Yesterday, I had more than enough of articles about the anniversary of the January 6th attempted coup … I was on overload, most of the articles repeating the dire warnings of the one I had read just before and that I had previously expressed here on Filosofa’s Word. Mind you, I understand the desire to […]Words Of Wisdom From Jimmy Carter — Filosofa’s Word
Even established democracies can fall to military juntas and despots. We can’t let that happen here.
— Read on www.nytimes.com/2022/01/05/opinion/jan-6-jimmy-carter.html
History in Music- “Nebraska”-Bruce Springsteen. Bruce Springsteen’s release of the album ‘Nebraska” in 1982 startled many of his followers. It was far from the rock and roll they expected from The Boss-instead what they got was a stark, dark and moody album that he recorded without the E-Street Band and without anyone else. It was originally just a tape of demos meant to be an album with the E-Street Band but he decided to release it was it was- a wise decision. One of this best albums -he has recorded a couple similar albums since but while they are good albums- lack that extra something that Nebraska seems to have.
The first track on the Nebraska album is the title track. It is a first person narrative of mass murderer Charles Starkweather who went on a rampage killing 11 people over an 8 day period in Nebraska and…
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On this date: the live debut of “High Hopes,” a guest appearance with Jackson Browne, and more.Kingdom of Days: March 16
Although there are only two months remaining in the politically turbulent year of 2019, I have attended only two films at the cinema. As a former Chicagoan who watched the film critics Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert’s program “At the Movies” on television during my youth and young adulthood, I should be ashamed that my total is a measly two movies. However, I believe that I have chosen wisely as a consumer who must be frugal due to a lack of steady employment. It was during August when I attended Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time In Hollywood with my wife from Italy; Leonardo DiCaprio’s protagonist married a woman named Francesca at the end of the film, and this is also the name of my wife who married me during the month of March. In fact, the director of the film having an Italian surname wasn’t lost on either my wife from the town of Narni or her American husband who loves Italian food(it was consumed in Chicago’s Italian restaurants and in Italy itself). I hadn’t seen one of Tarantino’s movie on the big screen since 1994’s Pulp Fiction; the fact that Tarantino is a bit of an arrogant asshole prevented me for attending any additional movies that he made, and it is the same reason that I avoided the film about a young fan of Bruce Springsteen with the recent Blinded By the Light(Sarfraz Manzoor would have added two more tickets in sales to his box-office bomb if only he had refrained from self-aggrandising promotion using his big mouth and Twitter account). Regardless, Tarantino’s brilliant film is a time capsule into 1969 and the fringes of Hollywood where success isn’t a guarantee for men and women with ego that is often bigger than their actual talent. Yet, Tarantino is able to shed a bright light on the vulnerabilities, insecurities, and actual abilities of fictional and nonfictional people from a city on the cusp of tragedy in August of 1969 with the multiple homicides committed by the Manson family cult. Tarantino attempts to restore the innocence that was shattered with his alternate historical ending in which the bad guys lose and the innocent people are allowed to continue living in the bliss of a successful life that includes friendship, outdoor parties in the perfect weather, and a night sky where the western stars shine brightly despite the smog created by thousands of motorists.
Western Stars? What was the name of that new film’s title? It could have easily been a vanity project by a legendary rock musician who was merely perpetuating the cliche that all rock stars have a desire to be actors while all of Hollywood’s actors are “secretly” hoping to become rock stars. Bruce Springsteen could have easily fallen into the cinematic trap of his hero, Bob Dylan, by either starring in a terrible movie(Hearts of Fire, 1987) or creating a mess of a movie(Masked and the Anonymous, 2003) that had better potential as a song than a film; the latter film guaranteed that Bob’s only home would be the road for touring as a musician and tossing his “acting” dreams on a dusty shelf. As the story goes for Dylan when he “acted” as the character Alias in the movie Pat Garret and Billy the Kid(1973), Bruce is better at creating songs for a movie than being the actor who portrays the screenplay; Bruce is the storyteller instead of the story itself in Western Stars. The songs aren’t autobiographical in the same manner as Bruce’s more personal work with Tunnel of Love(1987) and Lucky Town(1992) when he experienced either conflict or contentment in the context of marriage. The thirteen songs performed live from Bruce’s barn in Colts Neck, New Jersey are enhanced by a full orchestra of strings and horns to redeem a subpar album released in June without the context of an accompanying film(note to Bruce and his management team: you’re supposed to release the soundtrack to a movie by only four days ahead of it instead of a confounding four months in length). When Bruce isn’t appearing on the stage of his barn, he is featured in the desert of southern California at the Joshua Tree National Park. Bruce does a series of voiceovers regarding the lessons of life and the way in which any wisdom gained is through making mistakes, learning from the pain, and calling on your better angels to refrain from the making the same mistake again. It was during the desert vignettes when I thought of Tarantino’s film and the character of Cliff Booth played by Brad Pitt. Cliff is an ageing stuntman who repeatedly takes a fall for his friend, Rick Dalton, played by Leonardo DiCaprio. In fact, you get the sense that if not for the friendship with Rick, then Cliff wouldn’t have any job in Hollywood other than menial labour jobs for putting his battered body to work in the hot sun. Bruce performed a song entitled “Drive Fast(The Stuntman)” about a character similar to Cliff Booth but older with the surgeries, pins, and metallic body parts to prove it. The vast majority of Springsteen’s characters from Western Stars are ageing with 1969 being a distant memory when the turbulence of that year is replaced with the turbulence of 2019 but without their younger energy to actually give a damn about it.
The Old West and New West met in 1969 and 2019 for the stars of California, a place where being ignorantly blissful is an assumed component of relocating there from anywhere else in the USA. Politics aren’t much of a consideration in either Once Upon in Hollywood or Western Stars. The characters in both projects are merely trying to stay employed, keep their heads above water, and retain any relationship that prevents a dangerous isolation from their communities. Despite the weakness of the song, there is quite a party happening at “Sleepy Joe’s Cafe” from Western Stars with a type of fun that is also filled with desperation. On the night of the infamous murders that included actress Sharon Tate in August of 1969, Rick and Cliff spend the evening drinking heavily at a bar to celebrate Cliff’s final performance as Rick’s stuntman; the party is eventually moved to Rick’s mansion where he and Cliff are able to thwart the murders of four innocent people who are also celebrating quietly in the privacy of their own home next door. Tarantino’s alternative history plays into the narrative that cowboys and heroes from the Old West can protect the damsels in distress from the New West where cults and Trump supporters have sullied the land with pointless violence and sheer ignorance. Perhaps this could be the tie that binds Once Upon a Time In Hollywood and Western Stars, the only two films that I have experienced in 2019; a common thread is knowing the mantra of “go West, young man” doesn’t have any meaning without friendship, family, and a community to protectively cherish. Cliff Booth is unimpressed with the Manson “family” at Charlie’s ranch but won’t leave until one of the cult members is held responsible for slashing the tire of Cliff’s car; it is a bold request for a man who is outnumbered by zombies with a propensity for violence while under the spell of a lunatic. Have I described the Manson cult in that previous sentence or a gun-toting group that is able to vote in American elections? Nonetheless, the stuntman and hitchhiker of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood and Western Stars are willing to take their chances on the open road where anything, even the worst possible outcome, is always a possibility. These men of Tarantino and Springsteen might be lost in an emotional sense, but they have a sense of morality before the world became insane from the cult leaders and demagogues who found their gullible followers.
I can only conclude this unread essay on a positive note, as this was the intent of both Quentin Tarantino and Bruce Springsteen at the end of their artistic offerings in 2019. Cliff Booth was shot by one of Manson’s young zombies but is still smiling while laying on the gurney in the back of an ambulance; his best friend, Rick Dalton, has promised to visit him in the hospital but only after accepting the invitation to a party from his next door neighbour, a pregnant and grateful Sharon Tate. Springsteen concludes his album and film with two songs of joy despite the circumstances that could easily precipitate a solitary resentment instead. “Moonlight Motel” features a lonely man who traces his lost love to the same place where they have shared their love and their shared love of alcohol; the character is now alone without his lover, he is drinking alone, but he feels grateful and connected with the love that he had previously experienced despite his sad situation. As the added bonus and homage to the songwriters who inspired Western Stars, Springsteen performs a rousing cover version of Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy” for the ultimate fish-out-of-water celebration that could have easily been a rural man’s bitterness toward the urban way of life in America’s biggest city. Therefore, the West has been transported to the East with Springsteen singing from his barn in New Jersey and with Glen Campbell’s declaration of how a cowboy will triumph in a land that can’t be more different from a place where the western stars are shining brightly…with the land of Hollywood included.
Paul Campbell Haider, (Weybridge, England)
October 29, 2019
Mom’s Grace Under Pressure
I spoke with my grandmother on the phone yesterday after calling her from here in England to her assisted living facility in Sarasota, Florida; I have referred often referred to the “sunshine state” as the “suck-ass state” ever since President-elect Gore was denied his rightful job in December of 2000. Politics aside, a 94-year-old grandmother has become the primary maternal figure in my life ever since my own mother died from ovarian cancer on Monday, July 10, 2017 in Chicago. Actually, my mom died only a week after my 43rd birthday when I couldn’t have been more lost in the emotional cloud of anger, grief, confusion, and the feeling of loss. It was in the city of Chicago where I lost my mind(Trump’s “victory’ as president with the ever-present Trump building and its gigantic letters of T-R-U-M-P as a taunting reminder in my former neighbourhood), my vocation(ten years as a psychologist became an enormous burden after my mother was diagnosed with cancer in December of 2014), and my heart(the feeling of love couldn’t be reciprocated in my previous relationship due to emotional burnout). However, I am reminded by Mom’s grace under pressure when she was given the final diagnosis that would taker her life; more than two years of chemotherapy resulted in leukemia that began with a decrease in her healthy blood cells in during the month of May in 2017. In fact, Mom was “living” as a guest in a nursing home at the time when the blood test results indicated an alarming decease of red blood cells that couldn’t be replaced with any additional transfusions from the cancer clinic at the hospital in Evanston, Illinois. While every member of my family was collectively losing their minds with anticipatory grief and a desperate form of anxiety, Mom appeared as calm, graceful, and dignified as a human could be when facing death that was just around the corner from life on earth.
The conversation with my grandmother from yesterday afternoon concluded with her saying, “Paul, your mother was a writer; you should be writing too.” Therefore, I made a promise that a rare and unexpected entry would be added to my blog that is read by almost nobody…with all due respect to my ten followers. I have thought often about my mother during this current month of May because it is the second Mother’s Day without her being celebrated by her fortunate son who once performed the song “Fortunate Son” dedicated to her from the stage of my high school’s County Fair concert in October of 1990(hey, I am aware that John Fogerty was actually singing “I ain’t no fortunate son” in 1969 despite my intention to demonstrate gratitude at a public event). Mom’s parting words of wisdom for her three children were to experience gratitude for even the smallest blessing in life and also partake in the healing act of forgiveness as the best way to let go of anger and resentment in life. Although I have been psychologically healthier from the gratitude and forgiveness, I am also still amazed today by Mom’s grace and courage when she said the fateful word “hospice” in early June of 2017. Given the fact that I worked as a bereavement counselor for my internship in graduate school from 2002 through 2003 at the hospice care clinic in Evanston, I knew the exact implications of a word associated with imminent death. As terrible as the ovarian cancer had been to Mom’s body, it was leukemia that would soon be taking her life. I was able to overhear a conversation that Mom had with a friend on the phone while visiting her at my parents’ house: “Although I could only wish for more years to live, my only regret in leaving will be the inability to experience my grandchildren grow up to become adults.” It is my realization now that Mom was accepting her fate as a mature adult, and the grace was her way of demonstrating the way to die with dignity; it was the final lesson that she taught to me without ever saying a word about it. In fact, Mom’s final words to me before she entered a comatose state on the night of Saturday, July 8, 2010 was a both challenge and new opportunity for my adulthood: “Paul, you are going to be a wonderful teacher someday in the future.” Mom, you were the best teacher from whom a student could learn without ever being in the classroom for the lessons.
I am feeling reflective today when thinking about the past twenty years of my life. My beloved and deceased mother used her unique expression of “hatch, match, and dispatch” when chronicling those three major milestones in life when we are born, partner with a companion, and leave this life and earth for either the next world or nothing at all. It was twenty years ago when I was an unfortunate resident of St. Paul, Minnesota as a transplant from my native home in Chicago. This was the period in life when I struggled to be a “successful” musician and find a record contract for my derivative songs. I was lucky enough to be signed in May of 1998 to Jamesland Records in suburban Chanhassen(hey, Prince lived there before he died!) with local producer heard my “demo tape” recorded in April of 1997 at the Noise Chamber of Rockford, Illinois with a professional band(Bare Bones). However, I was also introduced to the psychological anxiety of panic disorder and depression in the summer of 1998 after moving into an apartment with a woman who would soon become my ex-girlfriend. When the work day ended at Borders Books and Music where I was employed, I would take long walks down the streets of St. Paul and hoping that life would improve. The air had often smelled cleaner in Minnesota despite the fact that I was a stranger in a strange land(you can view the Coen brothers’ film of Fargo from 1996 to confirm that Minnesotans are a strange breed with a ridiculous accent). Bob Dylan relocated from the “gopher state” to New York City as soon as he had the chance during college. Yet, I completed college in 1996 with a Bachelors degree that would only guarantee a job in either retail or the food services industry; you would be correct to assume that the former is far more tolerable. Yet, I can still remember the yellow moon during those solitary constitutionals on the streets of St. Paul; I was closer to being Sinner Paul who was far more comfortable in the legitimate city of Chicago, and I returned home by late December of that year. Before leaving Minnesota, Jesse Ventura(wrestler turned politician) was elected as the state’s new governor, and I can only assume Donald Trump noticed that a lack of qualifications and political experience doesn’t preclude someone from achieving a job in government at the executive level.
The autumn of 2008 in Chicago was a better experience than ten years earlier, as I was a successful psychologist at Chicago Family Health Center on the Southside of the city. Yes, I was able to parlay my experience and recovery in treatment for an anxiety disorder into a career after completing a Masters degree in counseling and a doctoral program in psychology. I voted for Barack Obama when he ran for senator of Illinois in 2004, and his victory was the only bright spot in an otherwise depressing election; President-elect Kerry was denied his rightful job due to voter suppression in Ohio. However, my job was to improve the lives of my patients through instilling hope and providing the symptom alleviation that can be gained through talk therapy. Hope was a major theme for Obama’s presidential campaign, although it was high time for drastic change with an economy that collapsed through years of deregulation, predatory lending, and malfeasance by white-collar criminals. The vast majority of my clients were people of color from a low socioeconomic status, and they couldn’t be more excited about the possibility of electing the first African-American president; I didn’t mention in session that Obama was actually biracial due to his mother being a white woman, but we could all agree that he was a Chicagoan despite his birth in Hawaii(the state would later be conflated with the nation of Kenya due to the current president). Late October in Chicago was buzzing with excitement, and I was proud to be part of it. I can remember a harvest moon on Halloween night that was Friday when I helped my father with distributing the candy to children who stopped by the house; my mother was out of town and might have prevented me from catching a cold on that night. In fact, I was unable to attend President Obama’s victory party in Grant Park during the following week due to my sore throat and running nose. Regardless, I had never felt more proud to be a Chicagoan in the state where Abraham Lincoln and Barack Obama cut their political teeth before they saved the nation from itself.
It is strange when pride converts to shame simply because of a change that isn’t hopeful but based on the combination of fear and anger instead. I refer to Trump voters as “Trumpsters from dumpsters” because so many of them reflect the racist “white trash” that is an embarrassment to my race; they were duped by the sound of a dog whistle that has been blown for the sake of Republican presidential canddiates in elections since 1968 when it was initially referred to as the “Southern strategy.” I am not a resident of the United States today, and I am feeling pride in my decision to become an expatriate instead; my love for an Italian woman who resides in England has been a factor in changing both my life and location. Nature has a way of levelling the playing field on this earth. Actually, it was earlier today when we were greeted with a vibrant rainbow after a brief thunderstorm in the afternoon. I don’t know about the outcome in the midterm elections in the USA during early November of next month, but I would be voting for Democrats again if I was there in person. The moon can be viewed whether it is seen from American soil or England’s earth from where two of my maternal ancestors(Priscilla Mullins and John Alden) chose to leave Surrey county in 1620. I have atoned for their mistake made in pursuit of religious freedom, as a conservative “Christian” bigot such as Vice-President Mike Pence can turn the pursuit of freedom from religion into a noble cause. Despite the nation of one’s location and the religion that corrupts it, nature can be experienced as an environmental gift that doesn’t require a formal purchase. The moon is shining tonight in Weybridge, and I am accepting this harvest as a warning that we reap the crop which is sowed into the earth. Trumpsters should be warned of when they plant the seeds that are fertilised with fear, anger, and hatred, well, they can’t claim to be shocked when a shit tree blooms with turds on the vines. In late October of 2018, my harvest moon is shining as a reminder that we as humans will have to hatch, match, and dispatch before the sun can rise again in a new(better?) world to come.
Paul Haider, England
It was in the summer of 2009 when we were initially informed of an American fringe group who protested President Obama to express their misguided anger(racism?) regarding their steadfast belief that he was a Kenyan socialist. This was in spite of the fact that the president wasn’t born in Kenya(the falsehood was initiated by pathological liar Donald Trump), and he wasn’t even close to being a socialist(Obama was a corporatist given his refusal to prosecute any of the financial institutions/banks responsible for the collapse of the economy in 2008). Actually, the racism of the Tea Party was misguided given the fact that President Obama isn’t fully African-American; he is actually biracial due to his mother, Dr. Ann Dunham, being a white woman who was born in Kansas. However, the protests of the Teabaggers continued with plenty of funding from Charles and David Koch, billionaire brothers who were also from the sad state of Kansas(the rock band of the same name wasn’t much better with their pedestrian rock songs in the 1970’s). If I had a billion dollars to spare in 2011 for my progressive views, then I would have financed an archenemy of the Tea Party and named them as the Cocoa Party. As a Chicagoan from the same city that became Barack Obama’s new home as a community organiser helping disenfranchised people(wasn’t this similar to the work being done by Jesus Christ from two-thousand years earlier?), I wish that my radical idea had been implemented before the Teabaggers had an opportunity to devolve into the White trash Trumpsters from dumpsters responsible for Donald Trump “winning” the presidential election of 2016…while actually losing by three million votes. The Cocoa Party was well aware of the fact that ever since President Obama became the commander-in-chief, the overall taxes paid by the racist White people of the Tea Party had either remained exactly the same or slightly decreased; this was totally unacceptable to them because of the government’s new face having a skin colour that was much darker than their own. The Teabaggers(tea bagging: a gay sex act in which one man’s testicles are dangled into the mouth of another man) were furious that they paid less in taxes than when the White man, George W. Bush, occupied the White House. Those morbidly obese and gun-toting citizens wanted their country back, as the expression of taking it back referred to a period of time before the Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act of the 1960’s; President Johnson’s legislation precipitated a strong shift of Democrats becoming Republicans in their response, especially in the southern states that had previously held contempt for Republican Abraham Lincoln’s much bolder initiatives during the 1860’s.
In hindsight, I have to ponder all of the things wanted by the Tea Party given a cursory glance at the modern Republican policies that impacted their taxes. Did they reject the concept of their taxes paying for a crumbling infrastructue of the roads and bridges on which they drove their American cars? Did the Teabaggers reject the idea of their taxes paying for public schools where their children would be “educated” for both grammar school and high school? Were they opposed to the mail(United States Postal Services) being delivered to their home for six out of seven days during the week? Were they opposed to the fire department preventing the destruction of their home and the police department from protecting it when crime was committed? We know that Teabaggers and Trumpsters have never been shy about contacting the police whenever they see a suspicious person of colour in their neighbourhood; the suspicion, of course, is always related to the skin colour. Finally, were the Teabaggers opposed to their taxes being converted into money for retirement in the form of Social Security? Did they ever realize that it was a form of socialism as indicated in the name(“Social”) of the “entitlement” program itself? The nonexistent members of the Cocoa Party want to remind the Teabaggers that recent history hasn’t forgotten when the national unemployment rate reached 10.8% in 1982 during the first term of their patron saint, Ronald Reagan. In fact, St. Reagan raised taxes on eleven(!) separate occassions in seven of his eight years in the Oval Office; it was only in 1981 when a significant tax reduction occurred, and this exacerbated a severe recession that didn’t end until Reagan’s “fiscal responsibility” involved runaway spending. As a result, Reagan was responsible for tripling the deficit to a sum total of 2.8 trillion dollars by January of 1989; this was roughly three times as much as the first eighty years of the previous century from 1900 until 1980 had accumulated altogether. Who can claim “fiscal responsibility” with those numbers?
As we’ve learned in the news recently, Donald Trump has created a deficit with tax cuts for the wealthiest Americans(the real intent of Reaganomics) for a projected deficit that will also reach a trillion dollars. How can the clown car(the driver earned the nickname of Comrade Agent Orange Clown for his treason and buffoonery) be headed for anywhere other than off the financial cliff? Let’s not focus on the fact that the “R” in the car stands for “Reverse”(Repugnantcan) while the “D” is for “Drive”(Democrat). The Tea Party members claimed that TEA was an acronym for Taxed Enough Already; I claim that is was an acronym for “Totally Egregious Assholes.” In fact, I would claim that “PARTY” was also an acronym for “Pathetic Angry Racist Tools Yelling” in their ridiculous costumes from the Revolutionary War. The election of Donald Trump has empowered the racists of America to the point at which the Revolutionary War costumes of Teabaggers have been replaced with the original white sheet robes and conical hats of the Klan; the “values” of white supremacists don’t have to be concealed any longer in Trump’s America. As the president and founder of the Cocoa Party, I would like to require the three prerequisites for membership: 1) you must be completely literate having completed Thomas Frank’s book What’s the Matter With Kansas?(2004) written by one author instead of reading the Libel, uh, Bible written by multiple male authors from more than two-thousand years ago, 2) you must have a three-digit IQ score(sorry, Teabaggers and Trumpsters), and 3) you must accept a fact verified by American historians that Franklin Roosevelt, a democratic socialist, was the USA’s greatest president. The Cocoa Party is open for business if a wealthy donor is interested in funding the nemesis of the Tea Party. Of course, I have to admit that I didn’t realise the extent of the USA’s fall from grace until the Trumpsters voted for an orange clown with a long history of racism; orange is the new black, as the Netflix television series has confirmed. It is an excellent period of time in American history to be an expatriate, and I am proud to have escaped an insane nation where the inmates are running the asylum.
It was during the Spring of 2011 when Donald T’Rump/The Ass initiated the racially-charged “birther movement” with his false claim that President Obama was born in Kenya instead of Hawaii. In fairness, I should wait until 2019 to begin the “balder movement.” However, Comrade Agent Orange Clown could be in prison for treason and obstruction of justice by next year after Robert Mueller’s indictments stick to the “president” like white skin on a Trumpster from a dumpster. Propecia and Rogaine be damned, the Balder movement begins in earnest with an idea from a Chicagoan who is among the expatriate division of the Resistance from here in Weybridge, England.
President Barack Obama’s full length birth certificate was released in the late Spring after 2011, and it was shortly after he had 9/11’s criminal mastermind killed as a fugitive in Pakistan; it should be noted that Osama bin Laden originated from Saudi Arabia, the nation that was actually culpable for the events on September 11, 2001 instead of either Afghanistan(the biggest financial sand-trap of the Middle East since 1980) or Iraq(they didn’t possess any “weapons of mass destruction” either). I am currently viewing the birth certificate of a biracial baby who was born to Ann Dunham on August 4, 1961 in Honolulu, Hawaii at the Kapiolani Maternity and Gynecological Hospital; the address is 6085 Kalanianaole Highway in Honolulu(Aloha to Elvis!). I am satisfied with the veracity of the birth certificate, but I am not satisfied with the “authenticity” of Donald Trump’s orange face and blonde hair. It is extremely likely that the “hair” of “billionaire” buffoon Trump is neither genuine nor real; this is similar to his marriage to Malaria, uh, Melanie, uh, Melania Trump, the existence of God(yes, this post was written on Sunday), and compassionate conservatism espoused by George W. Bush in 2000(Bush’s election “victory” in Florida was also a crock of shit). In fact, it is more than likely that given the poor quality of the dead animal on the head of Donald Trump, his hairpiece was not made in the United States but, rather, in a third-world country(Taiwan? Malaysia?? Kenya???) instead. Given the abject poverty related to the continent of Africa(it is actually a country, according to Sarah Palin), the toupee of Donald Trump was most likely woven in the nation of Kenya; this indicates that the most conspicuous aspect of Donald Trump’s appearance, aside from his unnaturally orange skin, is neither an American product nor a legitimate resident that resides on the president’s head. In sharp contrast to both President Obama and the god, uh, boss Bruce Springsteen, Donald Trump’s hairpiece was not “born in the USA.” The fabrication of Trump’s hair has resulted in the formation of the balder movement, which shall not go out of business in the same manner as the birther movement…as was the case with so many of Trump’s financial enterprises and failures as a con man, uh, businessman. The balder movement will send a team of investigators to interview all of Trump’s wives(currently two ex-wives, if the Evangelical “Christians” are able to count), girlfriends(adultery and abortion are acceptable when the politician is a Repugnantcan, uh, Republican), and the fired contestants from The Apprentice/”Celebrity” Apprentice; all of these people will admit their relief to not suffer again from being in either the same bedroom or boardroom as Donald Trump. We can only assume that they are survivors of an orange trauma.
Mr. Trump can take some comfort in knowing that the greatest Republican president of the 20th century, Dwight David Eisenhower, was also a bald man; Ike didn’t have any “bone spurs” in his feet that prevented him from serving in the military to become a five-star general. In fact, President Eisenhower was a far more successful president than the hair-dyed nitwit who so many dumb Americans consider to be our best president of the 20th century. St. Ronald Raygun, uh, Reagan attempted to dismantle everything created by our nation’s greatest president, a democratic socialist named Franklin Delano Roosevelt(this fact can be confirmed by erudite scholars and respectable historians who didn’t graduate from Liberty University). Regarding the Evangelical “Christians” who are still supporting a bald traitor named Trump, the balder movement will also be investigating Jesus H.(Howard?) Christ in order to prove that he was not an American citizen, he did not speak English fluently(have you ever heard of Aramaic?), he was neither a Christian nor a Gentile(this is assuming that Gentiles are still not celebrating Passover and Hanukkah), and he never spent as much time with one woman(a wife, for example) as twelve other men whose feet were personally washed by him. Finally, the birther movement will begin the deportation proceedings for Santa Claus because the North Pole is much closer in proximity to Russia than Florida. Of course, we know already that many Floridians don’t have a problem with Trump “putting out” for Vladimir Putin as a traitor who won’t implement sanctions against Russia for interfering with our “free and fair” election in 2016. Please support the balder movement if you want to learn the real truth(not even close to being “fake news”) about a lying and bald bastard named Donald J.(Jackass?) Trump. Your nation needs a patriotic commitment that can’t be performed by the commander-in-chief of the military; it is time to fight!
Top 20 Nicknames for Donald Trump: 20) Birther Buffoon, 19) BLOTUS, 18) Glutton with the red button, 17) Dotard Dunce, 16) Millionaire Man-child, 15) Baby Hands/Infant Brain, 14) Combover Clown, 13) Serial Spouse, 12) Apprentice Asshole, 11) Billionaire Brat, 10) Narcissistic Nitwit, 9) Ruler of the Trumpsters from Dumpsters, 8) Fucks News Fuckface, 7) Media Megalomaniac, 6) Welfare queen? Nope. Bankruptcy king with five previous filings, 5) Opulent Obstructer of Justice, 4) Racist Repugnantcan, 3) Bone Spurred Bonehead, 2) T’Rump/The Ass, and 1) Comrade Agent Orange Clown.
Paul Haider(President/Founder/CEO of the Balder Movement), England