Cowboy Confessional

Let history show that Obama is a racist.

During a fundraising event, Obama insinuated that Republicans would play the race card. Obama committed a great feat of rhetorical slight-of-hand. He played the race card play accusing in advance of evidence that his opponents would play the race card.

“We know what kind of campaign they’re going to run. They’re going to try to make you afraid … He’s young and inexperienced and he’s got a funny name. And did I mention he’s black?”

I think Obama is confusing McCain for Hillary Clinton, whose campaign made a point of publicly pursuing white voters and amplifying their fears about every aspect of Obama, including his race. Democrat Ed Rendell publicly stated that white voters wouldn’t back Obama for the crime of being black (he is actually mulatto). Former Vice Presidential candidate, Democrat Geraldine Ferraro, bitched that Obama won the race simply because he was dark skinned.

You would think Hillary, Rendell and Ferraro were modern Dixiecrats.

I dislike defending the Republicans ever since they abandoned anything resembling a political philosophy (just what do the stand for these days?) But I have not heard a word about race coming from their camp. McCain comes from the desert region, which in these United States tends to be race neutral and libertarian leaning. The Party of Lincoln, of emancipation and liberation of the plantations is hardly the breeding ground for racist tendencies.

Indeed, the most openly hostile racist I know, and one who lives in left-leaning California, is a life long Democrat.

This makes Obama (if you are intellectually honest) the real racist. He staked a race-based position about his opponents that is not substantiated by fact. He has stereotyped an entire party and all of its members (including its black members) as bigots. Obama has devised a racist position, and through an intellectual bait-and-switch placed his racism at the feet of his opponent.

It may be good politics, but it is lousy leadership. America is a land of mutts, and we mutts have great instincts. Mutts know who to trust and who not to trust. Obama’s racist screed just gave the mutts reason to bite him.

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I love America. For whatever faults this nation has — real or imagined — we strive for freedom, the most precious element of human nature. We celebrate our freedoms every 4th of July, and honor the many men who died for our freedoms.

Including the freedom to bear one’s boobs during a 4th of July parade.

Eschewing such meager liberties as the right to bear arms, Jen Moss is fighting for the right to bare bazooms. Jen resides in Ashland, Oregon, a place with a dress code so lose that masking mammaries is not mandated (note to self — investigate relocating to Ashland). Jen frequently peddles her funbags about town wearing only a G-string and a smile.

Being an all American girl, Jen wants to participate in Ashland’s annual 4th of July parade wearing her normal attire, which is to say nearly nothing. However the parade planners are fighting for some fanciful reason. Seems the 4th of July parade is considered a “family event” and the town’s toddies don’t want impressionable children to see sacks like the ones they suckled mere years before, or that they saw Jen peddling past last week.

“She’s welcome on any other day of the year to do that,” said the anal retentive parade chairman. “But not on the Fourth of July while in the parade.”

Here is the interesting aside. She can be bared from the parade because that is orchestrated by a private organization, and as such they can be as prudish as their puritan peccadilloes allow. Jen’s not allowed to march down the street bare breasted in their parade.

But she can be nearly naked on the sidelines watching the parade.

Such is the nature of law in a libertarian society. What a private person or organization does is their business, and what a naked woman does in public is hers. They just have to ignore one another as best as they can.

Something tells me Jen will not be ignored.

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I’m optimistic for Romania.

As they emerge from their past association with the Soviets, the Romanians are experimenting with democracy, which in modern times is a bit of an experiment in and of itself. Unhindered by convention, Romanians test various aspects of politics and government that have escaped notice in the U.S., U.K. and other areas of political calcification. Our friends in Romania have stumbled upon a solution to a persistent problem with democracy, which is how to trust the people you elect to office.

They are now electing dead people.

Neculai Ivascu had the good grace to die the moment voting began, which saved the people of his village the eventual necessity of killing him. Rigamortis is no barrier to running, and he beat his opponent who suffers from being alive. Ivascu’s expiration was a campaign promise that the people knew he would keep, and so them elected him.

This was no fluke. People of his village knew that Neculai was necrotic. After all, how long does it take for such news to reach all corners of a Romanian village? A Neculai voter said “I know he died, but I don’t want change.”

Here in America we have the opposite problem. Our dead people vote, most often for Democrats. Since even the Democrats have not figured out how to tax the dead, deceased voters have fewer fears in electing Dems, and perhaps they have faint hope that the socialized medicine promised by Obama will eventually provide resurrection benefits.

Where the Romanians have gone horribly right is that they now have history’s first honest elected official. Neculai Ivascu is a man who can be trusted to keep his word for he is no longer speaking. He can be trusted to do nothing aside from decompose.

We should hope for the same from our elected officials.

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Once in a while the news brings word of an escapade that makes one doubt the benefits of alcohol consumption.

There was a couple in the Cesena, Italy who together tipped a bottle all night long. As passionate people (which describes almost every Italian I met while traveling in Italy) tend to do, they took their inebreated selves to the nearest place where they could find a little privacy for some frantic sexual interaction.

In their case it was a confessional box … while morning mass was being conducted. I’m assuming their screams of “Oh My God” were initially misinterprested for religious fervency.

The regional Bishop granted them forgiveness, and likely considered trying the same act himself. He eventually decided against having sex in the confessional with a nun because it is so hard to get into the habit.

The cathedral held a “mass of reparation” to atone for the couple’s attempt at massive replication. The fact that the cathedral still stands shows that God has a sense of humor, or is sleeping off his own all-nighter.

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God invented sex, and we give praise to him at every orgasm by shouting “Oh, my God”.

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