John Boni's Open Salon Blog

Liberal Denial and Deceit

Tue, 8 May 2012 12:05:46 -0400

Been following the John Edwards story here in the Durham Herald Sun, a liberal rag laughingly called a newspaper, and I’m struck by the cravenness of this perfectly coiffed, despicable cockroach.

I’m also struck by the fact that this man was allowed to appear on the Democrat ticket as vice-President and then again allowed to announce and campaign for a run as president.

Are liberals & progressives - hard to distinguish them these days, so let's call them Libgressives -- a) stupid, b) insane, c) deceitful, d) liars, e) hypocritical, f) cynical, g) dishonest, h) deniers, i) all the above?

The correct answer is "I."

With definitions taken care of, is the Libgressive cabal in the Democrat party so (see "a" above) as not to see through Edwards?

Yes.

Is the Libgressive cabal in the Democrat party so despicably (see "b", "c", & "d") that they might have suspected what a scumbag Edwards was and STILL stood by him even though he could have been inflicted as President on the country should former bemedaled Vietnam veteran John Kerry have suffered PTST from the time he didn’t spend in Cambodia during the war?

Ohhhh, yeah.

Are libgressives so "g" and "e" as not to have come out in force against Edwards’ affair, his mendacity, his disregard for his dying wife and children.

A hundred times yes.

When I say “in force,” I’m talking about Larry Craig “in force,” the Republican congressman who allowed his foot to slip under his bathroom stall as an invitation to who knows what? That story had thoroughbred legs for quite a while, thanks to the parasitic delight of libgressives and the running dog enablers of the libgressive media.

And for those with short memories, think "Republican" Herman Cain. I've yet to see "Democrat" John Edwards in any story about this bedbug.

Now, remember the grief over Sarah Palin? The attacks? The lies? The spin? The gleeful proclamations of her “stupidity,” the Tina Fey impression that stupid libgressives morphed into Sarah Palin reality (“I can see Russia from my house.)?

Remember all that?

Remember how “scary” it was to libgressives that Sarah Palin was a heartbeat away from the presidency? It created a vilification industry that continues to this day.

And yet, here we are! Now! Sarah continues saying her piece openly and honestly. Doesn't matter whether or not you agree, she’s a productive spokesman in the political arena, while John Edwards may go to jail for being, well, a total prick. How’s that for a potential president!?

And libgressives continue their hear, see and speak no evil about one of their own. They are indeed, a very k) sick, l) dysfunctional, m) unhappy, n) angry bunch.

Oh, speaking of vice-Presidential candidates, how about the true Ringling Brothers clown we have now? If his name were Palin, the o) feral libgressives would be all over him.

Let's Try This On For Size

Mon, 7 Nov 2011 11:11:08 -0500

The continuing and futile OWS hullabaloo brings to mind my experiences some years ago when my friend Koki (a nickname) Novikov, a wonderful dancer I worked with in New York would invite fellow cast members for Sunday dinner to her neighborhood in Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach, an enclave for many Russian/Americans and recent Russian émigrés.

During those visits I observed the unhappiness of the recently arrived Russian men. This was not the famously chronic, brooding sadness of the Russian soul, but rather, a sadness born of purposelessness. They didn’t know how to engage personal freedom. Instead of pursuing the endless options liberty offers, they seemed to be drifting aimlessly, clueless about how to handle it.

Some even expressed a fondness for the totalitarianism they left behind. Back home they knew what they could and couldn’t do and took comfort in the oppressive safety of the Soviet system -- no decisions needed to be made, no dreams to pursue, very few options available. It was all determined for them and they were satisfied robots in the Soviet system. Most said that many of their relatives and friends in Russia felt the same way.

One can’t really blame them. They had been indoctrinated in this system for generations and it was the only one they knew and understood. It’s natural that many of them would be puzzled and aimless in this new system founded on freedom.

But I can blame the clowns at Occupy Wall Street.

The permissiveness and secularism that liberalism inflicted upon the country began in the 60’s and continues destructively to this day. This liberal “culture” of “do your own thing,” “if it feels good, do it,” “if it works for you,” and “God is dead,” seeded the ground for progressivism, which is now giving us an uber-government that's whittling away our independence...and freedom. It created a cadre of elitists who know better than the people how we should live our lives.

But not without cost. The last fifty years left a residue of two generations of entitled brats who’ve become used to, and expect, the hand of government to provide for them. Our glorious American liberty has been eroded by liberal-dependency, as dictated by the government that was supposed to protect it. Instead, these generations have been sucked and suckered into the apprentice Soviet system known as the Nanny State. As that net widens, we’re in full totalitarian mode.

Many of these self indulgent OWS participants took the free ride their hard “working” parents provided for them and were free to pursue degrees in such do-your-own-thing disciplines like film criticism, classical literature, queer studies, Oprah studies, women’s studies, black studies, poetry and the ubiquitous “communications.”

In my dinosaur college days, if you were interested in such topics, you’d go to a library, the encyclopedia, or newspapers and magazines to read about them. We didn’t expect (or want) our colleges to provide degrees in such drivel. These institutions of higher learning just grabbed their ankles and dumbed down the curricula to the cultural marketplace to enroll these often ill-prepared, pie-eyed kids who thought they were getting an education. Wait ‘til their parents saw what they got for their money.

Well, now they’ve been “educated” and are having a temper tantrum on Wall Street. It’s a temper tantrum because they’re too ignorant to understand that the problem isn’t the banks or Wall Street (though they’re certainly complicit). The problem is Washington, Congress and the K-Street lobbyists. It’s the government, stupid, the government that they demand give them welfare, unending unemployment benefits, food stamps, health care, forgiveness of student loans and underwater mortgages.

Washington is where they all should be. But they’re mostly thoughtless and ignorant. I read that close to eighty percent of them never heard of Dodd-Frank, many don’t even know what the S.E.C. is, as well as many other aspects of government regulations.

Many are shocked that most employers aren’t interested in someone who understands film criticism, and my guess is that these Oprah and women’s studies majors wouldn’t deign to work retail or – the ugh word – secretarial. They’re just too good for that.

My main guess is that many of these Wall Street do-nothings have been afraid to step out on their own. They didn’t have the courage to leave Mommy, the government and the nanny state behind and settled comfortably into Washington's "free ride." (How ironic is that expression in this context!) And now they’re fearful that the government largess might dry up. So, like most brats, they’re throwing tantrums.

And they’re being enabled by like-minded OWS elders with beards, pony tails, guitars and Birkenstocks who’ve already made their money and have time to kill, or other losers and anarchists.

They’re also encouraged and praised by media elites, journalism traitors who're safe in their jobs, have connections, money, invitations to all the DC parties, and don’t have a foot in the economy’s quicksand. They drink their chardonnay, lunch in nice restaurants, do their NY Times crosswords in ink at Starbucks and tsk-tsk anyone who dares to challenge the miserable condition the Democrat congress, and especially this President, has created for America.

They watch approvingly as the OWS people morph into my unhappy Russian friends.

Andy Rooney's Last Stand

Sat, 5 Nov 2011 18:11:32 -0400

What's the deal on death?

Everybody talks about it like it's the end of the world. Well, it is in a way, but all this boo-hoo-hooing about it just makes it worse. It's such a Debbie Downer. Don't you just hate that? I do.

My big beef is with this Grim Reaper guy. Why is he Grim? Why can't it be the Smiling Reaper. After all, he's removing you from all the troubles in the world. That's worth smiling about. No more taxes, no more mother-in-law, no more Kardashians, no more neighbor who borrows your lawnmower and never returns it.

And what's with this Reaping thing? Reaping is a good thing. That's when you gather the crops and make Wonder Bread out of it. Of course, the pesticides in those crops and the preservatives in Wonder Bread and related products can accelerate your appointment with the Reaper. So maybe that's the twisted logic behind the the Reaper name.

Then there's that scythe he lugs around. This is a formidable weapon. Very sharp and very dangerous and shaped funny. And I hear it hurts real bad. What's the point in hurting somebody who's already dead? It doesn't make sense.

What's really intimidating is that big black Halloween type costume he wears. I have trouble with that and I think Al Sharpton should get on his case for being a racist. A black costume suggests that only African Americans send you to the great beyond. Problem is I don't see many African Americans walking around with Scythes.

And the guy has a hoodie. Which makes me think he's somebody who doesn't want to be identified. Which makes me think it could be the part time job of some celebrity like, say, Ben Affleck or Leonardo Di Caprio. Could even be a woman, maybe Hillary Clinton or Sharon Osborne. If it is a woman, my money's on Lady Gaga. That in itself is a reason to put off dying as long as you can.

The smart money is that the Reaper is Congress. They're already killing us so it's only fitting that they send one of their own to complete the job. And if someone identifies him, he goes before the ethics committee or something.

Then there's the funeral and all the crying, hugging, condolence giving and repairing to a bar to get sloshed. Hell, you can do that without kicking the bucket.

And that's the last thing about death. All those terms that define it. Passed on, expired, gone to meet his maker, bit the dust, perished, crossed over, shuffled off his mortal coil (I thought we only Shuffled Off To Buffalo), and the three D's -- deceased, departed, demised. I think a better D word would be Demoted.

One I hate the most is "late." Like the late John Doe, or the late Andy Rooney. This is totally incorrect. I'm not going to be late. I'm not showing up.

R.I.P Andy

A Case Of the "Dont's"

Sat, 4 Sep 2010 15:09:17 -0400

The most ubiquitous Don't

The political climate is very caustic and negative these days and I've come to the conclusion that we're essentially a negative society. We're governed by negatives, in particular the word "Don't."

Why is that? Don't ask me! All I know is that don'ts are all over the place. Don't litter, don't loiter, don't walk on the grass, don't spit, don't talk, don't tailgate, don't cross on the red, don't use near an open flame and don't drink and drive . Then there's don't enter and don't exit. The don'ts got you coming and going.

It's been that way since the beginning of our country and I suspect it might be in our national DNA. The Pilgrims came here from England because people kept telling them, "Don't pray like that." And some anonymous Pilgrim got up and said, "Don't take that from them." So they left, and you can bet that when the Mayflower set sail relatives on the pier were yelling "Don't forget to write". and "Don't be a stranger."

Then, when the colonies were just little colonettes the first flag was negative -- "Don't tread on me," which was the inspiration for Elvis' hit single, "Don't Step On My Blue Suede Shoes."

Our soldiers at Lexington and Concord were told "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes," and in the War of 1812 sailors of the Chesapeake heard their wounded captain say "Don't give up the ship," which became the Navy's valiant motto. How our military went from that to "Don't ask, don't tell" is beyond me. Don't have a clue.

We live lives of don'ts. Don't cry over spilt milk, don't bite off more than you can chew, don't burn your bridges, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, don't count your chickens before they're hatched and, if hatching should occur in mid-count, don't put all your eggs in one basket. Applicants for jobs in almost every field hear "Don't call us, we'll call you," which contains the subtle suggestion that something positive might come from the negative.

A puzzler for me is Don't make waves. How come you never see that sign at the beach? Ingrained American decency has given us Don't kick a man when he's down. But I ask you -- when's a better time?

How about those smarmy people who wag their finger at you while saying, usually with a leer, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." They have relatives who say things like "Don't take any wooden nickels." Hell, given the fluctuation in the market, I'll take any nickel I can get. But those same people will also tell you "Don't spend it all in one place." With gas prices being what they are I can't afford to get to the place to spend it.

You can't escape the don'ts. They start from the moment you're born with "Don't he look cute" to the minute you die -- "Don't he look nice." Like I said, they got you coming and going. And in between, as well, especially when you're a kid.

See, kids are positive creatures. They're always doing something. It's the parents' job to keep them from doing it with a vast repertoire of admonitions: Don't point, don't slouch, don't fight, don't talk back, don't bother me, don't hunch your shoulders, don't play in the street, don't pick at your food, don't pick on your sister, don't pick your nose -- God, don't EAT it! Other admonitions are just as negative: Don't eat peas with a knife, don't talk with food in your mouth, don't talk to strangers and don't talk to strangers with food in THEIR mouths.

There's also, Don't you have homework to do? and the classic Don't do what I do, do what I say. And when teenage boys are alone in the bathroom for a long time they hear, Don't do that or you'll go blind.

The accumulation of all these childhood don'ts contribute to making us negative citizens. And you don't escape them once into adulthood. There's Don't burn the candle at both ends, don't mix business with pleasure, don't tell me how to run my business, don't put off 'til tomorrow what you can do today, don't cut off your nose to spite your face, don't use near an open flame and Congress' favorite, Don't get caught ... (name the transgression.) Congress also likes "Don't give it a second thought."

Some don'ts have fallen out of favor. Remember when television hosts used to say "Don't touch that dial?" The remote control killed that one.

Romance is governed by don'ts, from your first pick-up line, "Don't I know you from somewhere?" to her disgusted reply, "Don't make me laugh." But being a guy who doesn't believe in "Don't take no for an answer" you persist and she accepts your dinner invitation. You walk her home and you hear, "I don't kiss on the first date." You ask why and she says it's because you slouch, hunch your shoulders, eat your peas with a knife and talk with food in your mouth. And in the back of your mind you hear your mother's voice saying "Don't say I didn't warn you."

If you persist she'll say "Don't you dare" or "Don't ever try that again." However, you might hit paydirt and hear "Don't stop." From then on it's clear sailing unless she's married and then "Don't get caught with your pants down," but if you are caught, the first thing you should say to her husband is "Don't jump to conclusions." But don't expect miracles.

If you start dating you'll hear "Don't they make a lovely couple!" Should you get married there'll be lots of "Don't forget to put out the garbage, "Don't go bowling again" and "Don't you love me anymore?" Be careful of the disguised negative in the apparent positive, "Do I look fat in this dress?" If you answer incorrectly you'll wind up in a bar spilling your guts to the bartender. That's when some gay guy might hit on you with a "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

There's more. Don't worry about it, don't count on it, don't talk to the driver, don't take your eye off the ball, don't that beat all?, don't let it get you down, don't mention it, don't squeeze the Charman, don't feed the animals, don't be half safe, don't just stand there, don't bother to knock and the most contradictory negative of all, "Don't underestimate the power of positive thinking."

Happy Labor Day. Don't work too hard.

Turn Off the Radio, You Fucking Spic Bastard

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 12:07:37 -0400

Racist

That’s what I yelled, all you Mel Gibson haters. Twice.

Not as bad as what was recorded coming out of Mel’s mouth, but I guess it’s enough to call me a racist.

Turn off that radio, you fucking spic bastard.

This was Manhattan in the early sixties. I had a cheap, rent-controlled apartment on 60th & Amsterdam. The bedroom window overlooked the courtyard of the buildings on 59th and 60th off of Amsterdam.

Every morning at 5 AM, someone in a 59th street building across the courtyard woke up and played his radio … loudly. Loud Hispanic music.

The radio rested on the sill of his open window that faced the canyon created by the backs of these Manhattan tenements. It was summer, all windows were open, hoping for the slightest breeze to relieve the awful humidity.

As miraculous as it was to manage to fall asleep in the drench of August, it took only the slightest slightest distraction to jump you into wakefulness. That would be the radio. The loud music interspersed by a Spanish disc jockey speaking at a fever pitch, as if he were announcing a soccer match.

I hated the music. It was boring, repetitive and, of course, loud.

At the time I was playing El Gallo in The Fantastics off Broadway on Sullivan Street. I got home late, wired from the performance and usually managed to fall asleep at, say, 2AM, knowing that I would awaken at nine or ten.

But the radio starts at 5 AM. Impossible to shut my windows. No air conditioning and the room is already drenched with humidity. After two mornings of this aural intrusion, I determine radio man’s apartment number from his back window and go to his building.

I tacked a note to his door in Spanish asking him to not put the radio in his open window. Not only is it loud and wakes us up, it echos in the canyon formed by the buildings there.

Two notes and five days later, the radio remained on the sill. The music seemed to be louder. That might have been my stressed imagination, but loud is loud, especially in the early morning quiet.

See where I’m going with this, Melophobes?

Finally, after two weeks, two cop noise calls and three notes later, I was awakened again at 5 AM and I yelled out the window:

“Turn off the radio, you fucking spic bastard.”

You fucking spic bastard.

Did calling him a spic reflect badly on me? Hell, yeah.

Did it make me a racist?

Before the Melexperts answer, let me drop some mitigating factors on you.

This was the 60’s. Political correctness hadn’t yet made its self-righteous entrance in our consciousness. And I had been raised in the 50’s, when we grew up on the streets freely calling one another, “Skinny,” “Dago,” “Porky,” “Gimpy,” “Kike,” “Queer,” “Whitey,” “Mick” and, yes, “Nigger,” with impunity. It was our language. We all sensed somewhere deep in our developing subconscious that these epithets carried a degree of hurt. But we were all doing it and, so, we took the bad with the good and the names passed muster.

So, turn off the radio, you fucking spic bastard.

However, in the sixties, an awareness grew that these names were being freighted with a new power, a negative designation that represented “fighting words.” Not yet as utterly taboo as the good and decent, righteous citizens among us would like, but not as forgivable as during my childhood.

Why did I call him a spic bastard instead of, oh, mother fucking bastard, or sonuva bitch bastard?

My guess is that in that moment of anger and frustration I wanted to fight back in a way that I thought would anger him the most. Something that would hit him as hard as the loud music hit me. Something I thought would hurt him where he lived.

If he had been very fat, I would have said, you fat bastard. If he were ugly, I would have called him an ugly bastard. If he were a “little person,” I’d have called him a midget bastard.

What this says about me is that, like everyone, I see what I see. A fat person is fat, an ugly person (subjective, I know) is ugly and a Puerto Rican is a Puerto Rican, or spic. It says that at that angry moment I was weak, uncharitable and certainly unchristian.

I was fighting back with whatever weapon I had at the time. Not a gun, not a rock, not a radio … but words.

Or, if I really wanted to vent, I could’ve said “I hope you get beat up by a bunch of fucking n***ers," but that would've been too Shakespearian for my semi-conscious state.

But Melhaters would call me a racist or fatist or uglist.

In fact, had I gone over there with a gun and capped him, I’d have been convicted of murder. If someone heard me say “Turn off the radio you fucking spic bastard” as I pulled the trigger, I’d have been convicted of a hate crime, which as we all know, makes a person worse than a murderer.

Such is the crazy world the irrational emotionality of political correctness has created for us.

Now, I wasn’t drunk like Mel, nor did I have what seems to be his drinking problem. Nor did I have the anger issues everyone attributes to him — although I was gut splitting, cartoid artery-pulsing, sleep deprived pissed off at the time.

There doesn’t seem to be any question that Mel succumbs to alcohol, that he has anger problems and that he has negative attitudes towards Jews, the true nature and extent of which none of us really knows.

In fact, none of us really knows anything about what Gibson really feels or believes about anything except what we read in everyone’s self-righteous, indignant posts and television talk fests.

Our opinions are cobbled together from those hidden recordings, from media sound bytes, gossip reports, hearsay and our own feelings, which we smugly reinforce. In evaluating the entire ongoing (just saw two cartoons today) Melathon, it seems that the venom, the bile and epithets directed at Mel far outstrip his own vile comments.

What does that say about THAT?

Many of the same people who bleed for criminals because of their emotional disablities or other mitigating life factors are unwilling to grant Mel the same kind of understanding for his own psychological torments.

The target is just too easy, isn’t it!

As if none of us EVER wrote, thought, said or did anything in private that is comparable to “Turn off the radio, you fucking spic bastard.”