Published by

Ron Schalow

Ron Schalow is the owner of Iceberg Publishing, president of The Coalition for Bakken Crude Oil Stabilization and an amatuer agitator. Among Schalow's writings are two books: a nonfiction book about 9/11 and the movements of George W. Bush on that tragic day called "Bull$#!* Artist”; and a novel about an unlikely group of American suicide bombers who have been dropped into the tribal regions of Pakistan. It is named "Perfect Whackjobs." Schalow lives in Fargo.

RON SCHALOW: The Usual Suspects

“How did you find me?” hollers Orville, and grumbles, “You skinny, long-haired, libturd. You just can’t leave me in peace, can you?”

Stanley looks around. “This was the only bar in town with a yacht in the parking lot, with plates that said BIG ORV on them. Stealthy. This joint is much nicer than your last haunt. I see they’ve arranged the drunks by height. Classy. I’ll have a Coke, bartender, and give the grouchy lad another shot of personality.”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Did you happen to see the paper, the other day, Orv?”

“I’ve seen lots of papers. What day was it for, you loon?”

“Not sure. Anyway, I lean down, look at the front page, and I think, how cute, a panda wearing a checkered shirt. Then I put my glasses on, the ones I use for looking at things, and I wonder why the panda is wearing spectacles. Anyway, the panda turned out to be Rob Port, which was odd because a panda would be mildly interesting — and cute. I didn’t dare look at the centerfold.

Evidently, Port has influence. When he lies, several people are influenced, by gawd. He worked at Home of Economy in Minot and then became a blogger. I’ve had more jobs in an afternoon than that amateur phony.”

Orv turns his head and looks at Stan quizzically. “You’ve had lot’s of jobs, because you have the attention span of a Labrador puppy.”

“If that,” agrees Stan.

“What do you care if Port, who actually writes the truth, unlike the fake news, is on the cover of the Fargo Forum, anyway?”

“Because it’s so much bull$#!*. Port isn’t interesting. I’d be interested in rolling him down the Sixth Dtreet hill, or Hiawatha in Minot, but how long would that thrill last? Robbie will eventually hit something solid. He’s a lying hack. He lies about a guy, and they’re the hater, if they don’t like it. He’s just misunderstood, claims the Forum boss. Oh, I understand the young twerp. If his BS blog is circling the drain, run an ad — not pretend that this mook is news, or fascinating in any way. He’s a shill.”

“So you’re still miffed that he lied about you,” sniffs Orv. “How long are you going to carry on that feud?”

“Hey, I didn’t put his mug on the front page of the paper, which almost gave me a heart attack. And until the day I die, to answer your question. Longer, depending on the situation after my demise. I’ll need to find out the rules regarding haunting.”

Orv grunts.

“How about this, Orv. Have you seen this video going around of some fat guy in a suit, with asbestos on his head, beating the hell out of a CNN logo? It’s a big deal for some reason. What’s your take?”

“It’s the president.”

“The president of what?”

“The president of the country,” grouses Orv.

“This country?”

“Yes, and the logo had it coming,” snarls Orville.

Stan appears to be pondering. “I’ll be darned. I guess that’s normal these days. Making money while jerking everyone around. The WWE McNuggets have gifted Trump with millions of bucks. The missus got some fancy government job, and lint for brains has been in cahoots with those rasslin’ body slammers for years.”

“Then, some bigot racist used his green olive — with pimento — sized-brain to concoct the masterpiece. Trumpette conveniently retweeted the tweet of the huckster playing fake tough in his natural mythological habitat. Now, with a zillion views, the tills are vibrating anew for the McMahon’s and the usual suspects, that use the expensive golf balls, when driving over water.”

“None of that is true,” barks Orville. “Besides, it’s old news.”

“If people would quit writing down what lard butt says, or record it, he could run out the clock on the back nine at Mara-a-Lago lying to the reptiles and giant insects. The crocs wouldn’t care. I think they expect it, considering their past relationships with golfers. I heard that five of his caddies went missing looking for balls. Trump hits green balls, to keep the searchers on their toes, while wading through the tall grass.”


“I saw Chris Christie sunning himself on the beach the other day. At first, I thought it was a beached manatee. I didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. Holy cow. Where do you suppose he gets his lawn chairs? Bobcat? International Harvester? It would take some top-notch engineers and specialized steel to keep his ass off the ground. And the width. Good lord. It’s like the backseat of a Ford Fairlane 500. That chair could easily seat an entire kids soccer team. You might have to bungee them in, but the little buggers shouldn’t be wandering around when the game is going anyway.”

“I’m not listening,” yells Orville.

“And I guess Chris closed down the public beaches in New Jersey for everyone else. Personally, I don’t get the pleasure of sitting in the sand, but I guess it’s a big deal to some people, especially if the sand abuts a body of water. Generally, if you see a patch of sand, somebody is sitting on it. Anyhow, Jersian’s are ticked.

Have you ever shared a side of beef with Chris, at one of your secret meetings, or the convention, Orv? How many gallons of ketchup are involved?”


“Sidebar, your honor. Remember when George W. said that he thought we were protected from terrorists by the “vast” oceans. Like they had to swim here or something. It’s not any less stupid than thinking that a wall will keep out the dark people south of the Rio. Of course, the pervert wasn’t going after the vote of any deep thinkers.”


“And Kevin Cramer would whip out a rationalization for Trump, if the joker strangled a young otter on stage. That’s how deeply he’s up the bum. Kevin called Mika one of those elitists, after the fuss caused by Trump’s crudest, most misogynist tweet. And a snob. Ouch. What does Kev think Donnie and his cronies are, if not elitist blue blood snobs? If Cramer had been richer, he might have beat out the Texas moron for Energy secretary, but Trump doesn’t trust any nonelitists.”

“The president is going fight back against critics,” shouts Orv.

“So, Mika was bleeding from the face?”

“I don’t know, you loonie yutz.”

“You don’t care, do you, Orville?”


“Or want to know anything that isn’t twit tweeted, in Breitbart, or slobbered by Alex Jones?”

“No. The lamestream media is in the anti-Trump tank.”

“Well, that explains the 37 percent who still approve of orange Julius Caesar. They just stick Armour hot dogs in their ears and chant gibberish like their child king. You’ve got a little mustard on your right earlobe, Orv. Be sure not use recently cooked ones. And if you can still hear bits of truth, use a croquet mallet to pound the wiener further into the auditory canal. It’s a culinary art, to get it just right.”

“Shut up, or go away, you socialist cuck. I can still hear you!”

“Jones is getting to the bottom of the child slave situation on Mars. I sleep better knowing one of Donnie’s pals is on that disturbing case. But the alt-right guys, like Jones, have a seat at the table now, so white men will finally have a chance in America. The big wall will keep some of the brownies out, and the travel bans will help, but it’ll never be white enough for some people. And most of the all white safe places are too cold for these white nationalist sissies.”

“Are you calling me a racist, Stan!” screams Orv.

“You, Orv? Never. Who wants to get buried in a — what do you grow again, Orv?”

“Shut up!”

“Well, any field. No point in being particular about the crop.”

“Well, I’ll agree with you there. Dirt is dirt.”

“That’s true isn’t it, Orv? There’s been a lot of dirt blowing around in your world.”

“Is that so?”

Stan stares at a guy, sitting at the table behind them, who looks like he died, then says, “Kevin is getting pushed out of the 2018 Senate race. The sane guy in the party wants go with someone less kooky, who doesn’t get spooked by pantsuits, and can shut up. His vote for a law that will actually kill people wouldn’t help either. You know. The small things. Of course, Cramer will do what he pleases, even if it means another primary. I hope this guy behind us isn’t an organ donor.”

Orv grunts.

“Roscoe has been barking at Cramer and farmer Tom Campbell like a baby pit bull. On the twitter. It’s a adorable, when puppies think they’re big. He’s from Minot and hangs around with Port, his personal mouthpiece and food taster. He wants Kathy Neset to run for the Senate for some reason. What’s his last name, Orv.”

“Streyle,”coughs Orv.

“Right. Streyle. He twitters and writes at the same fourth-grade level as the Trumpster fire.”

“Shut up!”

“And Rick Becker is making his move. He’s been shouting freedom this, freedom that, all over the state. Hell, his little caucus couldn’t get raw milk legalized. I think bake sales are OK now, though.”

“Of course, he’ll run as a Republican, even though he’s a Libertarian ideologue. Why that is acceptable, I don’t know. The other Libertarians are getting their butts kicked at the polls because they truthfully put an L by their name. Poor Jack Seaman, writes the L down on the parchment every two years and knowingly goes down in flames.”

“Everyone, Democrats included, should run as Republicans and make the voters do their due diligence.”

“That’s stupid,” snarls Orville.

“Stupid like a fox,” says Stanley. “And speaking of stupid like a rock. Trump Jr. met with a Russian somebody looking for dirt on Hillary. It looks like the idiots were willing to collude with the Russians but couldn’t find the kind of information they were looking for. Junior looks less like a ferret than his brother Eric, so he’s got that going for him when he ends up in jail. He should change his name to Mookie Muhammad Carmelo Gomez, while there’s still time.”

“Somebody please shoot me,” screams Orv.

“Hand me your pistol. Where do you want it? In the leg, or that one area in the shoulder that everyone survives on TV. Matt Dillon took 47 bullets in that spot. I’m not sure about Festus.”

“Please go away,” pleads Orville. “Please, Stan, or I’ll have to hit you with a pool cue. Hard and repeatedly.”

Stan looks around. “There isn’t even a pool table in this joint,” he scoffs.

“They still have the sticks,” says Orv, as the bartender hands him a sturdy length of shiny cylindrical wood.

Stan pounds his Coke, grabs his cane and shuffles toward the exit. “OK, Orv, you win. Be sure to put in fresh hot dogs every few days, or they’ll turn on you. I’ll tell you about the G20 next time. I’m pretty sure the dimwit outsmarted the bald KGB guy, and it was bring your daughter to work day, for one flabby hombre.

Toodle-oo caribou,” he laughs. Out he goes.

RON SCHALOW: Enjoy This Excerpt From Ron’s Book: ‘Perfect Whack Jobs’

Forward: Over 8 million people in the United States have suicidal thoughts —  also known as suicidal ideation — at least once in any given year. For a large subsection of this group, the thoughts never go away, mainly due to chronic depression or bipolar disease. This describes most of the characters in “Perfect Whack Jobs,” a dark comic novel.

Assessing these broken people an unused commodity, a powerful gaggle of simple minded @$$holes concluded this: Since these people think about taking their own lives anyway, they shouldn’t mind doing a little suicide bombing for our country.

Why? Because in 2006, George W. Bush was unwilling to send troops in Afghanistan across the border into Pakistan, where Osama bin Laden and most of the al-Qaida terrorists had fled.

So, a mercenary-type organization was enlisted to breach medical files and scoop up 11 of the supposed suicidal types against their will and hold them in a secret location, until the green light is given.

The Blackwater-type firm soon learns that it is dealing not only with depression and manic depressive disorder, but also psychosis, psychopathy, sociopathy, hallucinations, short attention spans, anxiety, phobias, fear, poor memories, denial, brain cell loss and chronic pain.

Also, dependence on legal drugs, illegal drugs and alcohol. And 11 different personalities with different ideas about how and when they might like to die.

The first arrival is Charles “Sig” Sigismund. In Chapter 2, “Big Pink Pill,” shortly after Sig regains consciousness and experiences a seizure, his handlers try to do an entrance interview with Sig, who has indifferent feelings about life, and death.

“Perfect Whack Jobs” is based on 40 years of dealing with the fractured brain I was issued 60 years ago, and mountains of research, with the hope of giving voice to the many angles of a complicated issue.

Big Pink Pill

Still on the Darkroom floor since the seizure released him, Sigismund has rolled over onto his back, is gazing at the black ceiling, and babbling again—as Agent Johnson sits on a chair a few feet away just staring at the new recruit with a look of bewilderment.

“Whoosh, right by us, then splat! The lawn is way too wet, so this won’t work. But he could have died from something else, right? He doesn’t like it when you tease him. This isn’t tuna! If he bites your hand off, then what? How grotesque. That’s just gross. How can you eat that? Well, dial 911 again and—”

Agent Nitti walks in and leans over Sigismund. “How are you, Charles? Can you stand up, yet? Give him a hand, will you Johnson?”

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned, and you’re not going to believe—”

Nitti snaps his fingers in Sigismund’s face. “How are you, Charles? Hellooo!”

“Hello—what? How are I, Charles? I, Charles, are down, man. It’s terminal. I’m alive, but I’m not bragging about it, and no one should mention it outside these walls.”

“Charles, are—”

“You guys go on ahead without me. Escape this cursed land. Find controversial work in the big baggy metro cluster of slim purse laden debutantes.”

“You’re not dying, Charles,” assures Nitti. “Try to get up, please.”

“OK, man. Don’t warble while I’m in decay, though. It fogs my new cataracts.”

“You’re doing fine, Mr. Sigismund,” reassures Johnson.

Sigismund struggles to his knobby knees and strains to get on his feet, while Johnson crouches behind him, ready to catch him if Sigismund loses the battle and starts to fall back to the carpet. He stops for a moment to squeeze his head at the temples with the palms of his hands. “I can do it. I can do it.”

“You can do it.”

Sigismund’s knees start to give way. “Oops, I can’t do it.” Johnson grabs Sigismund under the armpits and sets him on his feet like he is hollow. “Thanks, man. I don’t have any singles on me, I’ll find you later.”

“You don’t need—”

“Hand me the seven iron, please.”

“It’s not far, Mr. Sigismund.”

“A nine?”

“Just walk towards Agent Nitti. Do you see him?”

“That big son-of-a-bitch by the enormous rusty juke box? That’s a Nitti, huh?”

“The big son-of-a-bitch is Agent Addison. The big jukebox is Nitti.”

“Oh, a musical son-of-a-bitch, eh.”

Sigismund manages his way through the doorway unassisted; but he ducks and covers his head as he passes through the eight foot high opening. “Whew, that was close,” he mumbles, as he tries to straighten back up without putting a hand on the wall or falling. “Have I been drinking mouthwash?” Glancing up, as he shifts and twists for balance, Sigismund sees the silhouette of a tall thick man standing in the middle of a short hallway. There is a white wall and a well lit intersecting hallway about six feet behind the shadowy man. Opened handed, the man’s left arm is cocked away from his side to direct Sigismund like an usher through another doorway. The outline reminds Sigismund of the night he was held up by a big man with a big pistol, which prompts him to reflexively hold up his hands as he marches towards the office door at the invitation of the one dimensional man, who he knew was Nitti, forgot was Nitti, and now realizes it was Nitti all along. “How do I get the taste of minty freshness out of my mouth?”

“Sit down and have cigarette,” suggests Johnson.

Sigismund rounds a corner that isn’t there in the middle of the hallway, and stands frozen in the doorway of a small bright room. His eyes resent the artificial light and his feet sense a long drop with one more step. He waits for a moment until his vision clears up, holding on to the door frame for moral and physical support. “Go on in, Mr. Sigismund, I’m right behind you,” comforts Agent Nitti.

“I need a cigarette for my breath, man.”

Agent Addison shows up in the hall behind Sigismund and Nitti, and tells Johnson, “I’m going in with Nitti on this first one. I’m curious about this flake.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go check on Carlsrud; see what he’s up to, get him to the security room on time for his shift, and plan on meeting with me and Nitti in a little while. I’ll find you.”

Nitti takes a seat at his chair in front of the desk and says, “Charles, I’m Agent Roland Nitti. Have a seat. Yes, right by the desk, there. The man in front of the door is Agent Leonard Addison.”

“Hi Len. Stay off the new couch.”

“How often do you have seizures, Mr. Sigismund?” asks Nitti.

“Sometimes—I don’t know,” sputters Sigismund, as he slowly lowers his rear end into the chair.

“Not every day, I hope.”

“I dabble, but I’m not pernicious.”

“What does—”

“Big black room. Small white room. Who brushed my teeth?” Nitti slides a fresh open pack of Sigismund’s brand of cigarettes across the desk. Sigismund grabs it before it stops and immediately pushes out a single.

“I know your name. You didn’t have to tell me your name, you gratuitous name teller.”

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Sometimes, I see a teeny motion picture in my head of me flopping around like an electric trout on the dock, but the frames are out of whack; I think because the projector is dusty and old. It’s noisy. Trapped tight in this secondhand ramshackle body. A big ropey dopey storm. Snap, fizz, crackle.”

“Are you—”

“What is this; like a preemptive inquest court, or a short-handed tribunal?”

“Neither of those.”

“I won’t be a witness against the unruly mob. My name is Sigismund O’Rourke. A senile pharmacist killed my Great Uncle with cruel innuendo and there were no immaculate magisterial proceedings like these.”

“Do you want a sedative to help calm your body, Charles?” offers Nitti, as he settles deeper into his executive high-back swivel chair, and spins it a notch to the left, so he is directly in line with Sigismund. “You’re shaking.”

Sigismund takes a long drag off his cigarette. “No thanks, man. I need to get home before they eat all of the tamales.”


“Is this one of those stupid team building exercises? I don’t do those anymore. Go on the roof, fall backwards, and we’ll catch you, my ass!”

“Just a talk. Did your friends really put you in a coffin once?”

Sigismund’s attention and eyes lift. “Who told you that?” He studies Nitti’s face and shoulders looking for familiarity, but the squared jawed man with short cropped brown hair sitting across from him doesn’t register.

“You did; kind of.”

“Never did, Quidley; you’re hallucinating. No way will I make the green with a nine in this wind. Copy that. I didn’t green light the ransacking! I never squeal, man.”

“Mr. Sigis—”

“I’m a goddamn cement vault, so you’re in huge trouble with the FISA boys now, mister, you paltry wiretapper! What the hell do you think you’re doing?—I’M playing the Titleist—don’t touch my ball! Jesus!”

“You mentioned the coffin out loud. Did somebody do that to you once?”

“Oh, I get it—you’re legislating from the bench, aren’t you? I knew this wasn’t a normal referendum. And no wonder we ran out of the good cheese, considering the size of these rats. What are we supposed to do with all these stupid saltines, now?”

“Mr. Sigis—”

“Great Scott! Look at the superdome on this guy’s shoulders,” rails Sigismund, while gesturing with his thumb towards Addison.

“I’m standing right here,” objects Addison. “You’re talking out loud.”

“He must have a hard time shopping for dusty fedoras. Have you ever weighed it? Roy has a huge head, but nothing like that gourd.”

“Shut up, Sigismund! You know I can hear you.”

“You’re a big man, too, Mr. Niblets. I’ll bet you can crack walnuts with your earlobes.”

“I can’t, but Agent Addison can.”

“Fuck you, Nitti.”

Sigismund continues. “I used to be pretty big once, too, but heavy smoking, devoted drinking and nominal eating really slimmed me down. I might have been over 200 pounds, once, but that was awhile back.”

“Those things—”

“I’m fairly strong for a fanatical alcohol enthusiast, but not so hefty or bulky. I’m a low functioning drunk, otherwise.”

“Tobacco and liquor definitely take a toll,” agrees Nitti. “Do you know where you are, Charles?”

“It looks like an office, but I don’t want to jump on any rigid conclusions. It’s not an Arby’s. You already said it was an office. How would I know? But it’s nice, though. No question about that.”

“Yes, it’s an office, but—”

“This is a snappy outfit, too. I don’t have many clothes in my closet with seven foot zippers.”

Nitti sighs and shakes his head.

“Please; call me Armando,” continues Sigismund, while looking quizzically at his shoes. “Or call me Sig. Yeah, Sig. I respond to Sig. I used to be a high functioning drunk; last Wednesday for an hour in the morning, I think.”

“Last Wed—”

“You know, your shadow out there in the alley looked just like a shadow that robbed me about eight, nine years ago in Columbus. Or, Akron—it was definitely in Ohio; stupid swing state. Anyway, a shadowy human form, just like your shadowy figure, exactly the same, stepped out from a doorway as I walked on a downtown sidewalk at night, and the man held a gun out to his side at the exact same angle you held your hand—”

Nitti tries to interrupt the filibuster. “Mr. Si—” But Sig isn’t having it.

“Ah, ah, ah—I think he wanted to establish the dynamics of the criminal victim relationship between me and him, and firearms always trump two handed fist hockey in a sidewalk drama. The gunman pushed me into this really crappy abandoned building. Hobo raccoons, wearing sunglasses, at night for some reason, openly scoffed at the cruddy premises in a derisive manner. They seriously dissed the prem. Then, I said, ‘you must be kidding me, man,’ and you know what he said?”

“Sig, I—”

“He said, ‘nope.’ Pithy, huh?”

“That was a long story with no clear point, Sig. Do you want to know where you are, now?”

“It was an anomaly. I had it partially memorized. There’s more to it, but I lost interest.”

“Can we—”

“Did you notice what I did there?”

“Not real—”

“I hijacked the conversation without any concern for your feelings or schedule, and I’ll do it again. That’s the kind of egotistical jerk I am. You’re in my steely sweaty grip, Nibby. I’m going to force you to listen to random tedious stories until you surrender the valuable jewels. They aren’t priceless.”

“Your cogent recitation of that story makes me wonder if your head isn’t screwed on tighter than it appears at times. Seriously, do you want to know where you are?”

Looking down again, his eyes flitting every which way, a once again preoccupied Sig says, “A little. Say, have you seen a bottle of Windsor around here? It was squeezy plastic. Not brittle at all. Much safer. Very cogent. Actually, any bottles of liquor that turn up are probably mine. Do you have a cigarette?”

“You’re smoking a cigarette.”

“Please, call me Sig or Sig. I prefer menthol, but right now I would smoke the ass end of a Moldavian parakeet with Legionnaires disease.”

“You’re smoking a cigarette, Sig!”

“Hey, I’m smoking a cigarette. What are you trying to pull, Joe?”

“I’m not trying to pull anything, and my name is—”

“Is this the China year of the rascally ring tailed lemur, or the amoral mongoose? Riki Tiki Tavi; that agile little reptile murderer.”

“This is the United States year of 2006, Sig. What’s the last thing you remember before waking up in the room with the bed?”

“Remember before 2006, huh? O’boy, that’s an iffy.”

“No, no; what do you remember doing right before you woke up here, Sig?”

“Woke up? Recent happenings, eh? Did you hear about Malloy? The warehouse guys shipped him to Saipan.”

“Does cold mud ring a bell?”

“Is THAT why my scrotal region has an inch of frost on it?”

“Most likely.”

“Yeah, that’s it; frigid French silk mud. I couldn’t get any traction, and my left foot just spun and spun, so I remained stuck. No limited slip differential, you know. Do you think I was trying to bury myself?”

“It was two hours in the mud,” informs Nitti. “If you were wearing shoes, they’re still there.”

“Were they brown Bruno Magli’s?”

“They didn’t look. You were wearing Bruno Magli’s?”

“I doubt it. Well, these shoes aren’t too bad. Three hours? I don’t think they would be good for dancing, though. What? No warning shot? That’s not cool, Sister Mary Catherine Muldoon of Assissississi!” Sig gasps for a breath. “Two hours? My muscular ass hurts in the gluteal region. Did Flansboro shoot me with a rusty crossbow?”

“No, just a needle.”

“A knitting needle, oh, woe.”

“And I’m sorry about the delay in getting you out of the mud. I wasn’t there, and I’ve already chewed out the Agents involved, and of course you have my apologies.”

“How you did that? What, now?”

“The Agents were hoping you would wander out of the muddy field by yourself so they wouldn’t have to go in the muck after you. Evidently, you got in there pretty far before getting bogged down, and—”

“My contractions were six minutes apart!”

“AND—when it became evident you weren’t going to budge, they started wagering on how long you would stand there before falling down. If they hadn’t gotten tired of waiting, you would probably still be there. Of course, if the Agents hadn’t been there at all, you would likely still be in the mud at this moment, so, in a way, it was lucky they were there.”

“There, where?”

“Stuck in a potato field just across the highway from the Comet bar.”

“I mean what State or Province? Or both—I fell asleep right on a northern border one time.”

“Oh. Kansas. Horton, Kansas.”

“Kansas, eh. Never been.”

“You’ve been, now.”

“And you guys pulled me to shore? What for? I was perfectly fine, except for the hypothermia, but that’s an old hat.”

“Because we—”

“I think my knee caps were locked, because the mud was past my ass. It was a major issue of human anatomy that made me flop-less, ergo un-collapsible.”

“We wanted to—”

“That would have been hilarious, though—face down in the mud, drowning like a walking catfish. Seriously, though; those dudes were wasting time on the clock. Amateur gamblers should never leave the halfway house. My gazellish thighs are feeling a little tingly. My whiskey, cigarettes—any word there?”

“You HAVE cigarettes. We’ll see about the whiskey later. Right now, I—”

“And what’s the deal with my other valuable stuff?” shouts Sig. “My clothes are gone, my favorite lighter is gone, my head meds are gone, my lip smear is gone, my huge wad of money is gone, my solid gold pocket watch is gone, my keys are gone, my monocle is gone, and I think I was out of cigarettes, but if I wasn’t out, my cigarettes are gone, and I’m wearing this sandpaper scratchy puke green one piece outfit, and my shoes are in the mud, which is my fault, but seriously, what’s the deal, man?”

“Can I talk?” asks Nitti. “For real?”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“OK; the deal is we took all of that stuff and put it in a box. You were stripped naked, sprayed down like a Chevy, and fitted with new underwear, socks, and the jumpsuit while you were out—and shoes.”

“Whose Chevy was it?”

“I have your medication in my desk and you have a CIGARETTE in your hand.”

“Your medication is in MY desk? Where IS my desk, anyway?”

Nitti ignores the questions. “There was also a second small plastic box in your pocket, filled to the top with some pretty potent sleeping pills that I’m curious about.”

“You’re a curious guy, Joe. It’s starting to get on my nerves.”

“There are enough doses in that box to knock out a rogue cape buffalo for a week, and then kill it. Do you have a pet ox at home with insomnia?”

“No, Gerald only has occasional restless nights and no job, so he watches a lot of TV, but he’s really not the issue.” Sig takes a deep breath. “Those are my out pills. If I am ever in a situation that is too much to bear, I plan to take a handful of those little green pills and permanently escape.”


“I don’t know if I can bear this situation, yet. What do you think? Can I?”

“I hope so,” answers Nitti.

Sig pauses and shakes his head vigorously. “You could have at least used some conditioner in my hair—I’m a frizz.”

“You can shower again after—”

“I had a Chevy Malibu when they used to put engines in cars—a 747 double barreled and carbonated.”

“That’s inter—”

“Since you have those green pills instead of me indicates a breakdown in my exit strategy. I’m quite stymied.”

“Let’s talk—”
“What kind of sprayer did you use, anyway? I’m feeling a little bleached, a little sand-blasted, and my oldest coat of outer skin definitely went down the drain—I’m tender to the touch and pinky.”

“Sig, can we—”

“The underwear is wonderfully comfortable, but I resent being anesthetized while strange people monkey around down by my lower regions.”

“I’m sorry about—”

“I like to be conscious when strange people monkey around down by my lower regions.”


“It’s a travesty and sham to suggest that I had anything to do with that fire. I had nothing to gain, so knock off the insinuations, Marko.”


“How do you put clothes on a grown dead man anyway? I have a gymnastically hard time when I’m mostly awake.”

Nitti sighs once again and forges on. “They use a hydraulic lift. A harness is put under your shoulders and the device lifts you upright with your feet off the ground, so the dressers can just slip on underwear, socks, and jumpsuit, and vice versa. It helps if the person is in a coma.”

“Vice versa, eh. Yup, it’s the 8th grade all over again. Remember when I cut off Roy’s thumb in Mr. Ralston’s stupid shop class? Wee doggies. Talk about a rush to judgment on that incident.”

“Are you hav—”

“It was a routine band saw accident, but he never bowled again,” Sig continues, “at least not with any precision.”

“Of course—”

“The blame game really kicked in quick that time.”

“I’ll bet—”

“And, I’m not out of order, this whole parade is out of order, what with grown men driving tiny cars, and immense equine defecating without remorse and little children being lured into traffic with low caliber high fructose sweets.”


“I thought I had gone blind, you know. I thought maybe I was leg bitten by a hairy Chihuahua-sized tarantula, which rendered me into a venom induced immobile and sightless state. It turned out I isn’t paralyzed, but who knows if the culprit is still in the garage.”

“We need to move this conversation along, Sig, please. Can you concentrate?”

“I had friends, you know. I used to make money that you could fold. Before I got stuck in the mud and shot in the ass with foot long tranquilizer darts, I dated women of refinement, women of less refinement, married women, and women about to be married, and they all giggled at my stupid jokes and I thought I was so hilarious.”

Nitti just sits back and shakes his head in defeat.

“And since they were all gorgeous, and kind, and smart and sweet and had long fragrant hair, I fell in love with many of them within hours, proposed within days, freely gifted them with diamond pendants, sent sentiment appropriate colored roses, only by the dozen, vigorously ignored the women who loved me back, and relentlessly stalked the fetching females who wouldn’t have me in a million years. I found the world’s most perfect woman four times; each of them my salvation, and all so far out of my league that people assumed the gods had gone crazy, but I cheated on three of them. I always needed just one more thing, or person, in my life to be truly happy. Surprisingly, I started to spiral downward—”

Oh God; here comes the segue. That’s all very int—”

“Isn’t that gullet gaggingly syrupy? What a dish soapy cliché! I wretchingly recite that painfully rancid and sickening women of days past denial oath garbage, like the Lord’s Prayer, whenever I remember to eulogize my vervy relished life era. Habitual self pity. No moderation for me. The horror, the horror—hah!”

“Oh, geez—”

“I memorized that string of words, too. Is this an asylum? But, what a load of crap. Oh, poor me. I could have had it all, but it slipped through my fingers. Boo hoo hoo. Vomitorium city. My life could have been different, but for the love of a good women, if I wasn’t such a drunken whore pig cutlet.”

“I give up.”

“I used to believe that crap. I didn’t know my brain was diseased, but that’s no excuse for falling apart like a Pinto and getting shot in the ass. Those lemon flavored days are gone and I can’t go back, so waa waaa waa. Cry me a lazy little river band of toxic polluted gloppy wet tears. Could I be more pathetic, or crawling with tickly brown recluse spiders? Doubtful. Do you know a guy named Roy? You look just about like this guy I know. Everybody calls him Roy, but I think his real name is Roy. Roy? You’re not Roy!” Sig goes quiet and squints at Nitti.

“I know I’m not Roy. I told you my name a long time ago. You said you knew it. It’s Agent Roland Nitti.”

“What?” spits Sig. “Are you stop-watching the seconds? Cooking the books? Is this some kind of stupid mud race or laundry commercial? I graduated something cum loud with honors, but I won’t do high definition reality television. It’s demeaning to the viewer, and the occasion I lingered below the waves is a matter of public record, so get the hell off my plot!”

“I’m not timing anything; I was just making a point. What’s with all the yell—”

“OK Roy, look, if you haven’t seen my dog, just admit it. I don’t have time to chat with you right now. Frankly, I’m beside myself with distraught worry.”

“Your dog? No, wait!”

“He’s brown; with bleached blonde hair—talk about an intransigent whore. He was staying with friends in the city, but he bolted. He met them in junior college. They were all urinating on the same tree behind the student union, and after a full round of painful rabies shots, it was all cheesecake and peach cobbler. They must have had a maudlin dispute, and he stormed out in a huffer. He’s inflexible about too many minor things. Everything has to be a big freaking melodrama. And, I’m pretty sure his name is Roy. He’ll answer to Roland, but I wouldn’t call him that, unless he’s wearing his catcher’s mask. It might be better if you don’t try to talk to Rollie at all. He freaks out if you use bad grammar, and your speech patterns are a little rough in the transitions. I would just get my throatal and groinal areas covered and be real still, if I were you, and radio for backup. Frankly.”

“Charles. Hellooo? We’ll look for Rooo, er, the dog later. You haven’t taken your medications for awhile, have you?”

“You’re not supposed to mix them with alcohol. I do, sometimes, quite often, daily, but you’re not supposed to. It makes you strange, they say. Crush them, and cook them in your meatloaf, and serve it with a side of green colored string beans.”

“How long as it been? Sig!”

“And that’s good advice, I’m telling you; especially the big pink ones. Have you ever seen the size of those pills? They look like Mallard eggs. I passed out ice tea cold, almost died rigid, trying to choke one of those orbs down—and that was the best pink egg experience I’ve had by far. The barn swallows have been irritable this year—the bugs forgot to hatch, you understand. It could have been a peanut M&M.”

“It was probably a Depakote. They’re pretty big and pink. I don’t see them on your chart, though?” Nitti is intently thumbing through Sig’s file. “When was the last time you took a big pink pill or any of the smaller pills Dr. Weiss prescribed for you?”

“Dr. Weiss! That generously proportioned mollycoddler! Look, I don’t know what he told you, but that moony faced guy is no certified doctor on this continent. Roy is a better doctor than that quack. And his barn smells better.”

“You’ve been seeing Dr. Weiss for almost nine years! If he’s a quack, why did you keep going to him for all those years?”

“I take 38.2 milligrams of aspirin for my heart every day. I smash it with a heavy oak mallet and snort it right into my membrane. I hasn’t had a heart attack since.”

“You had a heart attack?”
“Barely. Hardly worth the effort. They fed me a lot of Maplewood ice cream, though. Pretty runny. I don’t think the nightclub was really set-up right to handle a massive genital heart attack.”

“Uh, huh. Can we talk about your medication some more?”

“What was my percent when you brought me in?”

“Your percent?” wonders Nitti, aloud. “No! Wait! I retract the question.”

“Too late, Snookie. The content of my discontent is the percent to mark my decent. And—that’s what they inexorably decide when I get picked up by the main man.”

Nitti buries his face in his hands.

“A sleepy sheriff guy drains a pint of bakery fresh blood from my arm to check my percent, and about some time later, another dude hollers, ‘Holy Christ, are you sure the mendaciously handsome guy is totally alive?’ Then, they poke at me with an old bent pool cue. Sometimes, I lie really still like a dead hedgehog and hold my breath, and stop my heart, and the crazy eyed youngster with the underprivileged mustache gives me a good jolt in my upper torsel area with those shiny trodes. If you have a Hot Pocket in your back pocket, you need to wait about 20 minutes for it to cool before you can eat it.”

“You’re not in jail. You’re not under arrest. Goddamn it, Sig—”

“You’ll burn the roof of your mouth, painfully so. That’s what I heard from reliable sources, anyway. Roy said his bridgework fused together one time. All he could eat for a month was tangerine margaritas.”

“YOU ARE NOT IN JAIL!” yells Nitti.

“What? I’m not incarsabated? Wait a minute! You’re not Dr. Weiss—are you? You scalpel happy hack! No way am I paying for this drive by session. You made this appointment, not me.”

“I’m not Dr. Weiss. Christ. I’m Agent Roland Nitti of Coal River Shield.”

“I’m not buying any stolen merchandise, either, if that’s your ingenious game plan, so if you’ll kindly leave the premises, I have some reading to catch up on. I’ve got National Geographic’s piled up to my rib cage, and no time; absolutely no free time. The planet is going to hell, but the pictures of it are still spectacular. There are way too many balloons on this boat. No wonder it won’t sink.”

“OK, Mr. Sigismund, Sig, this isn’t working. I’m beat. You’re regressing for reasons I can’t explain. We’ll try again later. Agent Addison, just take Sig to the dorm and find him a bed, I guess. Have Carlsrud keep an eye on him, so he doesn’t wander.”

“Wait a minute—really?” interjects Addison. “Can’t explain his regression? Well, here are a couple of thoughts, professor. Double dose in the ass, frozen below the waist, high altitude plane ride, nominal sleep, no alcohol and who knows what else for hours, seizure—just for starters. Crimony; they spin a guy around like a gyroscope when they spray them down. I get dizzy just thinking about it. Or, he could be past his expiration date, brain-wise, I mean. Geez! That 60 inch blow dryer is no picnic either.”

Sig leans over and whispers to Nitti, “I think that, what do you call them?—a giant whatever, is talking to you, Roy. I don’t know what it is. Take evasive maneuvers. Or stay very still. One bit me, and my radiator system overheated and sprang a toxic leak. Shhhh.”

“I know that, Leonard,” counters Nitti. “I was talking to him, not you.”

“Riiight,” returns Addison, dismissively. “Like he understands what you said.”

“Shhhh! The kids are listening,” whispers Sig. “Seriously, get some counseling, before prices go sky high. Ask the Bishop if eight inch titanium vampire stakes are OK.”

“Come on, Sig, let’s go,” grumbles Addison, as he taps Sig on the shoulder.

“Nice talking to you, Roy. Don’t tell the old man we were out here. Nothing good can come from it.”

RON SCHALOW: Kevin Cramer Must Go — Part 2

The last time we checked in with Congressman Kevin Cramer, he had recently voted for a health care bill that was so deplorably cruel, even Donald Trump called it “mean.” And old road kill cranium has skimmed charity dollars from kids with cancer, so that’s saying something. Who read the bill to the president is anybody’s guess.

On May 6, Cramer wrote an unacclaimed article titled, “100 Days of Accomplishments Under Trump,” to brag about his hero.

The congressman is particularly proud that mining companies no longer have to fret about getting coal crud mixed in with our streams and rivers. It’s one of those chocolate meets peanut butter stories, except for the poisonous aftertaste. Black lung is Trump and Cramer’s favorite part of coal. Aren’t they adorable together?

And Kevin is pleased with the president for signing a resolution that takes people receiving Social Security disability benefits due to mental impairment off the “no- buy” list. Stupid Obama. Had he no compassion? How are folks like Trump and Cramer supposed to get weaponized under such stringent standards? Or James Hodgkinson, Omar Mateen, Jason B. Dalton, Robert Lewis Dear, Noah Harpham, Chris Harper Mercer, Dylann Storm Roof, Adam Lanza, James Holmes, Jared Loughner, and thousands more?

Also in his list of Trump achievements is an Executive Order to conjure up a plan to stop crime. Why has nobody thought of eliminating crime before? The Trump University debacle and the fat wart’s sexual assaults could have been averted, had anyone taken the time to end crime.

Then, there’s the wall, the travel ban, relieving millions of their health care and an Executive Order to protect religious liberty. Religious freedom is already in the Constitution, but lead paint face seems to enjoy signing things, so whatever. Better that, than having the walls all marked up.

Cramer had many more things on his list. There isn’t much the congressman doesn’t like about Donald Trump, including Don’s ties, that double as a blindness inducing thongs.

Kevin is like one of those little slimy carps, with suction cup lips, that will swim into the gaping mouth of an orange hippopotamus — imagine it wearing white khakis for the full-figured golfer -— and clean the teeth of any excess KFC chicken skin.

Rob Port, Forum Communication’s token arthropod, is a barnacle on the behind of the Cramer Carp, who smears Cramer critics with the subtlety of an orange hippopotamus on an espresso diet. It’s one of those symbiotic relationships between the three misogynist climate deniers. More on the Portweasel later.

Imagine if Cramer had made the cut and was at the table when Cabinet members went around the horn and gave forced words of adoration to honor the dear leader. They would all still be there, and coated with slobber.

A shooting that Cramer noticed

Then, on June 14, Rep. Steve Scalise and a number of others, including Capitol police officers, an aide and a lobbyist, were shot, while practicing for a charity baseball game.

Here’s what Cramer, who wasn’t even there, had to say about the event.

“It is a scary day. Frankly, I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life, and I don’t say that easily. I don’t admit to vulnerability even when I do feel vulnerable. But I don’t mind telling you this has been a shaking experience for a lot of us.

“I’ve never been so shaken.”

“We’ve all been under this cloud for a while of aggressive social media and threat assessments and thinking about families and whatnot and just trying to determine … is it even worth it.”

So, now the congressman is thinking about having security at his town hall events. Cramer’s so proud of the number of town halls he holds that if a cisgendered hombre sidles up to him in the the next urinal it counts as a town hall. He even includes the radio shows he does with Port and Scott Hennen. Those love fests aren’t allowed on the ledger.

The invertebrate Rob Port explains the danger:

“Cramer (unlike North Dakota Sens. Heidi Heitkamp or John Hoeven) holds a lot of town halls in North Dakota at which there is usually little or no security. I’ve been to a few of them, and basically you just walk in and sit down. There may be a local law enforcement officer on hand, but that’s about it.”

First of all, it’s well-known that Port doesn’t leave his burrow. Second, a law enforcement officer (are nonlocal ones better?) is “about it?” What would be appropriate for a gathering in Cando? A SWAT team, maybe? Has Trump not eliminated crime, yet? “This American carnage stops right here and right now,” said Donnie on Jan. 20.

“I’ve never been so shaken.”

Most people were shaken after Sandy Hook, but approximately six months after that gut-wrenching tragedy, Kevin Cramer said, “Forty years ago, the United States Supreme Court sanctioned abortion on demand. And we wonder why our culture sees school shootings so often.”

Cramer blamed God.

Who does Cramer blame for the nonfatal D.C. shooting? God again? For our cultures complete indifference to the deaths of zillions of fun loving sperm cells every single day?

There have been nearly a mass shooting per day in 2017. Have any of those gun deaths shaken the congressman? Doubtful. How about any of the other thousands of deaths or woundings by bullet this year? Nope. Only the one that affected him. A bit self centered for a human.

And yet Don, Kev and Rob are for those with a mental impairment packing a pistol.

Alex Jones, of InfoWars, a good pal of Trump, claims that Sandy Hook was a hoax. Is the acorn, who is the friend of the king walnut, also the friend of a North Dakota sunflower seed?

It’s this kind of kooky Cramer talk — complaining about pantsuits, while he’s wearing a suit, with pants, or trying to make excuses for Sean Spicer’s Hitler comparison, even after the poor, battered press secretary apologized — that make the bosses in D.C. wonder if Kevin isn’t too squirrely to run against Heidi Heitkamp for the Senate in 2018.

Maybe Rick Becker will run for the Senate or Congress. He’s not a Republican, but that hasn’t stopped him before. Becker is a full-blown Libertarian. He even formed the Bastiat Caucus in the Legislature. Look up Bastiat Institute on Facebook for a jolt. These other poor Libertarian bastages are running as Libertarians and getting smoked. Next, you’ll see Democrats running as Republicans in this state. Most people don’t know the difference, anyhow.

Not that my friend, Kev, should be holding any office, that affects other people. He can sit in an office and look out the window, but that’s it.

Cramer on Social Security; from Oliver Willis:

“In a radio interview, Cramer argued in favor of “making adjustments” to Social Security for people who are 30, 35, and 40 years old. He later explained in another interview that he disagreed with Trump’s proposed budget, despite its massive cuts to social services, and embraced doing more than “just cutting” the program.

Summing up his Social Security approach, Cramer said, “Some people are going to have to sacrifice.”

In 1998, he had a similar position. The Bismarck Tribune reported that October that Cramer had “called for allowing individuals to invest some money they contribute into private accounts, instead of all the money being put into the same pot.”

Social Security privatization takes what is a guaranteed pension and lets it ride on the volatile stock market,  generating billions in fees for many of the investment firms that inflated the market leading to the last recession.”

I wonder who the “some” who will have to sacrifice are. And why we can’t just raise the cap on the amount of money one has to make before Social Security taxes aren’t deducted? Because it’s more fun effing with poor people.

Flip-flopping on the Paris climate agreement

“But in a May 7 op-ed in the Wall Street Journal, he (Cramer) urged Trump to remain in the agreement. He said China could “fill the leadership vacuum” that the U.S. would leave behind, pointing out the agreement is nonbinding and thus the American carbon-emission goals could be lowered without a departure.” — Fargo Forum

If you’re trying to “hide” your opinion from Trump, have it published in a newspaper, or printed on any type of paper.

“But on Thursday, after Trump’s announcement that the U.S. would withdraw from the agreement, Cramer released a statement that acknowledged his and the president’s stances, arguing “it’s clear (Trump) thoughtfully weighed all his options.” — Fargo Forum

If Cramer thinks that Trump thoughtfully weighs anything, he’s delusional — or simply not paying attention. Either is a red flag.

“The Paris climate agreement, in current form, would be terrible for America, and I’m glad we have a president who values Americans more than the interests of the rest of the world.” — Fargo Forum

Are we no longer part of the world?

James Comey

The intellectually superior to the lame stream media, Portweasel, in his own humble mind, wrote, “The Comey testimony, slated for later this morning, is the shiny object the national press is obsessing over of late. Cramer said he wasn’t expecting much to come of the highly-touted testimony.”

“We seem to be always waiting for the something that isn’t there to be revealed,” Cramer said.

Both of these chimps were as wrong as a hippo claiming that millions of nonexistent people attended his inauguration. Or his boast about coining the phrase, “priming the pump.” So many lies to choose from.

Cramer is ticked about the leaks coming out of White House

“Regardless of whether it’s contrived, fake news, some truth, somewhere in the middle, whatever the case may be, it is becoming a distraction to our work here. Consequently, the administration’s work as well and important policy things from trade to taxes to health care and everything else. So that is a problem, but at the same time, I don’t think we should let bullies dictate those things either. So to find that balance requires the type of discipline I’m talking about. ”

I agree. The president shouldn’t share classified information with the Russians, especially right in the Oval Office — and on camera. But as Speaker of the House Eddie Munster has noted, the mop headed manatee is too stupid to know such things.

Of course, propagandist Port — the self acclaimed Libertarian, who doesn’t believe in government — was recently caught accepting prespun information from the government. Turning to the Portweasel makes sense, because he’ll publish every claim, without checking the veracity. Minutes later, the words show up on InForum.

Cramer on trackers attending his events

“That means running some risk, that means occasionally stumbling, maybe stating the wrong fact every now and then. It might even mean saying something stupid.”

I guarantee it, so look forward to Kevin Cramer Must Go — Part 3.

We’ll end with 3 Cramer quotes

  • “We’ve normalized perversion and perverted God’s natural law.”
  • “If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat.”
  • “I know how North Dakotans think.”

RON SCHALOW: Kevin Cramer Must Go

It’s not even a close call, so save the coin toss. Cramer takes North Dakotans for granted and assumes he’s in a safe district. Why, because he’s such a charmer?

Guess again, smirk-boy. Smug-boy. Whatever. I’m older than the kid, so I can say that. Plus, I don’t care. I don’t feel any pleasantness oozing from my aura.

After decades of government jobs, by appointment or election, it’s time for Kevin Cramer to be forced to get a job where he can do less damage.

In case you were wondering, Kevin Cramer will vote for the user’s manual of a Hamilton Beach four-slice toaster if the order comes down from the repellent Munster kid — or the Denny’s menu-signing circus peanut. He has no personal integrity. No brain, no strain.

Our congressman voted it’s on the record to cruelly send millions of the people, “on our side,” to their graves, including innocent children, and 7 million veterans. Never underestimate what this @$$hole will do.

Who needs ISIS or the North Korean fat kid? Just cool your jets, fellas. We’ve got the “death to America” stuff covered by the Party of Lincoln. They’ve had some philosophical changes in the past 150 years, which Abe never endorsed — or ever envisioned.

Their antics probably crossed Stephen King’s mind, though. The health care horror story is likely on its way to Barnes and Nobles, as the representatives celebrate with foreign beer and domestic strippers.

We hire the weasels, send them where all of the lobbyists hang, pay them handsomely, give most of them too much respect, and they hurriedly plot our demise. Drive-through suicide, the Trump hatchlings call it. Bodies will be catapulted over the wall.

Donald Trump said “everyone” would be covered. That was a lie. We’ve seen this con before, and it wasn’t on the midway, where the Trump cousins hand out bags of water and a small orange carp. Bait, depending on the locale. It wasn’t a little white lie, either. It was a Trump-sized and textured, pile of horse$#!*. Kevin Cramer doesn’t care.

Not that anyone paying attention should be surprised. Our congressman has always been a tool.

He doesn’t even try to hide it. Did he know that his oil buddies were sending 30,000 gallon soup cans of butane, methane, propane, ethane and other explosive gases, mixed with the fine Bakken crude, down the rail? Sure. Did he care? Nope. Even when 47 Quebecers died, it didn’t faze him.

When it was determined that 60 to 70 would likely die in a Fargo or Bismarck Bakken train explosion, it didn’t faze him. Cramer won’t cross the North Dakota Petroleum Council. The same could be said for the North Dakota GOP. Smaller weasels. Possibly voles.

The Pipeline and Hazardous Materials Safety Administration and Sen. Schumer care, though. And quite a few other politicians throughout the nation, who don’t want their constituents vaporized.

What bothers Cramer, is women wearing white in front of the president. Big Don could have figured that his Klan pals were in the house, or he could have gotten confused about the venue. Trump’s not too sharp — and often gets makeup in his eyes. He might have thrown out the first pitch to Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who rarely carries her catcher’s mitt in public but is considered a splendid receiver.

Meanwhile, at the same event, the dignified Congressmen Cramer, seething in the standard male uniform, yelped like an excited Mexican Chihuahua hombre pup, when the Trumpmeister announced the go-ahead for the Dakota Access pipeline.

Kevin is fascinated with, and has an abnormal love for, a carbon-based liquid, that began its development through one of the quirks of nature, that took place a few million years ago — it wasn’t a given that it would exist— but proved to be useful, when humans decided they needed one-day delivery on 16-foot-long $600 ties from the Trump Collection. The great man spit on each one, which makes them collectors items — or evidence.

I considered some Trump Fragrance, but who wants to smell like an obese sweaty golfer — and crocodile breath? I can handle that myself, without taking out a loan. Melania is said to love the odor, which is one of the reasons why she lives so close — 200 miles is about right — to the lumpy beast. I’m not talking about their pet camel, Wally. He smells like waffles.

Cramer is talking like Trump, much more lately, which leads some people to think that he’s losing his grip on the reality thing. Classic Trump.

Crying about some people being mean to him because he can’t answer basic questions at one his “town halls” in the Socialist Republic of Fargo. Then he runs to Rob Port, on WDAY-AM in Fargo, to complain about his constituents and claim that he was set up for something, by the group Indivisible. It’s a lie, but like Trump, it doesn’t matter.

A group wants to drop off some petitions at his office. But they can’t, because the office is supposedly closed, and three regulation-size cops are on hand to keep two small scary women from entering the office building.

Cramer’s story, also shared with his pal Port on WDAY-AM, is that the owner of the building knew a loitering horde had broken through the perimeter weeks ago, plenty of time to have the police on hand. But the congressman had no clue. Plus, he’s so unconnected with the humans in Fargo, he could not find one person to man the office for 30 minutes. Another crock of $#!*, but he’s sticking to it. Crafty women! Always taking advantage of Kevin.

Sean Spicer, the press secretary for the president, thought it was a good idea (it wasn’t) to compare Syrian President al-Assad to Hitler, saying that good old Adolf wasn’t so unhinged, as to use chemical weapons (on the battlefield). Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Cue Cramer. Stupid? Pshaw. That’s his specialty. Because he’s such a powerful member of the House — and not too bright —  Kevin jumps into the outhouse pit without reservation. Sean was “technically” right, he claims. This Hitler story is being distorted by the media and their fancy digital movie cameras. Well, Spicer had already apologized and likely wanted to hide under his bed until after the impeachment. Cramer just looked like a doofus. Perfect Trump material.

Back before the election, when Kevin did think he was Trump material, and a valued adviser, he prepped the grabby, disabled mocking, bastage for his speech in Bismarck, dreaming of being named Energy secretary. Actually, Cramer was the perfect person to ruin the department and do away with the silly protections for water, air and people. When will the government ever get its boot off the throat of the most profitable industry the world has ever known, and set them free to make real money?

After the speech, experts, real experts, wrote that it was as if Trump didn’t understand the basics of the marketplace. He certainly had no clue about coal. The coal industry is dying due to the free market, and it will never employ as many men it did in the heyday in the Appalachians, when it treated the workers like bad meat and simply buried the ones who died on their feet, in the woods, and then sent another one into the hole. The black lung was free, though.

Now, mechanization has replaced humans, and they blow up a mountain just to claim a small seam of coal, and scrape up the black chunks with huge payloaders. Luckily, thanks to Trump, the companies don’t need to worry about the coal crap that ends up in the streams — and gives the water some flavor. This is Cramer’s man. An idiot.

Kevin has always been a little nutty. He seems to delight in taking things away, like food from kids, then whipping out his holy interpretation of the Bible, which reads differently than my copy — or the one that Trump carries around as a prop.

Cramer has to go. He is not a nice man — or a good man. People that know him well, and relations say this. Now, it’s clear that he could care less about our lives, either jeopardized through the lack of access to health care or the indifference to public safety.

Some will say that Cramer acts kindly to certain individuals, which is great, but his responsibility carries greater weight than the neighbor with the kind heart. Millions are left hanging in the wind if this preposterous health care bill should survive the process, which is apparently what our congressman wants. He friggen voted for it. He lacks empathy, trustworthiness, credibility, and he’s a major suck up. He’s not statesman. He’s a lemming. A sheep. A snowflake. UnAmerican.

You’re Only as Good as the Company You Keep

Cramer’s adoration for Trump should make every self-respecting North Dakotan gag. I could go on forever about Trump’s transgressions that affected the poor, minorities, honest craftsmen, women, ripped off students, blah, blah, bah. Plus, it’s on the record.

Donnie lied 555 times in his first 100 days in a job that requires a qualified adult, a truth teller and not a bullshitter. He has proven that he hasn’t the part of the brain that keeps normal people from lying once per minute — and not caring.

Trump is an admitted sex offender. It wasn’t locker room talk. It was admission of an assault. I’ve been in plenty of locker rooms, and BS like grabbing a woman by the @#&*%$# is the obvious crude braggadocio of a sleazy bloviating jackass and would be treated accordingly. Cleats to the balls, 5-iron to the throat or basketball to the face. Something painful, instead of the whimpering of apologists, like Cramer, who aren’t fond of women in the first place.

Does Kevin approve of a grown man taking a stroll through a dressing room of teenage girls? If he approves of Trump, he does.

How about the cheating on all of his wives?

How about his funny disabled man imitation?

How about his snide remark about a news reporter’s menstrual cycle?

How about Trump’s general lack of morals? Sociopathy?

Flip, flop, flop, cough, gibberish. Which of the policies that Trump has today appeal to our congressman? Not those of yesterday, or this morning, or tomorrow, or the second part of his last sentence, but this moment.

Russia, Russia, Russia.

Hot off the press: “100 Days of Accomplishments Under Trump,” by Kevin Cramer, which puts an end to any speculation to whom our congressman is loyal. If it’s not to the people of this state, what good is he?

Just for Members of the North Dakota Legislature Who Support Trump and Won’t Accept the Facts Behind Their Own Actions, Who also Need to be Retired

One Topic — Oil Taxes

Members of the North Dakota GOP, and their shills, continue to deny that the oil extraction tax was cut in 2015 by the Legislature. They lie. Our state has lost millions of dollars of revenue to out-of-state oil barons. Meanwhile, some of our most vulnerable citizens continue to suffer.

The tax deniers want people to believe that taking to two unrelated issues, mashing them together and calling it reform, obscures the fact that taxes were unnecessarily cut for global oil companies. They can call it reform, form-fitting, secret formula, formaldehyde, formidable, or anything else, but it’s still a tax cut.

RON SCHALOW: Paranoid Politics Behind The Refugee Hubbub

The repugnant grabby Donald Trump, with a white nationalist on his staff, wasn’t the first loudmouth reality TV star, or low-watt nativist leader, to figure out that fear is a great motivator — and vote getter.

Unsavory foreigners are pouring across our borders by the thousands for crissakes, don’t you know. Believe me. Are you jumpy, yet? I’ve heard they’re all carrying recently sharpened machetes.

We need a big beautiful wall, 18 rows of razor wire and some Mexican hombre is going to get a MOAB — the mother of all bills — in his mailbox, followed by the grandfather of all customer service calls. Trust me.

Refugees aren’t being vetted, so they will just have to wait, while they’re on double0secret probation, and get supervetted.

Be afraid of Muslims. That goes without saying. I’m working on a Muslim ban, but the stupid judges are worried about that Constitution thing.

Stupid backward baseball caps, silly clown hair, wearing a fez, while driving one of those kooky little cars and spooking the horses in the parade. Wear any goofy, or non goofy thing, you want on your head. This is American.

Good Christian American women used to — maybe still do — wear scarves over their heads to protect newly styled hair from the wind. Some wear them around the throat as a fashion accessory.

But if you have darker skin and wear a scarf over your head, be prepared to get harrassed by some rube at the grocery store.

Of course, Trump is liar. Most people know that.

But now, the brown-tinted foreigner hysteria has awakened politicians in Fargo — and North Dakota. There is a good-sized segment of the population that’s on board with the rhetoric, so it makes sense that a few lesser Trumps would jump in the mud for votes.

They pretend to be concerned about the cost — as if we’re worried when a big company brings 2,000 jobs to town — when it all boils down to fear — and votes. And it works.

North Dakota State Rep. Christopher Olson, in a fit of concern for our ability to absorb a few hundred people of a certain type, attempted to pass a refugee bill in the Legislature, but it was downgraded to a study. If the Republicans ever studied anything, they might be informed, and they aren’t about to start reading things now.

Fargo City Commissioner Dave Piepkorn demanded to know the costs to the city, specifically from refugees. No one else. Not revenue generated by refugees. Just one side of the ledger.

So, responding to the spasmodic threats of the large red-faced Fargo commissioner, the little people, in Piepkorn’s eyes, scrambled to see how much it was costing for refugees to use OUR streetlights, and OUR left turn lanes. And oooh, don’t forget the wear and tear on OUR park slides.

There were two trees planted on MY boulevard, at substantial cost — holes don’t dig themselves, people — by the city, but they haven’t attracted much of a crowd. One tree died, but it wasn’t due to a stabbing, any type of island voodoo or terrorist activity. Credit both trees to me. A northern European, one generation removed on my paternal side and twice removed on my maternal side. Mark it down.

There is also a $#!%load of expensive foam that firefighters fruitlessly spray on exploding oil trains. We can’t talk about who should be paying for that. The commissioner knows, but those cats aren’t so easy to pick on. Deaths be damned.

It helps to be big, if you’re a bully, ballast for cruise ship, and refuse to do any of your own research. Piepkorn probably intimidates some people.

Personally, I think he has too many chins. I realize that comment was not politically correct —and mean — but Piepkorn hates those politically correct types. Being PC is nothing more than NOT being a dick. NOT. Some people talk about PC like a bramble bush was jammed down their shorts.

The Piepkorn Goes Full Rage

“In a voice full of outrage, City Commissioner Dave Piepkorn demanded why the city didn’t have a say in how many refugees are settled here.”

Me: Talk to the State Department. Enunciate clearly, or something could get MOABed or Tomahawked. This refugee thing has been going on since the ’40s. Get on the Google, and you might know what’s going on, commissioner. And non-Native wanderers have been coming to this continent for a 1,000 years, and it wasn’t until lately that anyone thought to ask.

Seattle, and a thousand other cities, don’t have a say in how many explosive Bakken oil trains are allowed to pass by their people and stuff. Get worked up about that, Dave.

“It’s a “huge decision” made by Lutheran Social Services, tasked by the federal government with refugee resettlement in North Dakota, that creates a burden on local taxpayers, he complained at the commission’s Monday, Oct. 10, meeting.”

Me: No, it doesn’t create a burden, Pieps. Sorry. If the Bison start out 0 – 4, then we’ll see some real angst bubble up, and a little will probably get on your shoes.

“Piepkorn posed three questions to LSS CEO Jessica Thomasson, beginning a brief but intense dialogue: One, how much is paid for each refugee who settles in Fargo-Moorhead? Two, who decides how many are settled here? And three, does LSS have some legal responsibility for how they behave when they move here?”

Me: This could have been handled in two minutes over the phone, but the political impact of public outrage would have been wasted. We get it. You’re outraged. Please go to Mexico.

Piepkorn interrupted to complain: “That’s unacceptable. To think that someone else is determining the number of refugees that we can handle. Their decisions impact our budget, the schools, the parks and on and on. As far as I know, we’re not included. Are any of the city commission included?”

Me: Everybody but you because who needs all of the shouting. Dave’s not home, man.

“As far as I know, we’ve had not participation,” Piepkorn said. “To me, to think city leaders are not involved in this. This is a huge decision made by you, that’s encumbering us.”

Me: Who is encumbered? And if you can’t remember if something happened, you have larger problems, big fella.

“I hope everyone is hearing what she’s saying: They’re refugees and when they come here, they have all the rights of a legal citizen?” Piepkorn asked.

Me: Residents. Not citizens. Yeah, I HOPE everybody heard that because it’s going to be in my campaign literature. And what rights would you like to take away from certain residents? Speech? Guns? Refusing to board soldiers without consent?

Piepkorn angrily disagreed: “The credibility of these people,” he said pointing in Thomasson’s and Mahli’s direction before trailing off. “I want to have accountants find out. People are telling us everything is fine and dandy. I’m sorry, everything is not fine and dandy. What happened in St. Cloud is not fine and dandy. I don’t want that to happen again.”

Anyway, Piepkorn stomps his feet and voila!

The New American Economy, a national organization and the American Action Forum, sent out a letter signed by 1,500 economists, both Republican and Democrats. that verified that immigrants and foreign-born humans who live in North Dakota paid $124.6 million in taxes in North Dakota in 2014.

From the Fargo Forum:
“Some of us favor free markets while others have championed for a larger role for government in the economy. But on some issues there is near universal agreement. One such issue concerns the broad economic benefit that immigrants to this country bring.”

“On average, a first generation immigrant is cost POSITIVE in North Dakota by approximately $3,250 per individual,” the report said, citing a 2016 study by the National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine, a group of nonprofit organizations in Washington, D.C.

In other words, refugees don’t present a cost. They produce revenue for the state and Fargo, which is a GOOD thing.

Case closed, right?

Nope. The educated experts weren’t enough to convince the usual suspects, who wouldn’t believe anything that didn’t fit their narrative.

Did I say experts? People educated in the subject at hand? Oh, pshaw. I talked to this guy, who said that some terrorist-looking guy has been out in the woods scoping out something with binoculars. Or he could have been bird-watching. Is it worth taking the chance?

If a proclamation was magically transported to White Butte on two shale tablets, written by the staff of Gandalf, and read aloud by the Force Ghost of Obi-Wan Kenobi, they would scoff.

In September 2016 a 20-year-old Somali refugee, who moved to the United States when he was 3 months old, stabbed 10 people at a St. Cloud, Minn., mall. No fatalities. No connection to any terrorist groups.

That incident spooked Piepkorn.

Commission Piepkorn evidently holds Lutheran Social Services, which resettles refugees in North Dakota, at the behest of the U.S. State Department because accepting refugees is part of our foreign policy, responsible for the attack in St, Cloud. Silly, right?

Not to Dave. He demanded that Lutheran Social Services prevent any knife attacks in the future. Piepkorn didn’t mention how the hell anyone could make such a promise. I don’t think my next door neighbor is going to lose it, although he does have a nice collection of mall attack knives, but I can’t guarantee it. And he doesn’t seem to like it when I stare at him through his windows.

Plus, that’s not what Lutheran Social Services does. It does what they are contracted to do, and it doesn’t involve chipping a toddler and tracking his movements for the duration of the kids life span. Look at the LSS website, for Pete’s sake!

So, good old Pieps showed us his tell. Cost isn’t his primary concern, if it is at all. He thinks infants, from the Mideast, can grow into killing machines. Who couldn’t? And who is responsible if a Norwegian-American goes off the rails at the Kirkwood Mall, in Bismarck? The Sons of Norway?

“I’ll get to the nut of it,” Piepkorn said in October 2016. “I believe the refugees that come here, they have health care, they have housing, they have transportation all provided for them. They are competing against the people who live here making 10 bucks an hour, but they have a huge advantage because refugees have all those advantages. We’re bringing in competition against the current residents and I believe that’s hurting our low income people who live here. It’s almost as if it would be better for them to apply as refugees and get benefits than to be an American citizen.”

What a crock of $#!* and false. A huge advantage because they know how to dodge bombs? Who does he think he is, Trump?

Cass County Commissioner Chad Peterson is another concerned official — about the costs, of course. He’s worried about being called a racist or xenophobe, if anyone asks for a calculation. Weak. That’s the favorite out. Everybody isn’t screaming racist. That’s a fable.

“Government shouldn’t be in the business of feelings and hugs and kisses,” said Peterson. Or common sense, or willing to look at facts that defy rigid beliefs. I’ll take a pass on the hugs and kisses from Peterson, and no one from the government has ever offered me a hug or kiss, so I’m suspect of Peterson’s grasp on what people think.

Valley News Live

Then, there is Valley News Live, a Fargo station. A year or so, ago, it reported and promoted the fiction of tuberculosis-riddled refugees. The story was debunked, but its attitude remains the same. It’s a business decision. It has decided to cater to the anti-refugee ( and anti-other things) crowd. It’s reprehensible but evidently profitable.

State Rep. Christopher Olson tried to palm off the same TB story, so we know how pure his intentions are.

From Valley News Live: Likely written by Ike Walker or Chris Berg. Perhaps they struck their heads together, to generate the necessary heat. Who knows?

“It was initiated last fall after Fargo City Commissioner Dave Piepkorn started asking questions about the issue, specifically the costs to various aspects of the city. But did the question ever actually get answered?”

Me: Yes, but he doesn’t care, and neither do you people.

“A good characterization for Thursday’s event: little information, frequent applause and no outright critics. And it left many asking, did they actually answer the question: how much does it cost?”

Me: Many were asking? Like who? You wrote that there are no outright critics. The sentences were connected.

One, I guess. “Well I don’t think we got any answers,” said Cass County Commissioner Chad Peterson. “What this should have been in my mind was a brief meeting that took about five minutes. It costs X.”

Me: Ignorance to how life works is not an attractive quality. Not everything is quantifiable — or can be answered with an X. But numbers were offered. Numbers that proved that there is not a cost but positive return. Repetitive, I know.

“I want to look at the numbers. I want to look at the sources, I want to look at everything and see where we’re at,” explained Fargo City Commissioner Tony Gehrig.

Me: Go ahead, Tony.

“You know the Human Relations Commission wanted to release it this way and that’s their prerogative I suppose,” said Gehrig.

Me: Released at a meeting open to the public? I see the problem. Obviously, trickery was involved.

Here’s how Valley News Live chose to characterize the gathering, and the information offered.

“How did they release it? At the noon-hour event, inviting the public to attend but not allowing public comment and they offered a 22-page document. It pulls information from a study by the pro-refugee organization Partnership for a New American Economy and other various local and national studies.”

Me: Oh, a pro-refugee organization? Well, then it has be false, unlike the demonstrably false slime Valley News Live passed off as news. And either something has too many pages, or too few, for the Trumpites.

“But the specific question of what refugee resettlement costs you the taxpayer, that information is not contained in this report.”

Me: The cost is zero. If you’ve ever read a profit-and-loss statement, you can have zillion expenses, but if the revenue exceeds the expense tally, you have a winner. A profit. Not a cost, you dense $#&*@#$!%’s.

Here’s a good one. “However, refugees and immigrants are two entirely different specifications. Refugees are defined by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees as someone who has been forced to flee their country because of the fear of persecution, war or violence. An immigrant is someone who moves to live in a foreign country permanently.”

Me: Thanks for this useless string of definitions, but the report includes any foreign-born human, so let’s not try to look for cracks where there are none. I’m have no doubt that this nonsense will play well with your regular audience, though, which is the object of spreading this manure on salted land.

“Also, remember this study was done at the request of Commissioner Dave Piepkorn. He was not in attendance at Thursday’s meeting, and Valley News Live has been told he’s on vacation in Mexico.”

Me: That’s his problem.

Bonus Piepkorn

Asked if he missed anything from the report, Piepkorn said, “No, nothing substantial, that’s for sure.” He then referred to the report as “propaganda and fake news.”

Me: Pieps has the talking points down. He just needs to Tweet them, to start the firestorm, and end up on Hannity.

“I do want to see numbers that are based on facts,” he said. “I won’t tolerate people who try to blow smoke up my dress. A lot of people don’t want to know what those numbers are. I promise we will get those numbers.”

Me: I wouldn’t think of blowing anything up Dave’s skirt. He’s kind of a condescending knob.

“Now that Gov. Doug Burgum has signed into law a legislative study looking at various aspects of refugee resettlement in North Dakota, Piepkorn said he is optimistic the numbers he wants will eventually come out.”

Me: Nobody is optimistic about anything the Legislature does. Does he think these phantom numbers have fallen behind some old filing cabinet in the basement? Maybe.

“They are our guest. If they’re not behaving, they don’t get to stay,” he said.

Me: If “they” aren’t behaving, “they” are arrested and tossed into the pokey. Or possibly shot to death, like the young man in St. Cloud. Severe enough?

“My track record is I ask questions about how our money is being spent,” he said.

Me: Not all of it, dude.

A recall election would provide an “opportunity for a lot of people to send a message to the politically correct,” Piepkorn told Thomas.

Me: If you believe the numbers provided in the report, you’re one of those snowflake politically correct lib%$&# cucks, who doesn’t think he’s smarter than the experts.

The Portweasel

Now for my favorite smear blogger, and agent of misinformation, lying and BS, for Forum Communications. As near as I can figure, all of the big shots were sitting in a darkened office sipping single malt one cold night, and one of them said, “I think we have too much credibility.”

Answer, Rob Port, the cheese-eating cowardly bastard from Minot.

His headline: Refugee Report From Fargo’s Human Relations Commission Reveals Very Little

“The problem with the debate of refugee resettlement here in North Dakota is that we really don’t have a lot of data on its impacts.”

Me: There are no impacts. What are the impacts, Portweasel, and what data would satisfy your chosen bias? He doesn’t know. This is just a copy and paste from earlier posts, a real time saver for no talent yokels, that say the same damn thing, over and over.

“But even the push to address that information vacuum has proved politically harrowing. Those who want to explore the issue are accused of bigotry by strident left wing ideologues.”

Me: Misinformation, lies and BS. Oh, my! A strident harrowing vacuum. What a tool.

“Fargo has seen the largest number of refugees over the year, and city leaders there did ask their Human Relations Commission to study the issue.

When you’re done reading it, you probably won’t know much more about refugee resettlement in the Fargo area than you do now.”

Me: If you’re moron, maybe. Keep in mind that Port isn’t too sharp, or educated, but he really thinks he’s an expert on any topic. He knows how to run a college the size of North Dakota State University, but chooses to use his skills criticizing his “colleagues” from a safe distance. Port is a climate denier, who insists that no oil taxes were cut by the Legislature, so he has trouble with facts. He’s also a Trump apologist, a Kevin Cramer lackey and a corporatist shill. And those are his good qualities.

“The report itself, once you scroll past a lot of the pretty pictures and lists of participants and other pablum, is pretty short. It acknowledges that there isn’t a lot of data available and then describes information gleaned mostly from a National Academy of Sciences study and some anecdotes.”

Me: The pablum came real educated economists, not a professional couch accessory.

“We learn that refugees, much like anyone else, work jobs and earn money and then spend that money in the local economy. Which is great! But not exactly revelatory information.

The one thing the report does illustrate is just how little information is available on refugee resettlement.”

Me: As the witless wonder, who has never had a work-related callous, says, “much like anyone else.” Now, that’s some disturbing news. There has to be a way to twist “normal human” into wicked horned creatures. That’s never been tried before.

Because you can never get enough Port, here are some snippets from his second post on the great refugee report, titled: Wrong Time for a Vacation Mr. Piepkorn

Me: Port loves chastising people.

“The latter issue was the casus belli for the recall effort, but the former has been more damning.”

Me: Yes, Port is also a wiz with Latin.

“For instance, earlier this year was called out for making demonstrably false statements about the head of Lutheran Social Services in North Dakota. That organization handles refugee resettlement in this state, and while they deserve plenty of criticism, it was foolish of Piepkorn to say things that weren’t true. Either he didn’t know what he was saying was wrong or he made things up.” (That’s how he wrote it, folks)

Me: Clownboy says,”it was foolish of Piepkorn to say things that weren’t true.” I would say that telling lies was wrong, not foolish, but I don’t live in the world where telling lies is part of the gig, like cotton candy head, or the Portweasel. I showed the Port, and Forum Communication, the “demonstrably false statements” the round mound made about me. His courageous response, Block me from commenting on any platform.

“And to be fair, the report was mostly worthless.”

Me: Bull$#!*, you three-toed tree sloth, to be fair.

“Do better, Mr. Piepkorn.”

Me: Do better, Portweasel. You’re an embarrassment to the Internet.

Related: One of Port’s finest smears and the rebuttal

Anatomy of an Outrage

“No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.” ― Warsan Shire, Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth

RON SCHALOW: Love, American Style

Stan shuffles into the dark bar, stands still for a minute to let his pupils expand, and waits for the blindness to dissipate. Then, without moving, he hollers, “ORV! ARE YOU IN HERE?”

A strange voice answers from the shadows. “Which Orv are you looking for?

“The ornery one.”

“Oh, he’s sitting at the bar.”

Stan shuffles over to the barstools, cane in hand. “Orville, you scamp! Why didn’t you answer when I called out?”

“I was hoping you would go away,” grumbles Orv.

“Have I ever?” chirps Stan.

“No. But you seem to be getting denser by the minute, so it was worth a shot. I’ll keep trying until I get results, or literally throw a shot your way. Hey! Other Orv! Keep your yap shut in the future.”

Stan stares at nothing. “Yeah. I am getting dumber. That’s going to be problem in the future, or I could just run for president. Intelligence doesn’t seem to be a requirement for that gig. And our congressman is an idiot of biblical proportions. Mini Trump is what we kids call the smirking, condescending Cramer bastard.”

“Maybe they’re hitting Donnie too hard with the Adirondack in the morning. They could switch to aluminum, I suppose, but those will leave a dent, too.”


“I just assumed that Reince, or one of the other nitwits from F Troop, was giving the president a good whack in the forehead with a baseball bat, first thing in the morning, to jar a few of the remaining neurons into action. They aren’t doing something right, though. Don’s still an embarrassment. Maybe the Priebus feller isn’t strong enough to take a good cut. I think Jose Canseco could be hired for a reasonable price.”

“They need somebody with power to all fields. Good grief. You’ve seen the Trumpbage try to string a few words together. It’s not decodable. Exponential gibberish. He realizes that this is an English-speaking country, for the most part, doesn’t he?”

“Shut up, Stan!”

“Maybe he’s playing his Rosetta Stone English CD’s backward and hearing those hidden messages from Charles Manson they talk about. This is Steve Bannon’s doing, I bet. He’s been in a knife fight with the Jewish son-in-law for access to the Play Dough between the ears of the royal @$$hole.”

“Shut up, Stan!”

“I wonder how many times someone in that putrid environment enviously said, he went to Jared? I think the Kushner kid is running the country, which suits me fine. We could have picked a name out of a hat and been better off than having the fat @$$. He’s not even trying to make sense of all of the details necessary to be the friggen president. Who ever thought that being president would be so time-consuming. He’s going to just BS — and golf — his way through it all, as always.”

“Bartender!” yells Orv. “Fill it to the rim, and keep it there, please.”

“Still on the Smirnoff, I see. A rich dick like you should be sipping Stoli, or some other clear alcohol on the top shelf. I’ll have a Coke, bartender, if you’re interested, after I’ve been hanging onto the bar for balance these last 15 to 45 minutes. I’m not good at time, in the same way you’re not good at bartending. I don’t have as much money as this spud-fed @$$hole, but I can pay, so if you don’t mind.”

“Quit giving the kid a hard time,” grouses Orv, “you lib#&%@ jackass. He does just fine,”

“Not really. Remember when the doofus child decided to launch those Tomahawk missiles into Syria? Seems like it was just last week. Like Trump, the whole exercise was a dud, kind of like this dope behind the bar. I doubt if Trump even knows what he intended to accomplish, or know where Syria is. But the lump of flesh, who I wouldn’t trust to watch grass grow, is in charge, so what are you going to do?”

“He says, we normally don’t hit the runway because they’ll just fill it in the holes. We don’t hit runways? I think we do. What the hell does Trump care, anyway? Can we inconvenience the evil Assad bastard at all? He could just as well of found a blank spot between Cooperstown and Interstate 29 and put a few dozen divots in a potato field, or whatever you guys decide to plant after the ground thaws.”

“Orv, the potato and beet farmer, perks up. “That’s extra stupid, you lib$%@# moron. We don’t need any big holes in our fields!”

“Don’t we Orv? Don’t we? It’s as flat as a pool table around here. A few more duck ponds won’t be a bad thing.”

“Yes they would!” screams Orville. “They would cost somebody a lot of money!”

“Maybe they could send the ducks the bill,” laughs Stan. “Get it, Orv? The bill?”

“Har de har har har.” mocks Orv.

“Evidently, watching the missiles shoot into the night sky was a beautiful sight. At least according to Brian Williams of MSNBC, who appears to be on some excellent mood enhancers. Yes, Brian; the pretty colors were quite groovy, man. MSLSD, dude.”

“Williams is a pinko liar,” grumbles Orv.

“Yeah, he doesn’t seem too bright. I’ll bet he knows more about Hitler than Spicey, though. Gawd!”

“I’m not going to defend that one,” growls Orv. “Quit trying to bait me into an argument.”

“Well, Cramer is defending Spicey, as if getting gassed in cramped quarters is different than breathing in some poison while walking down the street. What a maroon. Yes, they’re technically distinct, but so is comparing Kevin to a smarter lightpost. He’s your boy, Orv.”

“Shut up. I said I won’t be baited into one of your stupid conversations.”
“But that’s why I came here, Mr. Trump supporter. Pick something from the Mar-a-Lago nutcase to defend. The sexual assaults, the lies, the ignorance — should I go on? The list is a mile long. Name something, potato boy!”

“Shut your face, Stan, before I beat you with your own cane.”

“Hah,” snorts Stan. “The jokes on you, chubby dragon breath. Every part of my body already hurts, so you can swing this thing until your soft Trump arms get tired and I won’t even notice.”

“I suppose you enjoyed the pricey bottle rocket show, Orville, you portly hombre. An expensive fireworks display, which this Bashar Assad character may have observed, especially since the master tactician told them beforehand that a few dozen explosive thingys were coming, bigly. The bombs didn’t scare Russia or Iran, either.”

Orville: “You can’t allow anyone to use sarin gas on children. It’s sickening. That’s not obvious to you, lb%&@# freak?”

“Trumpdud didn’t stop anything, and the Syrians have been getting bombed and gassed for years. Trump acted like he wasn’t even aware of the former mayhem. Donnie could do some good, but it’s not in the tangerine man. Maybe he could quit lying about refugees just pouring over our border with no vetting. It’s not true, but it keeps the deep thinkers frightened.”

“We have no control over our borders at all,” yelled Orville.

“Baloney. And maybe Trump could quit lying about it being impossible to vet a Syrian citizen.”

“That’s true, you liberal yutz. How can you tell anything about these people? Orville takes a big gulp, and the bartender tops off his glass. Orv is a big tipper.

Stan explodes. “That’s a friggin lie. The Syrians keep accurate and thorough records. They’re an ancient people who figured out a few things eons before North Dakota was even given lines on a map.”

“The best thing the Trumpweasel could do, if he really cares about the children, is let them come here. Orphans and those already vetted immediately, and expedite the process for families. That goes for the Syrians and refugees from every other country.”

“Too dangerous. We should just keep bombing at a safe distance. Besides, where are we supposed to put them all?”

Stan counters. “We have nothing but space. Is anyone even using Wyoming? Economists say that an influx of new people will be good for the economy, and it will be good to see the bigots, like you, worked up. Some of you apes are still ticked off about the Irish.”

“They drink too much,” slurs Orv.

“Did you know that Kevin Cramer is Trump’s official golf ball washer, now? It’s Cabinet-level stuff.”

“Put a sock in it, Stan!”

“It’s true. Trump pops a Titleist in Cramer’s mouth, waits while he swooshes it around, and spits out a shiny dimpled orb. It’s the chemicals applied to the grass —- with a dash of lead added to his bottled water — that prevents the congressmen from picking up on the lies, and flip flops, that Trump pumps out by the pound. It’s the media’s fault for reporting everything the president says, according to the fertilizer-fed Cramer.”

“Quit lying, Stan,” yelps Orv. “And lies don’t come in pounds, you commie liberal loon!”

“Seven lies to the pound,” state’s Stan flatly. “I don’t know the metric conversion. So, when are we bombing the crap out of North Korea? Has one of Rob Port’s anonymous sources spilled any military secrets? I know you’re buds with the misleader of Minot. Did he email you any of his creative facts?”

“I don’t have any idea when North Korea gets lit up. How the hell would I know?”

“But you’re loading up on military stocks aren’t you?”

“Mind your own beeswax, you nosey SOB,” grumbles Orv.

“War is good for bidness.”



RON SCHALOW: Oley’s Naked Gun Pander

Just in case the few hombres who feel the need — some have legitimate reasons — to carry a concealed pistol underneath their cardigan while walking the street of Pisek were thinking that the Republicans in the Legislature hadn’t gone the full mile, to fulfill their every whim, they need not worry.

Minot Sen. Oley Larsen stepped up his game.

Oley is an interesting dude, among other adjectives. We’ll come back to that, but first the Senator’s Bill.

SB 2139 will change the law, so that if you’re armed and a policeman asks to to see your concealed carry permit but you left it on the dresser because it’s just too darn thick to put in your wallet and your pockets are full of green olives, you have 10 days to run home and get it.

Or you can fly to Aruba — those Dutch know how to run a colony — for a week of snorkeling, white sand beach play and deep sea fishing, then come back tan and rested and produce the permit, to avoid incarceration under the heavy boot of the state.

I don’t know if Larsen is a member of the Bastiat Caucus, the cluster of lawmakers — who really hate the government — in the Legislature, but they love this legislation. “An extremely common sense, yet important pro-Second Amendment Bill,” the Bastiat’s called it, but they idolize a Frenchman who died 15 years before Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, so they’re completely normal and should be trusted on all matters.

The Second Amendment didn’t include a permit requirement. Muskets were pushed into the hands of any male tall enough to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl, so the Constitutional remark is a pile of horse$#!*. And maybe common sense can be extreme, but I think it either is or it ain’t.

The Bastiat’s continue opining on Oley’s Bill: “Current law creates criminals out of law-abiding gun owners who are found in “violation” of an officer’s demands for paperwork. This is absurd in a free society that such demands be made regarding a God-given component of the Bill of Rights.”

I don’t recall God mentioning handguns in the Bible, but perhaps a reference can be found in the Charlton Heston Version. I think we’re working with human law here, boys.

Rep. Rick Becker founded the Bastiat Caucus so that the Libertarians, who ran as Republicans in order to win, would have someone to talk to about freedom and raw milk.

Becker also got his “Constitutional Carry” law passed, which has nothing to do with the Constitution, but it’s a fine name, and it saves several hours for those looking to pack some iron in public, which is way different than packing a seven iron — or a clothes iron. Something to keep in mind, before sticking a hot iron down your shorts.

Also understand that the senator’s bill doesn’t include fishing licenses, deer tags, driver’s licenses, proof of insurance or anything else you should have the sense to carry —  or not forget to do. Will Village Inn give you the senior discount without proof? Doubtful. Maybe if you’re carrying a Beretta.

This is only for concealed carriers. Nobody else because pistol people are obviously more important to Republicans and rarely shoot up the neighborhood in fits of rage.

All other types of credentials must be carried around in a wallet, purse, pocket, or shoe in their super heavy paper form.

You can try to be special, though

Sorry officer, I forgot my drivers license on the coffee table — it might have a little cocaine on it — but I’m armed, and I also neglected to bring my permit, so can I bring you both of those in 10 days?

I’m not over the limit, ranger. I just forgot to release that extra walleye.

Sorry occifer. I forgot not to drive, but I can get back to you in 10 days.

Oley’s Law, which doesn’t mean a senator is lost, also allows all elected officials to take training, which would grant them the right to carry a gun wherever the hell they please, including sporting events.

If you are Muslim or gay — really any minority, including liberals, to be one the safe side — don’t sit in the sightline of Rep. Dwight Kiefert at a Bison game or anywhere else. He doesn’t have mixed feelings about certain groups of people.

Oley Larsen once sent me an email complaining that I was picking on oil. Actually, I was picking on the gases, which weren’t oil, that the producers leave in the crude and make the Bakken oil trains explode. He didn’t see the distinction.

Larsen also told me that they — whoever owned the tanker cars, I guess — were going to coat the oil tankers with a substance that would keep the trains from exploding. I believe he was thinking of something along the lines of rubber. Did I mention he’s a senator and possibly is carrying a gun.

And Oley passes out Dilly Bars at election time. It doesn’t sound legal, but they are good.

I can see the old time ward boss growling, “Hey Lefty, get over here. Here’s a few walking around Dilly Bars, for youse and the boys. Hit the pier, dish out a little dilly and make sure those mooks know who to vote for. And let them know that there’s more soft-serve where that came from.”

I’ve explained the concept of plagiarism to Larsen after one of his heists, but either he didn’t comprehend the meaning, or he doesn’t care. My guess is both.

Did I mention he’s a senator?

RON SCHALOW: Cramer Loses Control Of Entrance To Fargo Office

At noon Friday, about 40 of our most dangerous citizens left their natural Caribou Coffee habitat and descended on the building that houses Congressman Kevin Cramer’s Fargo office at speeds nearing 25 mph. Their watches were not synchronized — or necessarily correct. Some were just winging it.

Mostly women, but a few men, stood as people do and occasionally flashed a pro-Planned Parenthood toward the unfortunate lost people who ended up on Feichtner Drive. We’ve all been there. Turn north at Chucky Cheese, if you care.

They were concerned about Trumpcare, which would have reduced health care services to most Americans, including women in poverty, but not to Donald Trump and Kevin Cramer. They’re both set.

Luckily, Trump and the Republican congresspeople, are inept, and the vote was canceled. It bit the dust at 3:30 EST.

Some in the ruly mob wore pink — an unoffensive shade — and a few wore those cat ear woven hats, but Cramer prefers to call them lady private parts hats, which explains a few things I don’t want to think about.

Some stood on the dormant grass, and as anyone who carped about the Cannon Ball camps knows. it will take 500 years before that patch of the lawn will recover!

“Dave’s not here.” — Tommy Chong

Amy Jacobson of Planned Parenthood and Danni Pinnick, a public health professional, walked normally — no fancy walking allowed — toward the entrance, with the intention of dropping off a petition of 800 names in support of Planned Parenthood to the congressman’s office. Just the two of them. Three large cops stopped them before they could reach the door. A scuffle did not ensue and impolite language was not exchanged.

They knew the congressman was in Washington, D.C., but wanted their voice heard on the promised deathcare vote. The bill had 17 percent support, so they knew that Cramer was unlikely to pass up the opportunity to put people’s lives in grave danger. We’ll call it a quirk.

It was the least raucous demonstration, protest or rally ever recorded and then saved on Hillary’s old server. It was on sale, OK?

Anyway, if I’m going to watch three minutes of video, there better be a bare-fist hockey fight, two dozen fluffy puppies barreling down a shiny wood floor or a goofy black bear on a hammock. Not even one racoon showed up.

Anyway, the recording was posted, and anyone could plainly see and hear that the young unthreatening ladies were turned away by policemen.

Then, as has been his habit whenever he feels a sour emotion, Congressman Cramer runs into the soft warm arms of Rob Port, his go-to media hack, to cuddle, (Port is hypoallergenic) and to complain about the people he claims to represent.

He called the video “staged” and the whole business a “stunt.”

You could hear Port nodding in agreement on his radio (cough) show. Port wrote that it was all fake news. He would know.

Did Planned Parenthood call the police station and ask for the stunt department? “Oh, yes, hi. We’re pulling a stunt on Friday — staging a demonstration. Can we rent three of your largest cops, please? Pardon me? No, we don’t need any taserings or macings. Just a regular appearance. I think it’s the No. 3 on the menu. We have a coupon.”

Or did Cramer mean that any attempt by the people to “peaceably to assemble and to petition the government for a redress of grievances” is a stunt? Who knows? He’s in the spell of the Trumpweasel, now.

From the Portweasel’s blog:

“That’s what Congressman Kevin Cramer told me today on my radio show of a Planned Parenthood protest outside his office Friday in Fargo. The protesters are now alleging that they were blocked from delivering a petition to Cramer’s staff by law enforcement, but Cramer is saying it was a “stunt.”

They WERE blocked. It’s on video. Is Port even dumber than he looks? Yes.

“First, he said nobody from Planned Parenthood called his office to make an appointment. He said a woman named Briana did call his office to inquire if it was staffed but didn’t give her full name or make an appointment to deliver the petitions.”

That’s a lie. Briana Rabenberg. North Dakota Grassroots Organizer at Planned Parenthood called and gave her full name. She didn’t call to hear heavy breathing.

And since when does anyone need an appointment to drop off an envelope? Does the post office or UPS need an invite? You can buy a frozen pizza 24/7 but don’t bother the congressman’s staff during regular business hours, even if they told you the office would be open.

“Those people had been in the building during the noon hour,” he told me (Port) adding that the “video they staged outdoors was made later.”

Lie. At least he’s learning something from his hero, Trump. “Those” people are just begging to be walled out.

From the Fargo Forum, which also employs the Port clown:

“As evidence that the video was staged, Cramer said a building owner told him that before the video was made, several of the protesters were in the building. They could have dropped off the petition then, the congressman said.”

Only one person had the envelope. Not everyone had a copy. Sheesh.

“When I (the Portweasel) asked Cramer about the police, he said “we certainly didn’t ask them to be there,” adding that it was “evidently the owner of the building.”

“He said the building owner had apparently seen media reports about the protest and informed the police that he did not want the protesters on private property. In addition to Cramer’s office the building in question houses other businesses.”

Then, Port writes a column because a radio appearance by Cramer and a blog post aren’t enough to complete the spin

“I interviewed the congressman on Monday about the situation. “(W)e certainly didn’t ask them to be there,” he said, adding that it was “evidently the owner of the building” who called the police.”

A regular citizen, who may have owned the building, or managed it, decided that he would buck a U.S. congressman and not allow two young unarmed women entry to the Congressman’s’ office.

I doubt it.

Does he, or she, ever block visitors from reaching the other tenants in the complex?

I doubt it.

Can any business call up the police and have them send over three of their finest to hold the hoard of two slight females, fierce though they be, back from a door?

I doubt it.

“Cramer said he would have had staff on hand to accept the petitions from the protesters — pretty routine stuff for members of Congress — had the they bothered to make an appointment. Instead, they showed up during the noon hour when the office was empty.”

Obviously not because they bothered. And noon is the only time many people have to visit their representative. Most people know that.

And the building manager heard about this riotous mob beforehand, but not the congressman’s staff?

I doubt it.

RON SCHALOW: The Emperor Has No Feathers

I’ve had some bad weeks. One August, I lounged on the deck of a pontoon in the sun so long that my shins and feet were seriously burned. There was smoke — and not the medicinal kind. I was in pain for at least a week, and gentle I had to be, to get the old shoes on. The hair on my shins never did grow back — smooth as a billiard ball — but I never tried to pull a fancy comb-over.

On a colder day, one of my rear tires lost hope and deflated more than a Tom Brady football. I didn’t blame it. Most of the rubber had abandoned ship long ago. This was before cell phones — at least ones smaller than an 8-pound block of sharp Cheddar cheese. So, in 50 below zero wind-chill weather, I jacked up the rear end and switched out the deceased tire with a slightly better one that still had the guts to retain air.

My thighs took the brunt. The permafrost ran Femur deep. The slow thaw didn’t feel like springtime — or any of the other seasons in Mohall, N.D.

Of course, I’m not including the deaths of loved ones, or a national tragedy. And I’ve never been to war. But then, neither has Donald Trump. I was fortunate. He was a dodger.

But even though my legs have endured 140 degree temperature swings, nothing compares to the week Donnie Trump took on the chin, starting with the giant FBI director calling him liar.

Millions of people have called the soft-brained simpleton a liar, but this one had to sting. Good old Comey. I hope he’s on our side.

I have doubts about the Trumpster. The Russians have landed on Mar-a-Lago beach, worked their way to the tennis courts and set up camp. They’re using the nets to snag bluefish, snappers and tons of plastic champagne flutes.

And the dope is worried about malnourished 36-inch refugee Syrian kids.

I worked with a Russian woman who had been in the states for four years and could speak English better than me. Not a high bar but disconcerting for several reasons.

Holy buckets. That was an, ooooh, it-had-to-hurt week. Leave-a-mark week and other cliches.

A week of going out for passes across the middle and the prolate spheroids (I had no idea) are continually getting chucked just a smidge high, while the ornery turbo charged cornerback licks his lips, waiting to separate some limbs from their sockets, bruise some innards and break multiple ribs of the receiver, front and back. Ouch. Bring out the cart. Warm up the MRI gizmo. Call next of kin. The number is glued to the fibrillation dealy.

Oh, a 15-yard penalty? That’s pretty harsh for nationally televised assault. Wipe that smile off your face and quit giggling!

David Crosby never had such as week, and most of his parts are used. Stills, Nash, and Young are still working with original equipment, as far as I know, so no need to worry. Except about their attitudes. Bad.

Dave’s pancreas is for sale on eBay, and even he couldn’t quit snickering, while the Trump University scammer sweated off his pumpkin concealer from the Katy Perry collection and his so-called waterproof Nordstroms mascara. Sad.

And, I enjoyed every minute of it, too. I don’t know where the chickens go before they come home to roost, but there were some fat Rhode Island Reds sitting on the gropers head-nest, and the sight was splendid.

Except for the hair pile — it was really distracting the poultry — and the sight always puts me into a trance, trying to figure out the structural integrity of the fuzz. There’s no load bearing head!

Gawd, I want to take hedge clippers to those, those, what are those? Side wings? Get a grown-up haircut, for crissakes.

I was thrilled for Kevin Cramer, too. He latched onto 45’s wrinkled Chrysler-sized rear end with both thin lips and never let up on the suction.

Before this current Trump gig, Cramer used to clean behind the cushions of any crusty couch in Cass County for a nominal fee — and got to keep the change. He was famous for his vacuum-related feats in Kindred, N.D. It was a nicer place after he left, according to Trump, who heard it someplace, from somebody. Maybe everyone. I can’t understand the man.

Speaking of the bootlick, our lone congressman has been bragging about voting to repeal Obamacare 793 times. He also counts a 15-minute visit on the kiss @$$ Rob Re-Port unheard of radio phenomenon as a town hall, so his perception of actual accomplishment is different than say, well, anyone who has ever had a job.

But Cramer never thought to conjure up a better health care idea in those years, and although Trump indicated that he, and only he, had a great plan, he didn’t. It was just his latest con, and Kevin knew it. Cramer would have voted for the most depraved moronic bill, for a pat on the head from DT.

“We’re going to have insurance for everybody. There was a philosophy in some circles that if you can’t pay for it, you don’t get it. That’s not going to happen with us.” — Dirty Old Man

That was lie.

When he lies, his apologists, like Cramer, say that Trump isn’t politician, as if being a politician wrings the truth from the memory-collecting gland before shooting the words out of the face hole.

Becoming a politician since he was 8 didn’t help Cramer with truthfulness. Maybe one needs a sense of morality. And the congressman is still afraid of girls, calling in the troops to keep 18 platoons of women from delivering a petition to his Fargo office, and they weren’t even wearing white — or checkered — pantsuits.

In the middle of the health care fiasco, Rob Port, the Forum Communication blogger in their factually challenged department, wrote that Trump was being the grown-up in the room, because 45 demanded a vote, thus moving the ball down the field.

It’s not the dumbest thing Port has ever scribbled, but it just proved that the “Mouth of Minot” had no clue about the bill Trump wanted passed. If Don negotiated the building of Trump Tower in the same fashion, the skyscraper would be hollow. Echo city. Melania-free.

The grown up said:

“I was the first and only potential GOP candidate to state there will be no cuts to Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid.”

“I am going to take care of everybody. … Everybody’s going to be taken care of much better than they’re taken care of now.”

Both statements were lies, and he wanted Congress to drink a tall glass of warm swill. It’s doubtful that the president even knew how little was left of formally bad legislation because he is a child with an attention span that makes George Bush look like Thomas Jefferson.

Oh, and Paul Ryan doesn’t know how insurance works, so that was good to find out.

After two courts shut down his ban of Muslims and this failure, the good guys are up 3-0 in the bottom of the first. Trumps is just producing divots in Florida, so he has bigly problems.

RON SCHALOW: Port Fiction

Ruth Buffalo wrote a perfectly sane, accurate and compelling letter-to-the-editor a few days ago, but the truthfulness was more than the Ward County Red Snouted Port could bear. Sad.

I have never met Ruth Buffalo, but I know she is very smart because I can read and comprehend. And educated. She is also quite pretty and has a beautiful family. And I’m betting that her hair smells like lilacs.

Forum Communications Rob Port, the antidote to proper newspapering, is a liar and probably a poor bowler. I think my microwave told me that while the corned beef hash was spinning in the window like an AC/DC LP. Look it up.

Port calls the people who studied journalism, other college knowledge stuff and grasp the difference between a noun and a duckbill platypus his colleagues. I worked at Microsoft for a spell. Bill Gates wasn’t my colleague. Doug Burgum wasn’t my colleague. Most in the adjoining cells just called me, “Would you please just shut up. I’m begging you.”

I still don’t know how to do a pivot table with Excel, if that’s still a thing, but I know that loud cursing is part of the process. I took my leave before the storm troopers — or they could have just been guys with an ungodly number of keys — would bring the plastic personal belonging tub and follow along on the perp walk to the door, lest a paunchy 50-year-old — that’s the sell by date — load up on medium tip Sharpies and make a fortune on the black marker market.

I’ll get back to the liar, but that’s how Microsoft and Great Plains Software handled North Dakota people, some who put in 20, 25 years, building the business — real professionals— just to make the books look better to a buyer or to hire punks, like business casual khaki covered Ports who would work for the half the price. Not respectful. Not the family we were told. The governor knows all about this. Port thinks he likes him. To play the brat. Yes.

But I digress, as the Portweasel says regularly. Because you can’t go wrong with a cliche or the word of the day. Just use flip calendar for the date, or burn it, for crissakes. That’s it.

Nobody is allowed to talk negatively about Port’s oil friends, who use him like a player piano. That includes special pal, Congressman Kevin Cramer. Kev may as well make it official and sign on with the North Dakota Petroleum Council. It no doubt pays better.

Here’s Port’s beef with Ruth Buffalo and how his sorrowful brain decides to neutralize the truth. His headline, which may — or may not — have been promoted by the shameless InForum, the Grand Forks Herald and the Dickinson Press on their webpages.

“Democrat Who Got 26 Percent of the Vote Now Telling Us What North Dakotans Want on Flaring Rule”

Pieces are true, but put the words together, and you have another flaming pile of falsehood. Fake news. Port’s stock-in-trade. Who reads past a Port headline? BillyBob666 and a few others in the alt-right fecal fouled nest, I guess.

Then he writes, Blah, blah, blah, “letters to the editor are usually an exercise in Astroturf, on both sides of the issue, which means they usually aren’t worth commenting on.”

“But I had to say something about this letter from Ruth Buffalo who ran for Insurance commissioner on the Democratic ticket last year,” Port babbled on.

He just had to, but normally he would be too busy fretting about nature. But for this, he would break his rigid protocol and do the dance — for the children.

If Port were truthful, and he isn’t, he would admit that he slurs every person who has had the good sense, and a functional keyboard, to call him out on his unique type of logic slurry, or talks trash about about any of the industries and politicians Robbie shills for.

Compared to Port, Donald Trump has the thick exterior of a dressage dancing Aldabra giant tortoise. #Snowflake

Port continues to type nonsense. There has to be a software program to help someone like the witless wonder. Or the ability to use the Google.

Ruth: “North Dakotans support cutting natural gas waste,” reads the headline over Buffalo’s letter.

Ruth: “I was disheartened to hear that my elected representative, Rep. Kevin Cramer, is so determined to repeal the common-sense protections that will help North Dakotans and members of the Three Affiliated Tribes from natural gas waste,” she writes.

Port: “There are a couple of points worth making here.”

Port: “First, Ruth Buffalo received just 26 percent of the vote last year. Her opponent, Republican Jon Godfread, received 64 percent. Yet Buffalo is now an expert on what North Dakotans want.”

First of all, nobody, not anyone, needs more than zero percent in any election to voice their opinion. You don’t even need to run in an election, or in a marathon, or run the water, to shoot your mouth off in this country.

Ask Port. He might be able to run 10 feet, but no one knows. He’s rarely seen in the wild. An armadillo could outrun the most influential political blogger in state, as Port claims, if you startled the armored little beast. I heard that from one of Obama’s hacker and wiretapping pals, I think.

Also, Buffalo never claimed to be an expert, although maybe she is. Port just made that up. He’s been making crap up about people for years, doing little smear jobs, but the weasel really likes to set his sights on strong women, and Natives.

Oh well, let lumpy keep talking.

“C’mon. North Dakotans have made it pretty clear in one election after another that they aren’t buying what liberal Democrats like Buffalo are selling. Which isn’t to say she can’t keep trying to sell us her bill of goods. Just that she maybe shouldn’t say she’s talking for some majority of citizens in the state,” drools Port. It’s not pretty. Is that gravy?

We’ve already sorted out this election thing — it’s not relevant — and Democrats, liberal or otherwise, weren’t in Buffalo’s letter. She never claimed to speak for the Democratic Party, and she never said she was speaking for the majority of North Dakotans. The polling does, though.

Port came up with that bull$#!* in his “Gibberish for Idiots” book. This is where college might have helped the lad, but he couldn’t hack it. Not my fault. Sad.

Ruth Buffalo didn’t personally claim anything. Her statement: “A full 76 percent of North Dakotans support cutting natural gas waste on federal and tribal lands, including Republicans, Independents and Democrats,” originated from a poll taken by the Republican Public Opinion Strategies.

She told the absolute truth. I figured that out in about five minutes, but I’m just a dumb old lib$%#@ with a bad attitude and an Internet connection.

So, Port tells a lie by omitting pertinent information, all in order to slur Ruth Buffalo. Childlike. Shameless. Dishonest.

Port tightens the knot around his neck. “Second, Buffalo invokes the interests of the Three Affiliated Tribes, of which she is a member. Problem is, the tribe’s leadership supports overturning this rule.”

No she did not.

Unless Port is inferring that as a Native, Buffalo has to agree with every other Native American, or that she is required to agree with the leaders of her Tribe. She doesn’t and isn’t. And more than the hamhock from Minot is required to agree with the leaders of us white people.

“Buffalo presumes to speak for North Dakotans, and for the MHA Nation, when she really has no standing to speak for either.”

No, she did not.

Ruth said, “North Dakota’s energy resources are important for us to be able to provide for our people, but right now because of outdated and ineffective guidelines, too much of our natural gas is wasted. This waste means less tax revenue for tribes, affecting our bottom line.”

Is Port in favor of waste? Less tax revenue? He doesn’t care. He’s a poor excuse of a mouthpiece for big oil, being a liar and all. Maybe somebody else is up for the challenge? I’m sure another @$$hole could cover a few shifts. Maybe Trump has some time on his tiny hands between rounds of golf and Twittering insults.

“When methane, the primary component of natural gas, is released, so are toxics such as benzene, threatening the health of those living closest to oil and gas well sites. And for people that are struggling to make ends meet, the last thing we should have to worry about is the air we breathe,” continues Buffalo.

That is a true statement. I like a good sniff of benzene in the morning, but it’s not for everyone. Straight methane? I’m in heaven. Perhaps. It’s a tough call.

Buffalo: “I was disheartened to hear that my elected representative, Rep. Kevin Cramer, is so determined to repeal the common-sense protections that will help North Dakotans and members of the Three Affiliated Tribes from natural gas waste.”

I’m disheartened by most things that come out of Cramer’s mouth. Nauseous, really. Has anyone sucked up to a lunatic like 45, so openly since a moron said, “Sure, I’ll be Tyler, too. What’s a Tippecanoe?” He was no friend of the Natives, either, and also had a fear of white garments.

“The oil and gas industry is determined to override the will of the American people. A full 76 percent of North Dakotans support cutting natural gas waste on federal and tribal lands, including Republicans, Independents and Democrats.”

This is true. Backed up by a Republican polling firm, as I noted. Why does Port forget to report, or whatever you call what he does, these statistics. His “colleagues” would have. That’s what he might have heard on the talking painting in the bedroom.

Buffalo again. “We (speaking for the 76 percent) hope that Sens. Heidi Heitkamp and John Hoeven do not make the same mistake. We urge them to help the people of North Dakota get a fair share of their resources and not put the health of our state ahead of the oil and gas lobby.”

Good luck with that, but we can hope. The Legislature will probably give Harold Hamm the $12 we have left.

“The industry wants to be able to do whatever they want, whenever they want, even if it hurts us. We need oil and gas development to be done responsibly,” writes Buffalo.

It’s true. The oil industry has run roughshod over this state, and the sycophants, including Port, just wave at them. He once wrote that it shouldn’t matter where the exploding trains came from. Doofus. Like we don’t want to know where the rancid meat originated so we can fix the problem. Actually, no Republican in a North Dakota office wanted to fix the problem.

Port rationalized the enormous number of worker deaths in the Bakken. He rationalized every type of spill. Put him in a cheerleader outfit, already. Ugh.

Of course, our congressman, with a straight face, said that it was discrimination to call Bakken crude, Bakken crude. He was worried that people might find out who had the most explosive gases in their tankers of crude. He didn’t say what we should call it, though. Short attention span.

Port and Cramer. Cut from the same white cloth.

Buffalo wraps up her letter. “Our senators should stand up for North Dakotans to ensure that we see the return on our resources and improved quality of life.”

Shouldn’t they? I thought that was the idea of this whole Republic thing, but then you have those screaming howler monkeys who will lie to advance the wishes of the most profitable industry the world has ever seen.

Port is a liar.