President Trump looked strong and sounded resolute in his recent 46-minute “most important speech ever.” In fact, the POTUS was downright presidential in this masterful delivery of his address to the American People—a far cry from the Biden-Harris clown show that has been garnering yelps of support from the weak-willed appeasers among us. You know, those namby-pamby fools recommending that we accept this massive election fraud as legitimate by accepting as our new leaders its cheater-in-chief, that dementia-ridden mannequin figurehead clone-puppy corruptocrat and his cackling vulgar underling.
No, Biden’s boot says-it-all. If still living (and not just some cloned-Joe bio-android with a bad ear job) Biden’s living on borrowed time. His traitorous crimes overseas have made him a national disgrace and a definite security nightmare who could never step into the Oval Office, let alone be given access to the nuclear codes and other serious presidential prerogatives. No, under that boot the dude’s wearing an ankle bracelet as a prelude to his long-awaited and overdue perdition. Case closed…almost. Don’t get me started on his illustrious cast of evil cabinet clowns.
Rendition of the guilty, lower-hanging fruit has been in full swing over these past weeks. That’s the sense I have from watching the clips of those observing the flight paths of military planes coming and going overhead. These sky-rangers are “rotten fruit pressers” who used to work by the Cider House Rules but now relish being on “a mission from God.” I’ll make an educated guess: like Rowdy Yates and Co. from a Rawhide episode, there’s a round-up going on by a kick-ass round-‘em-up bunch who love the smell of napalm in the morning—special ops who are scooping up coup operatives, squeezing them for intel, putting the fear of God into them, and then putting them back out on long leashes. I hope so, anyway.
In the meantime, I keep thinking about those senate run-off races yet-to-come but so-close-at-hand in Georgia. When I look at Stacy Abrams, that horror show, guerilla blimp agent from the Deep State (who lots of idiots seem to actually take seriously)—I can’t help but wonder, in a temporary wonder-of-wonders state, how and why anyone would listen to her lippy drip. Is she the one organizing a million absentee ballots for the run-off? Who cares? I don’t. But then, how is it she is being taken seriously at all? I conclude that the bozo driving this bus is yet another bit-player-nightmare Democrats have served up, all hot and steaming, for the delight of radicals and the utter disgust of common folk out there with any sense left in us. (Didn’t I run across her bio somewhere in Frederick Seidel’s book of poems entitled Ooga-Booga? Maybe not.) But if Dominion voting machines will be used yet again, and we add a dash—if possible—of Abrams, then this does not bode well for anything vaguely approaching an honest run-off election. Stay tuned for that one.
Ol’ lard ass Bill Barr takes the cake as SES protector. It seems his latest gig is a reprise to his old job: running cover for the Clinton crime family and legal fixer for George H.W. But then, maybe my cynicism is getting the better of me. After all, he plays a mean bagpipe and throws a helluva party each year, one that includes on its guest list a host of heirloom players of this arcane instrument that’s meant to call up dead-Brit-like-ancestor-warriors. Maybe it was an affection for the Scot in him that convinced Pres. Trump to give Bill one last chance to redeem himself as a real AG this time. But Mr. BB has a way of getting lodged in the backsides of patriots all across the old 13 colonies and beyond because he can’t seem to “catch the coon at last” with his fidgety, floppity, hop-like-a-bunny inability to throw down the gauntlet once and for all so as to bring down the big hammer of justice on the celebrity-traitors-with-book-deals, et al. Or is our AG bloviator only lulling the guilty into a hypnotic-induced sense of refuge-from-the-Storm before slamming-those-slime? You be the judge, er, jury, but give Bagpipe Billy a reprieve for a number of weeks more before passing judgment.
Is anyone else out there wanting to upchuck on the TV when watching state bureaucrats getting all squishy-as-they-squirm during Guiliani’s traveling dog and pony show? The hearings are necessary. But they're a little weird and wacky at times. Enough said on that, for now. But before we go, there’s also another side-show going on: the wordy L. Lin Wood gospel-tent-revival-for-justice. Though I like his take-no-prisoners stance and scathing denunciations of public servant slime, there’s something just a bit unsavory there that I can’t quite put my fickle-finger-of-fate on. He’s doing God’s work, all right, but will the heathen judges take up this preacher-lawyer’s injunctions and issue proper and lawful decrees? Again, stay tuned.
One last thing needs lampooning before I ride off into the sunset like that masked man of yore, The Lone Ranger. If I hear any more about “COVID” from the radio, TV (including news shows, commercials, etc.), from online articles and videos—or from any source, anywhere on planet Earth—I think I’m going to just shrivel-up-und-die. I mean it: STOP INCESSANTLY TALKING ABOUT IT, all you corporate cronies and other talking heads out there. I’m convinced if we just stop talking about it, it will go away—like The Lone Ranger at the end of each episode disappearing over the hill (or as in being chased off by Lenny Bruce, in his 1971 comedy skit, Thank You, Masked Man). I’m sure of it, just as I am 100% sure that we’ll have four more great years of PDJT!
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* STUBBY KNUCKLES BACK IN THE D.C. AREA
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| Stubby in 1996 |
Itinerant bluesman piano player and singer, Stubby Knuckles, is around town again tickling the ivories. His style is reminiscent of the traditional Chicago blues piano sound of Otis Spann or of Memphis Slim with a New Orleans twist.
Stubby played in New Orleans’ French Quarter and at the Tipitina’s piano bar in the twilight years of Professor Longhair. There, in 1980, he opened up for John Lee Hooker and rubbed shoulders with other blues luminaries. After New Orleans, the Knuckleman spent time in Chicago, making the acquaintance of Sunnyland Slim and Jimmy Dawkins, among others. The Alabama bluesman and gambler, Big Chief Ellis (Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee’s old piano player) was also a big influence. He’s played with Black Top recording artist Bobby Radcliff and has shared the stage with Jerry Portnoy, member of the late Muddy Waters’ Legendary Blues Band and the harp player on Eric Clapton’s From The Cradle blues CD.
Almost (but not quite) famous by association, Mr. Knuckles continues to be one of the biggest unknowns in the world’s underground blues circuit. “I never practice,” says Stubby, “doing that would take off that raggedy edge, that falling apart sound. I’m a time-breaker—that’s the blues.”
Often feeling like he is doomed to live the scruffy life of a bluesman, Stubby laments, “Most people think blues is all about ‘getting drunk and losing your baby.’ It is. But it’s much more than that too. It’s all about reaching way down deep into a wellspring of optimism to find some peace in this crazy world. By and large, life is suffering. And blues music represents a way of life that urges us to be and become something simpler, better and stronger – in spite of ourselves. How’s that for stating a case for the blues?” Stubby hastens to add, “For me, blues is not just the backbone of jazz or the granddaddy of rock‘n’roll but slithers around through everything, from old country tunes to lounge lizard classics and even into the dementia of Tom Lehrer. Blues is the soulful, animating essence of sound, heartfelt meaning adorning the beauty of silence.”
“I grew up here in the DC area,” says Stubby, “in Friendship Heights, before it became Rodeo Drive East. I have a love/hate relationship with this cesspool of soulless prattle. If you leave here for any length of time and get a feel for what life is like ‘outside the Beltway,’ you’ll find out there’s hope for humanity. Still, the microcosmic cultural ecology of family and friends can always brighten the dullest of spots. So here I am again”
When Stubby's in town and on the 88s, you'll always be in good hands. He always guarantees two fistfuls of the blues. Look out: Stubby’s back (and he writes a mean op-ed too)!
Copyright © 2005 by Almost Slim, Jr.
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