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She sat down in front of me. Very pretty in a bright, flowery, yellow shirt with “fleur dans le jardin” printed all over it.

Having just finished one semester of High School French, and heart fluttering I nervously asked if she knew what it meant. She did not, so I guessed, “Flower in the garden.” I earned a smile and it made my day.

It was a very lucky guess; my French teacher had given me an undeserved D the prior semester on one condition: “You must promise me, that you will never take French again as long as I lived.”

The need for a foreign language at age 15 in public school was senseless to me. No one I knew spoke one, needed one, or had plans to ever use one.

Twenty years later after an early life in politics and finally defeated in a run for the U. S. Senate, I found myself hopping all over tiny villages in Mexico wanting to talk with people that couldn’t understand me.  So, I lived with a Mexican family trying to make do by taking in a border now and then. They couldn’t speak English, making for a months’ worth of submersion.

Every day I would visit various shops around the town, forcing myself to use my new words.

One afternoon I hiked past this enormous mango tree bursting with plump ripe fruit. The tree towered over a little brook in a lush postcard pasture, simply bursting with butterflies.  So, I decided to go around town, talk to people about mariposas and purchase all that was needed to build a butterfly net, then catch a bunch for my eldest brother who had been collecting since birth.

 I returned to the mango tree, net in hand and immediately fell in some mud on my first swing. Ten minutes later into my chasing and swiping I heard children laughing. I stopped and looked up the hillside to see two women as their kids giggled at me.  Instantly clear what a sight I was, a big, dirty galumphs, swinging at the wind, I started to laugh too.

 Anyway, I attempted another conversation with them and the words mariposa and coleccion, hit home.  I understood little of their gatling gun fast responses, but I showed them the few I had caught and then one of the kids asked, and somehow, I got it, “Would you like to see my coleccion?”

 I followed them down a muddy path to what they called a home.  It stood propped up, by what, I do not know. But there it was, sheets of roofing tin mixed with tree limbs, cardboard and wire.

Dozing in a hammock near an open fire, where what looked like a giant pizza tin was heating up, was the father.  He sat up and smiled while pointing his finger at a tree stump. It took a moment before I got it, he was offering me a seat.  

One of the little girls disappeared into the vegetation while the others kept jabbering so fast, I could hardly pick out a word, but it was clear they were talking about me. The smiles, laughter and friendliness were a contagious joy.

If it had not been for the shack of a house, dirt floors and pounds of laundry hanging on wires strung through the trees, these folks could have been a Mexican version of The Brady Bunch, and I might have accepted their offer to stay for dinner.

The little girl returned, arms filled with a half dozen little glass jars, each one holding a dead, largely decayed snake in some sort of fluid.  That was the collection she wanted to show me.  I examined each with real wonder, particularly the one baby viper.

They all continued to spew out words so fast, I had to keep asking them to speak more slowly in the hopes I could pick out enough. We were having such fun, even as I was drop jawed at such happiness living in total poverty.

When it was time to go, they were clearly disappointed, wanting me to stay.

Then I got it.

They had been asking me where I was staying. I had been responding with the word “no,” meaning I did not understand what they were saying. It was likewise, with their offers to feed me, again not understanding “no”.  When all was said and done, and I had left despite their complaints, it finally came to me: They thought the huge, muddy, crazy galumphs was homeless and likely hungry while offering me their hammock for a bed.

I have often, since that long ago day, thought of them and wished I could be them.

R

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No matter how long or how much I try to build her up, encourage her, back her in the extreme, she thinks herself weak.

I have always loved tough women and always imagined them tougher than men. As a general rule, they leave the beating and killing of each of other to those that swagger swinging their Johnsons, while she and her kind are slow to boil, tolerant to a fault, nurturing and making do with whatever cards they have been delt in life.

I fell in love with my first, long ago wife, unseen. I had simply heard a rumor: Her ticket and been pulled from a hat and won the door prize at a political event I attended. When a drunken United States Senator came down to escort her to the prize he said, “Aren’t you a cute young thing.”  Her response, “Fuck you, Senator.”

That marriage didn’t last and my current love of these past 40 years would never do such a thing. What she would do was live a life so loyal and supportive of her sons and family that not a stick they could throw, not a cesspit they could wallow in would alter her devotion.

Confronted with a family’s most vile of circumstances: drugs, booze, cancers, and brain-altering surgeries. All bearing years, then decades of such irrational unspeakable motherly abuse that you or anyone you know would have deserted ages ago.

But here she still stands, tall, resolute, in unalterable devotion.

She is the toughest of all that I have known, tougher than me, tougher than you!

Richard Kimball

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We have all wanted to ask God, why is there so much unspeakable evil and pain, innocents suffering or greedy flourishing, and so on.

I could never imagine, if I could ask, how God could make such things right and just, then, in a dream it came to me, God’s perfect design.

“I made you all as one,” God explained. “What you all see, feel and think is not as you imagine; a life lived solo with a given path and lone experiences.

You live every life in small momentary fragments, exchanging lives innumerable times into infinity. With no memory of what you have been and done I simply put you into countless new hosts, instantly adopting all their experiences, memories, all that they’ve ever been, in certainty that it has always been you alone.

Everyone is you. Your world, good and bad, is what YOU have made of it.”

Richard Kimball

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If you love America stop reading this, go fornicate and make babies.

Last year America’s birth rate declined to record lows while those over 80 are getting stitched, drugged, stinted, transplanted, cobbled, prostheticised, reconstructed and eventually organogenesisted, doubling our numbers in just 25 years.

Population decline, overwhelmed by increasing life expectancy, is the recipe for certain disaster. Each generation will be smaller than the prior one, just as the aged, unproductive and dependent explode in numbers.

A nation, depopulating, cannot succeed with an increasingly aging and needy citizenry.

A long ago Governor named Lamm said, “We have a duty to die and get out of the way!”  Well, that’s not going to happen, so blow up that frigging wall, let those ambitious and hungry come, work, produce and pay taxes in support of us old timers. If not, at least give us a bucket load of Viagra and a case of fertility pills.

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The Inquisition that murdered tens of thousands.

Burnt “witches”.

Burnt Joan of Arc for dressing like a man.

Burnt a scholar for translating the bible into English so the masses could read it for themselves.

Denied the Holocaust.

Denied the thousands of rapped children by priests.

Hordes massive wealth while millions of its devoted suffer starvation and disease.

As a devoted catholic I remember many of their teachings, like this one at seven years old:

 The nun said, “Thou shall not kill includes oneself. A long, long time ago there was a man suffering from a very strange disease causing him to fall into a deep, deep sleep where his heart quieted to a soft undetectable murmur. The people thought he was dead. They placed him into the tight confines of a coffin and nailed down the lid, lowering him into a six foot pit and filled it with dirt.

He woke up in his cramped wooden casket, unable to move, realizing his predicament, terrified, he began to scream. But in the blackness, six feet under the ground, he knew no one could hear his cries. Unable to withstand the horror of it, he drove the forefingers of his hands into the temples of his head to kill himself.  Even he today is burning in the everlasting fires of Hell. A Hell where the flesh is continually reborn so that he could feel the agony for all eternity”

That night when I went to bed I could not sleep. If I slept, I was sure someone would think me dead. Finally, in the wee hours of the night I had an idea. I got up, stumbled over to my little desk and switched on the light. Searching around in the drawers I found my drawing book and ripped off a little piece of paper and wrote out a short note and quietly crept down the hall to the bathroom where my mother kept the safety pins. A few hours later she came in to wake me up for Sunday church. Pinned to the middle of my pajama shirt, where no one could possibly miss it, was the note: “Pleese do not berry me, not dead.”

You must understand that I believed the Holy Sister Mary Margaret’s story, absolutely. I had not the slightest doubt that was exactly what Jesus did. Only the effect of the story was not what the Holy Sister hoped for.

The next morning at church, sitting at my mother’s side as she dutifully focused on the word of God, I was staring above the alter where Christ was draped on his cross, thinking, “You Asshole!”

 Trump is itsy bitsy, when it comes to the detestable.

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Have you heard?

A rare Corpse flower is blooming somewhere out east.

As it grows monuments to itself, it attracts flies, beetles and other vermin that enjoy wallowing in its stink of “rotting flesh” and giving comfort to a passion for self-promotion.

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We were once the “threat of a good example” to all fascists, communists, oppressors of every stripe.  For a few hundred years America was the most effective “Domino Theory”.  So successful was our adventure into a free society that oppressive dominos collapsed in almost half the nations on earth, as their people struggled to duplicate our success.

But then, as an 18^th century Scottish historian suggested: You may start in bondage, which will lead to great courage, and if successful, liberty and abundance, but selfishness will eventually root, pomposity, then complacency, apathy and dependence, returning us all to bondage.

With Rome, it took a thousand years.

Are we shortening the cycle?

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Trump’s Institute of Peace!  Really?

There are planned Trump highways, airports, battleships and a few others you may know of:

Trump currency:

Trump’s drugstore:

Trump credit cards:

Trump’s Ballroom:

Trump’s Triumphal Arch:

AND YES, STILL BEING PUSHED:

And now, AND NOW:

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Trump’s Institute of Peace!  Really?

There are planned Trump highways, airports, battleships and a few others you may know of:

Trump currency:

Trump’s drugstore:

Trump credit cards:

Trump’s Ballroom:

Trump’s Triumphal Arch:

AND YES, STILL BEING PUSHED:

Richard Kimball

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“Tuesday will be Power Plant Day, and Bridge Day, all wrapped up in one, in Iran. There will be nothing like it!!! Open the Fuckin’ Strait, you crazy bastards, or you’ll be living in Hell – JUST WATCH! Praise be to Allah.” President DONALD J. TRUMP

If you are tolerating this, what is “Fuckin” wrong with you? Can you not hear? Can you not see?

We haven’t won, we haven’t changed their leadership, their ability to fight back is not gone, as this anal discharge insists!

Has he not yet made you pay, made the world pay, for what was nothing more than his monumental pomposity.

Bombing such infrastructure violates the Geneva convention by crushing civilians, the very civilians who poured out onto the streets demanding change and were slaughtered two months ago.

Of all the incipient, childlike nonsense you supporters have made us suffer from your “Gift from God” from this little angel of a President, this one is coming home to roost at your house.

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I am prejudiced: The tattooed, silicone enhanced, rug pasted, Botox faced, pierced, annoy me.

Anyone using the expressions “it’s a good read” or “take a listen,” make me cringe.

And what is it with motorcycles and cars that can’t wait their turn? Hell, they are like rap lovers completely inconsiderate of melody.

The extra cost people pay for ripped up pants, or those wearing a pair barely managing to hang off the lumps on their ass, all an irritation. And what is it with the young, putting studs in their noses, lips, tongues and parts thankfully unseen? Or old people that wear and ride around in brags; Rolex/Mercedes/Dior/Gucci or a Porsche as if they still had it all together and could handle it under full power?

And OH GOD, please give me a break from your religious demigods, sports casters and political commentators using hyperbolic nonsense to attract another sucker.

Personally, I would prefer to just be left alone with those still so absurd as to wear what a date once called “stiletto healed, please f%#k me shoes?”

Now don’t get too mad, many in my family are listed here, I dare say I have been on the list in my past, but now as an old codger, I deduct 10 IQ points for anyone on my list.

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I often wonder, why hasn’t someone killed him?  Lincoln, McKinley, Kennedy, all good men, trying to do good found a bullet from some lonesome malcontent.

Now we have real horror.

Is it because every Secret Service Agent, every General, every Cabinet member, every White House staffer, every family member, all with access to him are on the take, none can see, or are so cowardly they are not willing to take one for the country.

Is it because everyone close, that thinks him vile is cowardly, unwilling to sacrifice, or are non-violent peace nicks at the expense of everything America has stood for?  Is it that what hundreds of thousands of husbands, wives, sons and daughters perished for, what we were once so proud, doesn’t elevate to self-sacrifice?

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You might be old enough to remember Joe Isuzu back in the 80s making fun of the Federal Government, who through its Federal Trade Commission protected prey (citizens) from false advertising. They said ads on radio, television or anywhere else were “required to be truthful, not misleading.”

But Joe went ahead anyway and claimed Isuzu cars and trucks had “more seats than the Astrodome… could carry a 2,000-pound cheeseburger…. and could hold the whole state of Texas!”

I once started and organization called Vote Smart that would go to war with such dishonesty, silly or otherwise. But it turned out you can say anything and some sucker or maybe a great many suckers will buy it.

My organization started at dishonesties core, politicians. They had become servants to money and self-preservation rather than The People, politicians that would put old Joe to shame. The success of dishonesty became so grotesque that one self-glorifying, consummate maligner spread over 30,000 demonstrable lies by 2022, the year I unfortunately retired.

The organization soon diminished but at its zenith forty million people including every major media journalist used it, along with more than a few political abusers looking at truth and then struggling for the means to rape it.

I left way too early and have lived sad for it ever since.

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Trump clams we have won, and the war is close to over.

OK, we lost few of what Trump once called “sucker” Americans who signed up to defend the rest of us.

And yes, you now must chip into the effort too, every time you buy a bit of gas or anything else that depends on petroleum.

But, BUT we knocked out an 86-year-old religious fanatic at his life’s end and replaced him with a 56-year-old even more manic in his fanaticism.  Not just another religious nut job, you understand, but one who just had his father, mother, wife and child blasted to bits by us.

An odious victory of jaw dropping proportions.

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Those “Losers” his Chief of Staff recalled as his excuse for refusing to visit their graves in France or his not wanting “to be seen in the presence of military amputees because it doesn’t look good for me.”

Remember any of that? It had zero effect on his MAGA Minions, even as he and his family SUCKED billions out of the world those dead and maimed made possible.

Who would be the “suckers?” Those that gave or those that SUCK!

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Before

After

IN THIS CASE ALL CUSS WORDS

OH, WHAT GREED HAS DONE TO MY HOMETOWN.

.

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,

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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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