Month: February 2026

Before

After

IN THIS CASE ALL CUSS WORDS

OH, WHAT GREED HAS DONE TO MY HOMETOWN.

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Young and before I met her, she signed up for a fundraising swimming contest to see who could swim the furthest and longest. She was the only girl. The lifeguard standing in the lane next to her at the beginning asked, “What are you doing in this race?”

A half-dozen hours later the sponsors sent a delegation to find her mother busy at home. They pleaded with her to come to the pool, “Please, we are all very tired and no one can get your daughter to stop.”

I taught her how to play a couple of different ball games. She stunk, just as everyone does trying to learn a new skill, but she kept at it, and at it, and at it, until she could whip me.

In Washington, D.C., after an early dinner with her brother, who was almost as big as me, we were confronted by 3 hoodlums. The one with the gun pressed it against my temple while the other two went through our pockets finding our wallets. But my wife walked on.

The thieves screamed at the “bitch” to give them her purse, but she just kept walking.

It occurred to me, as I heard the sound of the gun being cocked, that yes, the thieves were right, she should give them her purse.

“Please give them your purse!”

She did. She unslung it from her shoulder, twirled it over her head to gain some momentum and then threw it at them as hard as she could.

It bounced off one of the goons to the ground between them. Thankfully it was the gun slinger who bent over to pick it up rather than pulling the trigger.

I can still feel the enormous wave of relief I felt for that millisecond between the moment they began their sprint down an alley and I felt the breeze as my wife dashed past me in hot pursuit.

It took my every muscle twitching at top speed to catch and tackle her.

The marriage didn’t last, but I have often thought back of those long-ago days in admiration, disbelief and OH, SO THANKFUL THAT SUCH A PERSON EXISTS.

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Tired from campaigning, I took a break, went home for a sandwich and clicked on the TV.

Robert Tilton

Some television preacher had his head slung down on a bible, beating it in tears and begging his viewers to send him a prayer request he would use with his special relationship with God. He could save them from whatever agony they faced, if the prayer request came in with a bit of money. The more money the more time he would be able to spend with God pleading their case.

My response instantly went apoplectic. He wasn’t just feeding on the old, the sick, and helpless, but the lonely without anywhere to turn but this son of a bitch.

I put down my sandwich and went to record my thoughts for that week’s broadcast.

But first let me ask you if you can recall this itsy-bitsy sampling of what these famous television slimes did to their millions of believers:

A. James Baker

B. The Copelands 

C. Duplantis

D. John Gray

E. Robert Jeffress

F. John Hagee

G. Jimmy Swaggart

H. Bernard Law

I. Peter Popoff

J. Robert Tilton

A. Indicted on federal charges of mail and wire fraud, and conspiracy to defraud the public. Five years in prison stealing contributor funds.

B. Purchased three private jets while proclaiming children do not need a flu shot because Jesus had already “bore our sickness.”

C. God told him he needs a jet plane too.

D. Bought his wife a $200,000 Lamborghini.

E. Claims all Muslims promote pedophilia.

F. Blamed hurricane Katrina on lesbians and gays.

G. Hired prostitutes then apologized to his wife and God, with television crocodile tears, then went right out and did it again.

H. Spent years protecting sexually abusive priests.

I. Claimed that through God he was aware of any stranger in need and could cure their illness. Exposed as a fraud when it was shown he was fed information collected about each person in a hidden earpiece.

J. Claimed he had a special relationship with God and could save you if you only sent him a prayer request with proof of your good faith – money. Exposed as fraud when 60 minutes filmed his tossing the prayer requests in the trash, minus the money sent.  Robert Tilden the very guy I watched while eating my sandwich.

MY COMMENTARY THAT WEEK:

“What is the most disgusting thing you can think of?

Is it waking up to find a fat tick suckling on the tender tissues of your armpit? Would it be licking the bottom of a buss station toilet seat?

Well for me it is television preachers feeding on the sick, the disheartened, the lonely, all desperate for help and someone they can trust.”

The station called me, said they had never had so many angry callers demanding that I be gagged.

Might have been that unfortunate bus station toilet seat line that did me in.

Tick, toilet seat

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Yes! Even a picture of their handshake delivers a message of patheticism.

Given a target, literally as BIG AS THE ALL OUTDOORS these two are so immensely impotent that history might justly list them as collaborators.

To those of you still cuddling under the sheets: We have been at war for a decade and losing ground.

What the country needs is warriors with leaders that are willing to walk the talk that made the founding principles of the United States of America the envy of the world.

A decade ago, Hilary Clinton dipped her toes and called Trump supporters “deplorables,” then retracted the obvious.

We’ve found no charismatic leader, no Kennedy or Reagen, both who would be sickened by Trump. What we have is the feckless, forever calculating, boorrrring to lead us in a war that demands an in-your-face bludgeoning of this horror.

Where are you Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt?

Rise up, whomever you are. Let’s make a fight of this!

Richard Kimball

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The first time I had to raise my hand in a class had nothing to do with a teacher’s question. I actually had to raise it 30 minutes earlier than I did, but didn’t, and I would regret it for years and I am sure if childhood relevance cared any weight in adulthood, I would say that I regret it more than any other single self-inflicted event in my life.

The quiet rumbles in my lower stomach started while we were saying the Pledge of Allegiance, but the discomfort was minor, and I gave it little thought. Ten minutes later my view had changed somewhat, the early rumbles had become a bit gassy, but if I softly eased it out and looked busy and innocent, I could escape detection. Another ten minutes and I was out of gas, one leg here, move another there, putting my weight on the right butt, then on the left, gave only seconds worth of relief. Another 15 minutes and I was in serious trouble. That is when my butt said, “Raise your hand or poop right here.”

I did not raise my hand; I launched it as high as I could stretch. The teacher looked at my sudden demand for attention like one would a stranger. Not at all sure that she recognized me, confused and busy with more important matters she said, “not now.” Like stretching rubber, my arm went to unnatural heights. She took a second look, whatever sub-human quality she saw in my eyes gave me a reprieve. I told her, and announced to all that I, me, the invisible one, who saw the slightesst attention like the plague needed to go to the bathroom. She said, “Can’t you wait,” and then thought better of it, “OK go.”

I had so wanted to make it. With my first step into the hall, I knew it was now a race, but if I moved too quickly, I would not hold. Only thirty feet left, now twenty, at the ten mark it was over, out it came. Like a green horn just off the saddle, I waddled the last few feet to the boy’s room. It still would have been OK, no one was in the halls, but as I threw open the restroom door there stood Jerry Egerton, the toughest, nastiest kid on the planet.

I did not hear his hackling end even after the bathroom door closed behind him. I cleaned up pretty well and I covered up my underwear with a mountain of paper towels at the very bottom of the trash can, but the damage was done.

The humiliation should have been crushing, but as it turned out, only Jerry Egerton had been humored because everyone hated the bully as much as I did. If truth be told no one was that far removed from a poo in the pants at some point, and others simply thought, “Thank God that wasn’t me.” Within a couple of days, Jerry’s finger-pointing shoutouts of “poo boy” got old and ended. By week’s end no one remembered, no one but me, who still winces at the ancient memory of my final delicate waddling steps.

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Raising your hand in class! I had actually seen other people do this. I could not understand what compelled them to jump off such a cliff, but they did. Some like Lacy Scanlon, jumped all the time. Lacy, clearly more deserving of existence than any other child I knew, knew everything. All that she did was perfect. I became convinced of this one recess when Stevie Bogard, my neighbor, best friend, and classmate came up with an extraordinary idea.

Until Stevie’s brilliance burst forth, we had been resigned to recess games involving spitting, making fart sounds, or just about anything we could do in the dirt. His idea would require courage, athleticism, cunning and some exhilarating aspect we were not quite old enough to grasp but was very exciting none the less.

He called his game “The Panties Report.”

Understand that this was the 50s and schoolgirls still wore flouncy dresses. The basic idea was to chase each other around, one at a time and at the key moment push or trip whoever’s turn it was and have them roll under some unsuspecting girl. With that you were able to return to the group with the “Panties Report.” The reports were almost always of white panties, color was a rarity, but on one fabulously triumphant occasion I excitedly reported back, “purple polka dots!!” It was so rare as to be unbelieved by my classmates. I was immediately tackled and piled on by every giggling boy in the group. In the dirt and spitting out dust I looked out from under the pile of classmates and across the field, there was Lacy. She was standing with her friends in a crisp clean yellow dress with a satin bow around the waist. All of them were quietly ignoring us and playing a game of hopscotch. As I looked at her from the grit and grime, I knew, as I have known ever since, that Lacy Scanlon and all her kind were of a different, more advanced sort.

Richard Kimball

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Conservatives once inclined to sustain existing views, conditions, and institutions, were skeptical of change, marked as cautious, moderate even miserly. Dare I say good sense!

Republicanism, once an honored synonyms for conservatism, has vanished or hides in the dark as it’s new standard bearer, spends and spends: their money, their environment, the institutions and the international free trade friendships they held the standard for since the mid-19^th Century.

I miss such honorable advisories.

Richard Kimball

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