instead of running for the Oval Office.
I don't have a lot to say about Donald Trump as I neither like or respect him. He has been a Democrat his entire adult life until his sudden and ethereal conversion into the Conservative fold. Whatever. I believe his core appeal to voters is they do not view him as a DC insider. This works in his favor exactly as it did for Barack Obama in 2008. Our country was beat up and tired of an interminable war and an economy that was as sick as Anthony Weiner's sexting addiction. Democrats could have run serial killer Henry Lee Lucas and he would have won.
Flash forward to today under Barack Obama and our country is still beat up and tired of an interminable war and an economy that is still as sick as Anthony Weiner's sexting addiction.
Anyhow...the polls will begin to tighten up each day as Nov 8 approaches. Media polls can get away with claiming big leads for Hillary Clinton months before the election, BUT the in the tank sycophantic press thinks ahead to after the election. They do not want it to look like their rigged polls were rigged. The closer we get to election day the more accurate the major polls will become. Most of them anyway.
That being said I am ready to go out on a limb here.
Trump will win in a landslide. He will handily beat the margin of Dem voter fraud. Democrats thought they had everything in place to sew up via voter fraud what should have been a close contest , but they were blindsided by the Podesta emails that seem to be a never ending litany of Hillary Clinton's friends, assocciates and confidants exposing her for what she is...an empty pantsuit steeped in corruption, buoyed only by political cronyism and a slobbering Liberal media.
Here at Righting on the Wall we have held the feet of both major candidates to the fire during this election cycle. Speaking for myself I have been extra hard on Hillary Clinton because she is a criminal. No doubt about it. She should be occupying a cell in the bowels of Leavenworth instead of running for the Oval Office.
I don't have a lot to say about Donald Trump as I neither like or respect him. He has been a Democrat his entire adult life until his sudden and ethereal conversion into the Conservative fold. Whatever. I believe his core appeal to voters is they do not view him as a DC insider. This works in his favor exactly as it did for Barack Obama in 2008. Our country was beat up and tired of an interminable war and an economy that was as sick as Anthony Weiner's sexting addiction. Democrats could have run serial killer Henry Lee Lucas and he would have won.
Flash forward to today under Barack Obama and our country is still beat up and tired of an interminable war and an economy that is still as sick as Anthony Weiner's sexting addiction.
Anyhow...the polls will begin to tighten up each day as Nov 8 approaches. Media polls can get away with claiming big leads for Hillary Clinton months before the election, BUT the in the tank sycophantic press thinks ahead to after the election. They do not want it to look like their rigged polls were rigged. The closer we get to election day the more accurate the major polls will become. Most of them anyway.
That being said I am ready to go out on a limb here.
Trump will win in a landslide. He will handily beat the margin of Dem voter fraud. Democrats thought they had everything in place to sew up via voter fraud what should have been a close contest , but they were blindsided by the Podesta emails that seem to be a never ending litany of Hillary Clinton's friends, assocciates and confidants exposing her for what she is...an empty pantsuit steeped in corruption, buoyed only by political cronyism and a slobbering Liberal media.
Friday, October 21, 2016
Football Friday: Ingram, Texas - Tom Moore High School Homecoming Game
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
Our Warriors are 0-7 on the year, but head coach Jeff Kowalski has guaranteed a win tonight against the 2-5 Cole Cougars.
Tonights game and the remaining three games on the Tom Moore schedule are all against district rivals so mathematically the Warriors are not out of the playoff picture.
Go Warriors!
Our Warriors are 0-7 on the year, but head coach Jeff Kowalski has guaranteed a win tonight against the 2-5 Cole Cougars.
Tonights game and the remaining three games on the Tom Moore schedule are all against district rivals so mathematically the Warriors are not out of the playoff picture.
Go Warriors!
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