I know that some of you don't like to read long drawn out missives, so here's the executive summary.........
Congress Military John McCain 26 Years 22 Years
Barrack Obama 143 days 0
Just think how great a professional of any kind you could be with only 143 days of experience!!!
People want change so badly? . . . . maybe we should lower the experience requirement for doctors, lawyers, airline pilots, etc. This would cause some change!
Obama's 143 Days of Senate Experience
Just how much Senate experience does Barack Obama have in terms of actual work days? Not much.
From the time Barack Obama was sworn in as a United States Senator, to the time he announced he was forming a Presidential exploratory Committee, he logged 143 days of experience in the Senate.
That's how many days the Senate was actually in session and working.
The one single Senate committee that he headed never even met -- once.
After 143 days of work experience, Obama believed he was ready to be Commander In Chief, Leader of the Free World, and fill the shoes of Abraham Lincoln, FDR, JFK and Ronald Reagan.
Think about it.......143 days -- 20.4 weeks -- 4.7 months ...
Our children spend more time in pre-school getting ready for kindergarten.
We live with the consequences of our choices.
I replied with this:
John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe, John Quincy Adams, Martin Van Buren, John Tyler, James Polk, Millard Fillmore, Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Johnson, Chester Arthur, Grover Cleveland, William Taft, Woodrow Wilson, Warren Harding, Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover, Franklin Roosevelt, Lyndon Johnson, Ronald Reagan, and Bill Clinton had little to no (in most cases absolutely notime, and the little were as special appointments or ambassadors to the military) time spent serving in our nation's armed forces.
Andrew Jackson, less than 2 years in two terms in the senate, non-concurrent William Henry Harrison, Less than four years in the senate. Zachary Taylor had no congressional experience. Abe Lincoln, 2 years in the House. Ulysses Grant had no congressional experience. Rutherford Hayes had no congressional experience. Grover Cleveland had no congressional experience. Chester Arthur had no congressional experience. William McKinley had no congressional experience. Theodore Roosevelt had no congressional experience. William Taft has no congressional experience. Woodrow Wilson had no congressional experience. Calvin Coolidge had no congressional experience. Herbert Hoover had no congressional experience. Franklin Roosevelt had no congressional experience. Dwight Eisenhower had no congressional experience. Jimmy Carter had no congressional experience. Ronald Reagen had no congressional experience Bill Clinton had no congressional experience. George W. Bush had no congressional experience.
And you really want to attack Obama over his experience? You really want to say that someone with no congressional AND armed service experience should not be president? Really?
I'm sorry man, but this is Republican or racist rhetoric( in your case, I'm going Republican). There is no historical evidence saying you have to have one or both to lead our nation.
22 out of 43 presidents, that's over HALF hand no military experience.
20 out of 43 presidents, that's just under HALF had no US congressional experience.
I'm sorry man, but, sometimes, experience doesn't count. The history of our nation proves that.
Now, fellow MySpacers, allow me to say this:
I supported John McCain up to this day. I knew the changes in his policies in the few weeks before and after came only to earn the presidential nomination, and to satisfy staunch republicans. So many times in his past, McCain has voted against party lines. He had always held true to his beliefs, and, dammit, I respected him for that.
I would not vote for Barak Obama because I just didn't feel he was tough enough to accomplish anything. I feared he would become nothing more than a democratic mouthpiece, spewing party rhetoric.
Now, my view has changed. They both have switched places. Barak Obama is the new John McCain. He holds true in his beliefs of what is right for our nation. John McCain has become weak in his pursuit of nomination. This email shows me that he has swooped to old political fear-mongering tactics. Sure, this was sent my someone not affiliated with the McCain/Palin ticket, but the views of the supporters are so often the views of the ticket. John McCain attacks experience while forgetting the history of our nation, he does this in his ads.
This speech is in line with the history of America
I would also say this in closing:
The American dream is that any person can become anything they desire with the largest amount of dedication, the hardest effort, and the greatest of love. Barriers are nothing to a person who holds true to all three.
I live a secret life no one has known until now. Everyone knows me as a nice, open person. I'm loyal and just. Kindhearted, even to my enemies and detractors. A funny and outgoing individual. A friend. Everybody thinks they know me. Everybody couldn't be more wrong. I am a prisoner.
As a child, I used to hide in the closet of my room whenever my father had been on a drinking binge. I would sit in it with a flashlight secured in my mouth, a sketch pad, and a pencil, and I would draw until hours after I knew he was asleep. My father, when drinking, was prone to acts of rage and violence, all of which he would carry out against me. I was small, weak, and callow. There was no fighting back. My only choices were to hide or suffer. Sometimes I would reap the whirlwind and get it over with, but mostly I hid. I became very talented in sketching by my teenage years, surpassing all the kids my age.
When I was twelve, I suffered a serious trauma. Afterward, I ran to the quiet solitude of my room and tried to overdose. I will never know how I survived. I stayed locked in my room for three days, trying to heal, trying to box everything that had happened. My mom had noticed a change in my attitude, and sent me off to countless psychiatrists. It was pointless.
My father was my driver, as he had no steady employment and a lot of free time. He had this funny ritual. In the car, in the back lot of whichever building I had to go to, he would press the back of my head against the window, and start choking me, warning me of the consequences of telling the doctor about my home life. He would also insist on sitting in on all of my appointments, thus killing the possibility of any success. I would go home after every session, and in the privacy of my room, I would cut, burn or cry myself to sleep.
For nine months when I was sixteen, I couldn't leave my house, and would rarely leave my room. After experiencing all the world had to offer, I became too frightened to leave. I'd lay in bed playing video games all day and night, and would only leave to eat. Everything I had been through had finally taken its toll. Even after working myself up to leave, I would still find myself in my room as often as possible, which was easy as I had no friends until I reached the age of eighteen.
Now I find myself spending more time than I want inside my room. the few friends I have left are growing up and moving on. I'm so bad at making friends that I find myself spending more and more time alone, in my room. Sometimes I lay in bed, hitting refresh on Yahoo news until I find sleep. Sometimes I slack off on MySpace, blaring music through my headphones. Most of the time I stare at the ceiling, drifting in and out of consciousness. I have, only recently, become aware of the nature of my room.
It talks to me. I think, on some level, it always has.
When I was young, hiding in my closet, my room was talking to me. It was telling me I could hide and be safe from all the horrors of the world. It was comforting me.
When I was torturing myself or trying to end my life, it would talk to me. It would tell me to just do it. Inflict. Swallow. Release. I will always be there when you need to regain control and keep hidden. I will protect you.
When I couldn't leave, it was telling me to stay. Even in my dreams, it was telling me of all the evil outside of its walls. It was telling me I could still be secure inside of it.
Even now it talks to me. It tells me I can become strong and independent. I don't need people. It's telling me to turn them away, and come home to the only one who will ever understand me.
Through years of its talking I thought it was making me more secure. Safe. I was wrong. I was being conditioned and institutionalized. I have been incarcerated in my own home, my room is my constant warden.
My room, in its sweet, soft, sadistic tone is talking to me right now. It says, "You are mine."
And it's smiling.
12. Anthropomorphism Write about an animal, or an object that has some form of human trait. It could be a desk lamp that chastises you while you surf for porn, or a cat that likes to smoke cigarettes, and wear high heels. The options are limitless.
Platypus task part 2, The Death of Jolly Judd.
Current mood: accomplished
Last night, he just couldn't believe what was happening as he was losing consciousness from the heave amount of GHB that found its way in to his cosmopolitan.
This morning, he was ready to murder me.
Here, moments before his death, the great philosopher, Jolly Judd, has finally reached the third stage of grief.
"I'm just a parody blogger. No one's supposed to take this seriously," Jolly Judd pleads through his tears. He's shaking, seizures of fear brought on by the hand of death. He's on his knees, covered in blood, tears, and possibly his own urine. A large pile of books and dvds barely conceal the cloth covering his shame.
I tell him people will take him seriously for many years to come. He should be joyous and accept his fate. This is not the death of a blogger, rather a birth of a savior. People will craft golden statues in his honor. the masses will construct memorials. His birthday may become a government holiday, if he plays his cards right.
"Think of my wife and kids." He begs.
Bullshit.
"Think of my potential wife and kids."
Isn't that illegal in this state?
"I have money. I can pay you."
No you don't. You are a MySpace blogger I tell him. You don't have a publisher. There's no agent at your side trying to sell the movie rights to this. You are nothing right now. That is going to change. I brush some of the blood from his eyes, mindful of the thorns arranged on his head.
This is a good death. You will save so many people today. I'm giving you the gift of immortality. I don't need a thank you, and end to your bitching would suffice. Be brave.
I grab his face at his bloody, broken jaw line, and stare deep in to his eyes so he can see the fire of my conviction. I tell him it is time.
All he can do is cry. The fourth stage. He's progressing through this so quickly. I am almost in awe.
I stand up, walk behind him and grab at a rope I have secured under his broken arms, and start pulling. The rope goes taut in my hands. It takes such a considerably force to pull such a meager man through this crude pulley. After a few minutes of hoisting, he is in the proper location, and I secure the line.
I 'm excited. This is it. I throw a small bag of tools over my shoulder, and climb the ladder I have placed. With each step my excitement grows. Finally, I reach him. Form my bag, I pull out a hammer and a railroad spike.
I tell him I know they should be nine inches, but I think five will get the point across. He says nothing. I assume humor is wasted on this moment. He's no longer crying. Jolly Judd looks at peace with his fate.
He has finally accepted his demise. I'm so giddy I can't contain a smile.
His arms are limp from where I broke them mere hours ago, so it's easy to drive the spikes through his hands. The sign behind them take a more significant effort. I'm hitting the nail so hard I'm worried about breaking his hands.
Not really.
Once both arms are placed, I pull out a long, rusty screwdriver.
Even the Romans wanted Jesus dead as fast as possible, I tell him. Usually people crucified drown or die of infection. Only if they die quick, though. The unlucky ones die of dehydration. You're too good for that. I will not allow you to suffer through that.
"Why? Why me? Why this?" Jolly asks.
I always wanted to create a Messiah. The screwdriver strikes against he chest and stops. I have hit the breast bone.
My bad. Forgive me.
The second strike hits true, and as I pull the tool out of his heart, I feel the warmth of the last of his life drown my arm.
This is the blood of Christ.
I climb down the ladder, and grab a can of gas from my car. Petrol covers the novels and movies I have placed. I light a cigarette with my Zippo, and toss the lighter to the pile, igniting it.Time for a cigarette. Time to stand back and take in this moment.
What a moment it is. I have crucified Jolly Judd. I have created a new holy land. This is the new Golgotha. This is where my God Fame reclaimed his Son. This is where the masses will gather and worship for millions of years. This is where the new churches start. This is where the new bible can begin. The Post-New Testament. The letters of Judd to the MySpacians.
My savior hangs, crucified on his modern cross. It is the H in Hollywood today, and tomorrow, it will be a symbol of the new Lord and Savior, Jolly Judd.
Hi, Jolly Judd. I know you read my blogs from time to time, for which I am honored, and I want you to know I read your blogs religiously. I'm addicted. From work, from home, and from friends' homes I must read them. Sometimes I drop a comment, or kudo. Most of the time, however, I am there silently reading, a voyeur at your window, a peeping tom, silently appreciating the beauty of your work.
I am your biggest fan. I have been since your first deletion. It amazes me you've been deleted so many times. I suppose some people just can't understand your work, your art. Philistines, the lot of them. They can't see through the thinly veiled, grotesque humor to see the intricate slyness within. When veiwing your tongue in cheek humor, these mongoloids would rather masticate their own tongues and go read up on Tila Tequila. Not me. I understand you.
I'm the only one who gets you.
In your latest blog, "PROOF THAT THE PUPPERONI GOD DOES NOT EXIST!!!", you use the tasty treat dogs can't get enough of to disprove God. So many fools saw this as humor, when it is so obviously a stirring social piece. Your analogies play so well on the feelings most people get over the course of their own existence. Why do bad things happen to good people? What are the choices of man? Not enough people read this and felt as moved as I did. It is a shame.
I'd like to digress for a brief moment to talk about art, about painters. The masters. Van Gogh, Picasso, and Monet. These men were brilliant. They could not be fully appreciated until after their deaths. Their works live on, bought and sold at the highest values. The works they produced finally have the recognition they truly deserve.
Which brings me back to you and your recent blog.
You theorized that God does not exist. This is the only ideology in which we do not agree. I say God does exist, and his name is fame. He makes dreams come ture for the meager and crushes the haughty. He blinds men with desires, and drives them to unfathomable extremes. This god makes the world turn, makes demigods of mortals, and ashes of fools.
To this God I sacrifice you, Jolly Judd. I offer you up unto him, so your works may live on like the works of those master painters. Every child will read your contributions in their literature texts. Great philosophers will study your creations for years to come. In life, you have become MySpace famous.
In death, I will give you true fame.
*****
Okay, I'm in this little blog group called Platypus. Every week, Beatrix chooses from a plethora of tasks, and assigns a few to the group. I actually felt inspired this week, so I finally completed my first task. I knew a lot of people who chose this task would go a comical route. Not I. I wanted to make this as creepy as possible, and I hope I have some success. Well, thanks for reading!
I think that I can look the part if I spike my hair And wear an absent stare that says I don't care Maybe one day I can fall in love with myself And put a thousand pictures of me on my shelf
But I'm not that guy
I could always drive only to the places that I want And when you pour your heart, I'll be nonchalant I can always say all of those words to cut you down And whenever you need me I'll not be around
But I'm not that guy No I'm not that guy
I'll take your money every payday When you need me I'm always away I'll tell you anything to have my way If I don't get what I want I will stray
I'll do anything to get the worst of you Count on me for honesty, I'll be untrue I'll take your sanity with everything I do When I've ruined you, I'm through
The feeling we all share at some point.
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Life
I had that moment today. I know you know the one. You get a call. You read a letter. Some college art major sings it on your doorstep. It's one of those universal sensations the whole of humanity shares. It's the moment you realize nothing the people you care about do can surprise you anymore. That little emotion you get at that moment.
It takes a lot of mistakes and bad choices to reach that feeling. Usually, a lot of repetition, too. I don't know exactly why some one will let you down so much.
Maybe fear's to blame. Can someone be so afraid of success that they will repeatedly sabotage their own happiness? Is it a miserable person afraid of a life with out pain and sorrow? Is it a fear of being in an unfamiliar position that drives a person to ruin any chance of change? It takes a lot of pain to develop the massive amount of fear to make a person want to kill hope. Can someone really be that afraid?
Is it self-hatred? Is it hating the face in a mirror? Is it the hate of good that makes people pollute themselves in their vice? Is it hating yourself for continuously disappointing those around you that drives a person to fail time and again? Is it keeping an empty bed every night out of spite for the person who loves you? Is it really absolute hate that destroys absolutely?
Is it familiarity? is it stupidity? Is it one of a thousand different things that brings on that one, strong emotion? That emotion that lies on the borders of hate, disappointment, hopelessness, despair, and pain. That one ugly feeling that we must feel at some point in life. That feeling that hurts us the most.
The feeling you get when you realize, no matter how extreme, how destructive, or how dumb the mistake is, you just can't be surprised anymore. It hurts.
Useless Relationship Talents! or Proof of Nerdiness
Okay, for a long time I have been developing certain skills that I call "Useless relationship Talents". These are a wide variety of things that I can do that, when outside of a relationship, are completely useless to me. I'm now going to list a few.
1) I can cook. Pretty much anything and everything. I've always had a gift for recognizing good flavor. I'm great at complimenting spices. I can break down a lot of recipes by taste, and can improve upon them. I'm also a keen believer to the school of "presentation is everything, so what ever I make also has to be properly presented, if even for myself. This is useless to me, as I can pretty much survive on hamburgers, cold pizza, and carry-out Chinese.
2) I'm eerily good at carnival games. While a girlfriend may enjoy the sight of me walking around with an over-sized, stuffed Underdog, I have no use for it in my room the size of a Japanese flat.
3) I am great at picking out the perfect gift. How did I know to pick the Underdog in the first place? Probably four months ago when we were watching the movie and she said Underdog was just adorable. Actually, this one is pretty useful for myself, as I can pretty much get myself what I want.
4) I pay attention. Even when it doesn't seem like I am. Useless because I'd rather not know what's going on.
5) I can, and do listen. I know someone can just as easily vent at a brick wall, but listening to someone and trying to be empathetic, offering a shoulder to cry on, or putting the target on the face, well, it's a great way to show someone how connected to them you really are. Useless to me because I'd rather be listening to my I-Pod.
6) I have great manners. You can dress me up, take me out, and know I'll be coming home with out a stain on that white shirt you bought for my birthday. I'm not going to be belching, farting, or swearing up a storm in a public place. Useless outside of a relationship because I'm a guy.
7) I believe a good relationship is a partnership. The entire work load should be shared. While you're doing the dishes, I'll be folding the laundry. I'f you're sweeping the floor, I'm mowing the lawn. Outside of a relationship, I'm a slob. Plain and simple.
8) I can always cheer people up. Just a bad day? I can change that. Bleak outlook on life? I can fix that. It's what I do. It's sad that I do this in non-relationship life, usually to help people I want to see suffer because I don't want to see them suffer.
9) As much as I front, I don't have any objections sitting through a chick flick. Just let me watch a Bruce Willis movie every now and then, and i'm good. Useless because I'll never see a chick flick alone.
10) I'm a really bad liar. A really, really, really bad liar. So, I have to be honest a lot. Useless to me, hell this one is probably useless in a relationship, too.
Anyone have any talents that are almost useless outside of a relationship?
productive
accomplished
awake
contemplative
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