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: Picky Patriotism

“I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

We would chant this oath every morning in the first grade in 1962. I was happy to do it, not that I had a choice. Stand up, face the flag, put the right hand over the heart and recite.

Some of it made sense. A little context would have helped. Like, why was this necessary? I wasn’t going anywhere. Crossing the street was only tolerated at certain intersections. Were we being indoctrinated for future manipulation? I trusted my teacher that I wasn’t participating in anything subversive. She looked honorable.

The honorable Miss Johnson was the only teacher to ever give me an F. I was asking for it. I was born disgruntled. She gave us a coloring project, which was insulting. I knew how to color. I had been coloring for ages. Let’s get this education thing on the road, miss. So, I did the whole picture in black and I didn’t stay in the lines. It was my Goya period. Deal with that, Miss Johnson! I nonviolently demonstrated against wasting my time. As it turns out, I wasn’t the first smart@$$ 6-year-old she had run across. Hoisted by my own pencil case.

Actually, I don’t think I ever had a pencil case, or anything that took more than one Trump-sized hand to carry home. Now, grade 2 grunts are lugging around backpacks sized for Navy Seals going on a long mission. Are they secretly bivouacking on a regular basis?

Anyway, we did the pledge, practiced our cursive, got fed some fictional history, tried not to sniff the freshly mimeographed papers, sang off-key about some girl over the ocean and recessed to the playground to hone our survival instincts.

I don’t recall any fatalities, but plenty of small bodies flew off the merry-go-round and bit the dust. Technology hadn’t yet determined the relationship between speed, mass and gravel. And, luckily, we weren’t allowed to have ACL’s at the time.

We could almost make that disk fly — and tried — but we were physics ignorant. Still, had a generator been hooked up, when the pushers reached top speed, before they fell from exhaustion and vomited, we could have lit up south Minot, which was smaller at the time. Very doable.

The metal jungle gym was fun, until some jerk stole one of the highest crossbars, and my muscle memorization had my hand flailing in the air, and I face planted into the hard dirt. I think they tamped down the gravel and soil at night. Fun times.

I made no pledges to those lethal implements, though, but centrifugal forces in my brain have forced a memory drift to the dangerous side of elementary school.

I don’t recall when we stopped doing the pledge every morning. Most likely, as soon as we were old enough to understand the meaning. And what was it with the repetition? Was there a danger of some young punk changing sides in the middle of the night? They never said who was on the other side when we were at our oathing peak.

The president only has to recite his oath of office once, and he has more people in his administration who can speak Russian than can understand Trumpian. Try to find a Rosetta Stone language lesson that unravels ravings in Trumpian.

Was J. Edgar Hoover satisfied that the pledges took hold, even though one-third of grade 1 was saying invisible, and the other two-thirds were looking out the window? Evidently.

So, anyway, the pledge of allegiance faded out of my life. At least I wasn’t required to say it 200 times per year anymore. But\ if pledging and staring was the requirement for patriotism, I was patrioted up to my eyeballs.

Worth noting. That school was a fortress, so naturally it was demolished. Stupidity.

Then, decades later, some people took offense at some behavior displayed while the anthem was being played, so I figured I better watch myself a little closer.

I mostly know what to do when the National Anthem is played, although it’s not required by law. Most people do, but it’s hardly a given that the majority of people in the vicinity will do as they were taught, or mime the person next to them.

Stand up, dammit. Remove your hat, unless you’re wearing one of those giant Kentucky Derby ladies hats. Those are allowed, for some reason. Probably because they need to be stapled to the head. Fortunately, I have no hats bigger than a manhole cover.

Put your right hand over your heart. And even though you aren’t supposed to have anything in your hands during the anthem, you may hold your hat in your right hand and place it over your heart. Don’t even think about removing your hand until after the last note.

Look at the flag throughout the anthem. Don’t turn around and visit with your friend you saw an hour ago. Don’t monkey around with your phone, or whatever else that’s been invented since last week.

Watch the singer if there is no flag. No flag? Talk about no respect. Borrow one from Perkin’s for crissakes. They’ve been using the American flag improperly as a marketing tool, anyway. And they aren’t the only ones. Do you think the NFL whips out a flag the size of a wheat field every game because they’re so damn patriotic? Nope. They are working on your emotions. Hundreds of companies use the American flag as a prop. Not cool.

Shut the hell up!

No eating or drinking during the song. And do not set your bratwurst on the head of the person in front of you, even it is as flat a coffee table.

Stop chewing your gum until the anthem is over. You can leave it in your mouth, but don’t chew, if you know what’s good for you. I think you can swallow it, but not in a showy way.

Sing along if you want, but I would prefer it if you didn’t. Everyone would rather if you didn’t. You are not a good singer, and if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re lying.

Remove your sunglasses. This one got me. Of course, I won’t be able to see the flag, which seems counterproductive, but I don’t make the rules. And since glasses don’t cost seven times more than my first car, if you order them online, I also have pairs with 10 percent and 50 percent tint. I have no clue what the ruling is on those. I think I may lose points for vanity.

Cheering after the song is over is not allowed. No applause, please, you commie. You could claim that you’re actually clapping for the game that is about to begin, and not Beyonce, but we all know better. Clap for the fly-over, if you wish, if you can afford a seat for a game that gets the Air Force involved.

Airliners frequently fly over Fargo sports fields. Cheer if you don’t care if other people think you’re loopy.

Don’t put your hand over your heart or salute a foreign flag, you traitor. Drones could be watching.

No hiding in the bathroom, or behind a skinny tree.

Lastly, do not allow a large green parrot to sit your shoulder, their perch of preference, and certainly no type of waterfowl. No birds is a good rule of thumb.

So, it’s clear that everyone has disrespected the flag. What’s your beef? Is there something you’re protesting? Unpatriotic jerk!

Of course, there are no laws requiring a citizen to respect the flag, but don’t expect to be employed if you’re caught with a finger in your ear on the big screen while the rockets red glare.

We could discuss all of the events where the National Anthem is played and the flag is displayed, but let’s focus on football.

We’ve established that everyone in the stands is a turncoat, but what about the players, at all levels?

For starters, the anthem is rarely played before any game below the varsity level. What’s their problem? You spend your youngest years repeatedly pledging allegiance, and then you have to be talented enough to make the varsity team to rate our national song. It seems arbitrary to me. How rebellious to ignore patriotic protocol. Very cheeky.

When the anthem is played, society demands you behave in a certain way, but not playing it all is acceptable? It seems so.

When the music starts, how many players have their hands grasping the front of their shoulder pads, or have their arms to their sides, or are talking, or looking around? Are they chewing gum or continuing with their warmups. How many are so bright, they have wear shades?

Who decided that one particular violation of the rules of National Anthem etiquette is more deplorable than all of the others?

Who decided that 99.9 percent of anthem rule violations are committed scorn free, but raising a fist, or taking knee, is an unforgivable unpatriotic sin?

Several other flag offenses worth noting

  • Our flag is not a decoration, people. If you want blue, white and red stripes for your fabulous event, buy the bunting, and make sure the blue stripe is on top.
  • It is not to be used for advertising. No flag cushions, handkerchiefs, napkins, boxes, paper plates or anything that will discarded after use.
  • The flag is not a costume or clothing. Duck Dynasty hillbillies shouldn’t be using the flag as a headband to absorb hillbilly sweat. Chris Christie should not be wearing a tank top with the image of the flag on it, for more reasons than one. No Spandex. No nothing for civilians. The Tea Party abused this encoded rule of flag decorum with abandon.

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

And he who thinks that this country is fair for everyone, and nobody has any justifiable grievances, continue to bark in your American flag panties.

RON SCHALOW: The Men In The High Tower

The North Dakota Republican Party put all of their gold coins on the Camarillo White Horse in the 5th race on the 7th fairway.

“North Dakotans elected President Trump because he promised to enact policies that would improve our economy, make our country safer, and improve the lives of folks here at home,” said North Dakota GOP Chairman Kelly Armstrong. — Dunn County Extra

I see. A series of Trump promises clinched the three electoral votes.
“Chairman Armstrong and local GOP leaders highlighted the importance of electing North Dakota officials willing to implement President Trump’s agenda.” — Dunn County Extra

Does anyone know what Trump’s agenda is?

“Armstrong argued the strengthening national economy and job growth since President Donald Trump took office demonstrates his “agenda of making American great again is working, and it’s working in North Dakota.” — Bismarck Tribune

Well, that’s not true, but it is the Trump era.

State Sen. Kelly Armstrong of Dickinson, chairman of the state Republican Party, said North Dakota is a conservative state and we deserve elected officials who represent our values.” — Bismarck Tribune

We do.

So, the North Dakota Republican Party bends their knee to the mad king and pledges fealty to the 71 year old child.

Bold move, on the part of the North Dakota Republicans, to latch unabashedly to the 16 foot “Made in Bangladesh” red silk necktie of Donnie John. Because he exemplifies North Dakota “values.” Does he?

It’s especially gutsy, considering Trump’s first few months of tweeting and yelling at the wind and passing cars. I can’t even imagine how many more lies, and failures, 45 will rack up in the next 14 months.

Of course, there are pluses to marrying your party to a sociopathic narcissist. If you’re selling your soul to the Prince of Darkness’s half wit brother-in-law, there better be.

The statute of limitations has solved Trump’s p**** grabbing assaults, and his walking through the dressing rooms of teen girls was just creepy, although it should be a felony. So, the grabber isn’t technically a sex offender. Whew! The grabber isn’t technically a sex offender, would look great on a bumper sticker or t-shirt. Maybe a hat.

It will be cheap to repair Texas and Louisiana, after the hurricane Harvey disaster, since Trump has this silly habit of not paying contractors. One less thing to worry about. Hopefully, nobody catches on before Florida needs remodeling. And Oregon, Idaho, and Montana burn to the ground. Trump likes states that don’t burn to the ground, or get 5 feet of rain on his vacation. Losers.

And, even though storms are becoming more frequent and violent, due to warmer oceans and air temperatures, it doesn’t matter, because Donnie John doesn’t believe in global warming, which matches up nicely with the science denial of the North Dakota Republican Party, and their shills. He actually seems to be taking pride in the record breaking scale of the storms.

We can easily afford another $500 billion, or a trillion dollars, more in disaster expenses per year. Coal jobs have been saved, though, by golly. I think five. Maybe six. The market for skinny chickens still hasn’t recovered.

It turns out that kicking 800,000 young people out of America, and deporting them to a country where they have never lived is “compassionate,” which a saleable word, as opposed to “cruel,” which makes Republican values seem mean. Trump has the best words. Lucky that.

Donnie can get the best deals on foreign made Tiki torches. Great deals. And when the midnight parade has finished, and the town is officially terrorized, the bamboo novelty items can be repurposed to light up the next synagogue on the list. They are reusable and make great gifts for your more paranoid and bigoted constituents.

Trump came. He saw. He proclaimed North Dakota to have 5,634,000 citizens, which breaks a record and will put strain on all government services, which calls for another tax cut for the oil companies, which the ND GOP denies doing, but we wrote it down. On good quality paper. They did it, at the expense of the people who actually live here. Sad.

Teleprompters are great again. Trump chooses to watch TV on them, though, which lowers their effectiveness.
The president comes pre-tinted, ready for any occasion, where looks aren’t an issue. And should you get trapped in an elevator with the loco hombre, his hair can be weaved into a 60 foot ladder.

Don John has been keeping our sole congressman pleased. For perverse political reasons, Kevin Cramer latched onto the juicy rear end of the lumpen KFC fed beast like a leech several years ago, and suctions in the rich plasma by the quart. It keeps him off the streets at night.
Birds nests have made a comeback as headwear. The loser birds aren’t happy. Sad.

Alternate facts are the in thing because of 45, and he’ll sell you a dozen Trump brand facts for the low low price of $1,995. Tell a lie, over and over, and there is no downside, as long as it is Trump authorized.

It’s hard to be humble when you’re Trumpian in every way. Boasting about your wealth and your great stuff, or your sweet parking spot, used to be frowned upon in this state. No more. Brag away. You may get punched out quite often, until everyone learns the new rules, and then by people who don’t care for the new rules, but keep it up…

Intellect is out, so no worries if some N.D. lawmakers haven’t had much book lernin’. “We’re doing everything we can, but you have a very serious drought,” continued Trump, who also noted that he did not know that droughts could happen in areas “this far north” in the United States. (Vibe) He learned that on a statue. And where the hell are the penguins? Daddy, I came to see the penguins, moans Ivanka.

Don is cutting way back on refugees allowed into the U.S., and established the Muslim ban. Only 7 people in the world qualify, under Trump rules, to simply immigrate to the United States, including the folks who were born here.

Plus, the 800,000 mostly brown younglings he’s chucking out. It adds up. This leaves very little for our own bigots to do. Scapegoats will be needed. Never mind. White nationalists still have the Natives to kick around.

“The Wall” will solve nothing, except provide a little shade for tired Border Patrol agents. A few trees would have resolved that issue. It’s still a good deceitful (nobody cares) talking point for Aryan legislators, though. Mexico isn’t paying for it, but keep repeating it.
Lies. Pshaw. The Washington Post calculated that Trump made 492 false or misleading statements in his first 100 days. Doesn’t matter. Fake news. “Straight talk,” is what it really is, according to N.D. Governor Doug Burgum, who is well known to be a smart human. Can it be possible that he is actually falling for Trump’s bull$#!*? I doubt it.

It isn’t politically correct for a North Dakota Republican to suggest that the big spongy dope tells lies. The mob believes Fox and Friends as translated by Wonderbread, his handle on Stormfront.

Russia. Russia. Russia. She get’s everything. We love Putin, and who cares if they screwed around with our election system? Get over it. Republicans found a way to get past piddly things, like tampering. It’s Obama who is the enemy. He climbed Trump Tower and installed bugs, among other things, like being black. Remember that. Blame Americans first.

Shame. What shame? It no longer exists, and a lot of emotional stress is washed away. Some in the North Dakota GOP already had no shame, so they’re good with Trump, but now the rest can carry on accordingly.

Voter fraud is a thing. DJ said so. Millions falsely voted for that pantsuited Clinton woman. And all of the criminals are poor and brown. If anyone knows about fraud, it’s the Donald. Everybody who ponied up the $30,000 to enroll in Trump University is now wealthy. Honest. Believe me.

And 45 already screwed over the LGBT community, so denying the group rights and protections at the state level will be much easier.
Trump’s trillion dollar infrastructure plan (cough) involves selling off publicly owned assets and expecting corporations to upgrade and maintain the road, bridge, or park. It’s not funny, so quit smirking.

Taboo for right-wingers, who think everything is a meritocracy, when hardly anything is, nepotism is back in vogue. If only TJ had a bigger family, so more unqualified people could wander through Oval office meetings.

We’re also going to lower corporate taxes, without increasing the deficit. Some trickling, they say will happen in some circles. It’s not funny, so quit smirking.

North Dakota Republicans need to keep fighting, along with clueless, to take health coverage away from millions of low-income workers. What is this anyway? A developed country?

Hang in there, ND GOP. Doughboy might not be insane, and a billionaire from New York is not one of the east coast elites.
Good-bye Mar-a-Lago. I hope hurricane Irma misses everything else.

RON SCHALOW: The White Nationalist Next Door

Several days after my birth, we were driving home, up the big Third Street hill in Minot, and I was listening to Eisenhower speechify on the radio. It was a bit staticy, but I remember it like it was just several minutes ago. Frankly, he was boring.

President Ike was still in his first term and pledged to remain ever steamed at the Nazis, until flowers bloomed on the moon, at minimum. He was in the business of killing them not many years before becoming president, so Eisenhower didn’t have mixed feelings about Nazis. They were always bad. NOBODY compared. Over 400,000 Americans died in that war.

“During World War II, we we rushed to develop nuclear weapons because we were trying to defeat the Nazis, who, fun fact, pretty much all Americans thought were bad at the time.” — John Oliver

We liked Ike. He was stable, sane and looked better than fat@$$ Don in a golf outfit.  Eisenhower never tweeted and didn’t lie every 15 minutes. At the time, we had no idea that Dwight WASN’T getting up in the middle of the night to cuss out various people and talk smack on the White House party line. He behaved normally, to my recollection, and the clincher for me, Ike and I, looked liked twins when I was 3 days old. Bald as a Brunswick bowling ball and a pate as smooth as a newborn goat. My eyesight wasn’t fully operative, yet.

In 1957, the former general sent the National Guard into Arkansas, backed up by Fargo’s Judge Ronald Davies, to enable the Little Rock Nine, black youths, to safely attend school with the white kids. Dwight stepped up and did the right thing. Many whites weren’t happy. Too many still aren’t.

Dwight had dignity, and he was a tough SOB. Had Eisenhower witnessed the spectacle of Donald Trumps’s bat$#!* insane hee-haw tribalist airing of grievances for 77 minutes (all that was missing was the Festivus pole and the feats of strength) in Arizona, he would have latched onto Donnie John’s testicles with a pair of needle nose pliers and squeezed until 45 coughed up the keys to the country.

And if he knew that Trump was pandering to the tiki tots and their ideological inbred cousins, providing aid and comfort to the enemy, Ike would have done cool things, not approved by the Geneva Conventions, to Donnie with his two iron.

“You had a group on one side that was bad and you had a group on the other side that was also very violent. nobody wants to say it, but I will say it right now.” — D. Trump

Nobody who stands up to heavily armed white supremacists is on any other side except good, but the alt-right knew how to interpret the president’s words. Fifty percent is a win for these @$$holes.

Many tried to convince us that hundreds were just there to to gaze into the bronze nostrils of Gen. Lee’s horse, Traveller, just one more time. Such malarkey.

And there are those like Fargo’s Scott Hennen, the frothing radio voice of the tattered fringe right over several blocks in downtown Fargo, who thought the sight of a marching herd of Nazis carrying kitschy Polynesian style torches and chanting racist favorites in an American city was a partisan issue. Maybe to his listeners, and Hennen’s twisted mind, but I would still like to think that most Republicans are anti-white supremacy. And certainly they are against a terrorist attacks, even if the perpetrator isn’t Muslim. Aren’t they?

Unfortunately, in North Dakota, Republican politicians are inclined to attach their campaigns to the mad king. Evidently, the Trumpster fire is still a popular figure with the N.D. GOP and its voters. And it boils to white identity politics, which isn’t new but was relegated to damp rock undersides with the other slimy critters.

Generally, being a racist wasn’t something you wanted to advertise. At least not in this state.

Then along comes the Trump idiot, hitting all of the right notes, for a range of bigots on the spectrum.

Mexicans are rapists, we’re going to build the best wall to keep them out. We’re going to make it so that an immigrant has to have a Nobel prize and be a gold medal Olympic pole vaulter in order to meet the new requirements for entry. The Muslim ban, that made no sense. Birtherism, that was a racial lie. Refugees can wait a few more years because the numbers to be allowed in have been greatly reduced. Transgender people can no longer serve in the military. A stone cold racist and cruel dick is given a presidential pardon. The dip praises a CNN pundit who was fired for tweeting a Nazi slogan. Donnie uses Pocahontas as a slur.  He’s currently screwing with the Dreamers. And then the equivocation on Nazis.

“Jews will not replace us, blood and soil, heil Trump, one people, one nation, end immigration, White Lives Matter, f**k you, fa**ots, and “Go the f**k back to Africa.” Some right-wing demonstrators called specific people “ni**ers” or “fa**ots.” Yes, good people.

“This city is run by Jewish communists and criminal ni**ers,” one @$$hole told Vice News’ Elspeth Reeve.

“As Jews prayed at a local synagogue, Congregation Beth Israel, men dressed in fatigues carrying semiautomatic rifles stood across the street, according to the temple’s president. Nazi websites posted a call to burn their building. As a precautionary measure, congregants had removed their Torah scrolls and exited through the back of the building when they were done praying.” — Reform Judaism

“For my part, if I should ever get the chance to confront Richard Spencer (white supremacist honcho), I think I’d conclude my cross-examination with the proposition that by his views and actions he had implicitly renounced his American citizenship and should therefore be deported.” — Steven Hayward, libertarian and conservative author

So, our North Dakota Republicans aren’t running away from this racist in the Oval Office and some who have called for ethnic cleansing. Their constituents evidently find Trump just swell. But, don’t believe me. Forum Communications employs a shill boy blogger, who carries vast amount of oil for his legislative pals, and was responsible for this headline:

“Port: ND politicos are treating Trump like an election year asset”

“Maybe Trump isn’t the political liability some would like us to think. Some will say otherwise, but how the politicians place their bets speaks louder than words,” Port wrote.

Sounds about right. We’ve been hearing the high-pitched squeals, only audible to beagles, complaining about migrant workers, refugees, Native Americans and the LGBT community for years, and someone has been reassuring those with concerns about keeping these groups in check. Some descendants of Europeans feel that white Christian identity is being threatened by ethnic diversity and multiculturalism.

Here’s what Port had to say before the election and prior to his forced Trump brand blood transfusion:

  • “While the left overplays the race card, Trump seems content to pander to actual paranoid racists.”
  • “Trump knows exactly how dumb his supporters are and has manipulated their ignorance to great effect.”
  • “The 2016 election for president now looks to be a competition between corrupt, bought off Clintonism and the former host of “Celebrity Apprentice” whose “America first” campaign has taken on the overtones of a modern sort of fascism.”

Perhaps the next time a legislative candidate knocks on your door, be sure to look through peephole and if you see a torch, latch the deadbolt.

“Since my boyhood, I had accepted without qualification the right to equality before the law of all citizens of this country, whatever their race or color or creed. In World War II, I had affirmed my belief in this principle through orders desegregating many Red Cross clubs, while during some stages of the fighting, I had sent into previous all-white units Negro replacements who not only fought well but also encountered little or no resentment from their comrades.” — D.D. Eisenhower

RON SCHALOW: Nazis Wear Lederhosen And Dance Funny

While browsing through pictures of the racists who $#!* on Charlottesville, Va., and who misappropriated a perfectly innocent backyard implement for lighting ambiance and the repellent of some insects (for evil and poorly choreographed parading, which probably voided the damn warranty), I noticed a few things.

This was the least superior gaggle of goose steppers that could have been scrounged up. Evidently a secondhand store, a J. Crew, Comicon, Army surplus store, Bed Bath & Beyond, and a postrally Sturgis pawn shop, all blew up in a another dimension and vomited up a mess of white supremacist @$$holes, with bad haircuts.

As one of the 97 percent in Fargo who could claim to be Aryan, these mutts of doubtful pedigree weren’t the cream of the crop, as far as descendants of northern Europeans go. I can see why most of them would be self-conscience. I’m no prize, but good lord. Have these orcs never heard of a dry cleaner, a washing machine or an iron?

I’ve watched numerous documentaries on the KKK, and I have yet to see one dude who was anything but unattractive to the point of scaring the hideous. David Duke is supposed be their most presentable? I don’t see it. Is that why they wear the laundry on their head? The rest of them should probably consider concealing their faces, too. Perhaps with backward motorcycle helmets.

Furthermore, I think most of these clowns should be spitting into a test tube and mailing the sample ASAP to 23andMe, to at least get the Neanderthal percentage, and hope they’re officially a modern man. As for the bloodlines, I wouldn’t want to besmirch any race by claiming a relation to these saps, but let’s just say, there are some blue contact lenses on a few orbs. And few eyes have stared at the sun too long.

And, for the record, Black Lives Matter isn’t comparable to any of these hateful groups.

Antifa is not nearly as violent as the alt-right, although I don’t see why breaking windows is a thing. Anarchist seems to be on the resume. They didn’t make up more than a fraction of the anti-hate protesters in Charlottesville. Black-clad persons with black bandanas over their faces didn’t show up in many photos.

There is no such thing as the alt-left.

The Nazis were not Bernie Sanders-type socialists, for crissakes.

The president seems be to under the impression that all of the protestors against the alt-right were from the left. How would he know? He doesn’t know anything else. Are conservatives not anti-Nazi? It would seem odd if they weren’t. It’s peculiar enough that Trump is a Nazi apologist, but my dad was a Nixon man in 1960, and he sure wasn’t any fan of Nazis, since his generation lost a lot of people destroying Hitler for the rest of us.

There seems to be a lot of lunkheads in North Dakota cheering on the guys with the Nazi and Confederate flags, though. The comment sections are full of them. If these people think this country ever was a white’s only club, they are as clueless as those who think history is learned from a statue.

So now this Peter Tefft character, who claims to be merely an activist for whites (whatever our gripes) — although he was seen playing with the other kids in the circle of hell with the worst parking — is thinking about holding a Charlotteville type rally in Fargo. This has been said many times, but it bears repeating; If you wander by a group skipping along to the tune of, “the Jews won’t replace us,” and join them, you’re not a good person.

Of course, the usual media suspects are doing their best to forget what a white supremacist stands for, and providing rationalizations for everything, including Trump. KVLY, of course; Scott Hennen, who is livid most of the time, anyway; and the Forum’s little blogger, Rob Port.

Port is deathly afraid that violence will silence the alt-right voice because nobody knows what white nationalists stand for. The only one silenced in Charlotteville was Heather Heyer, but he doesn’t mention her in his Sunday (cough) column. Or the injured in the terrorist attack. Such a phony. Such a hypocrite.

Voldeport wants everyone to sit in a crop circle, hold hands and listen to — with wide eyes — what he has called political speech. And when the Nazis are finished, they sit down with their flags of the losers and listen politely while speakers explain why we aren’t going to ship all very nonwhite’s “somewhere” or kill them because they make you feel uncomfortable. Then, we’ll all hug, go have a beer, braid some hair and call it a day.

It’s not OK to punch a Nazi, Port says. Some people claim that it is OK, he claims, without naming anyone. Well, here’s one for you. David Fransen is saying it was OK (right on Hennen’s Facebook page — below) to kill Heather Heyer. Can I punch him or does that upset your tender sensibilities, Port? Right-wing terrorism. Do you have the stones to admit that much?

Port was the same idiot who spent many months doing what he could to denigrate Native Americans, using false propaganda he was fed like strained peaches. He also wants to know (many times) what refugees are costing us (dog whistle), even though it’s likely nothing. But, don’t call him a bigot. Sad.

Port. You’re bigot, and possibly a churlish J. R. R. Tolkien character who often forgets to wear pants.

I’m curious to see how many Fargoans who identify with the swastika will come out to protest the Jews, and whoever else they don’t like, with this Tefft kid, although I don’t think he is bright enough to pull it off. Will they use modern technology like flashlights. And how many lawmakers will show? Especially those who made common cause with the not well-improvised explosive device in the oval office.

Tina Fey suggests eating a cake

“And then next time, when you see a bunch of white boys, boys in polo shirts screaming about taking our country back, and you want to scream, ‘It’s not our country — we stole it. We stole it from the Native Americans. And when they have a peaceful protest at Standing Rock, we shoot at them with rubber bullets. But we let you chinless turds march through the streets with semiautomatic weapons.’ When you want to yell that, don’t yell it at the Klan, Colin. Yell it into the cake. Then, when Ann Coulter crawls out of her roach motel, and says, ‘Uh, antifa attacked Republicans in Berkeley,’ and you’re like, ‘OK, yard sale Barbie, but the other side is Nazis and Klansmen. And also, who drove the car into the crowd? Hillary’s e-mails?’”

###

“Heather Heyer was not on the street in Charlottesville, Va., as an innocent bystander. She was there as an agitator, a counterprotester. She was with a group of anti-Americans who were demanding that you agree with them. If you didn’t agree with them, they refer to you as a Nazi and as a Fascist. Having a bunch of white thugs gathering and chanting racial slurs and threats did nothing but play directly into to the hands of the group that included Heather Heyer.” — David Fransen, Aberdeen, S.D.

RON SCHALOW — If The Pillowcase Fits …

A few years ago, before the Fargo Forum’s Rob Port banned me from his brain cell-resistant Sayanything blog Facebook page, I found myself politely conversing, for my part, with a Grand Forks member of the III percent right-wing militia group. He cursed like a wet pirate with R-rated dagger wounds. I was soooo frightened, but I pulled myself together with a nice glass of milk.

If you look at the III percent website, they’re armed, have scary logos and are supposedly prepared to attack, if our government strays from their idea of how our government should operate. You know, the tyranny thing. They are ready to kill police, soldiers and, oh, they are so unready. The poor traitorous dears.

Anyway, being a curious guy, I asked, what date are you characters planning to pounce? I would like to get situated on my porch, with a lawn chair and beverage, and watch the action. I was told that it was none of my business, but I would be first to get my throat cut, along with other liberals. I guess they’re trying to conserve bullets.

Well, OK then. Seems harsh, but the liberal doesn’t rub off, so a minority in North Dakota I shall be. F you III percent dude and all of your pets.

They claim that race isn’t an issue, but their membership spiked when Obama was elected and again when Black Lives Matters came to being. So, race is kinda involved.

I don’t know if any these III percent mutts, or other militia species, went to Charlottesville, Va., and stood with the white supremacists, white nationalists, the KKK, neo-Nazis, alt-righters and other feral hate groups that figured out Google maps and had extra torches on hand.

There are no rationalizations for ugly white supremacists toting long guns, reprehensible props and flags of enemies, walking through an American city, although Rob Port, Scott Hennen and plenty of others are trying. NO, the white supremacists and the counter demonstrators are NOT just two sides of the same coin.

Excusing overt racism is despicable and puts the apologist in the same bunker as the other deep thinkers, staring at ammo, freeze-dried diced beef and the chemical toilet. Enjoy.

Racism is an American pastime, and it still permeates North Dakota. Did you think that Pete Tefft was our only white supremacist? Good grief. North Dakota is infested with white supremacists, white nationalists, racists, bigots, alt-righters and others in the same ideological subdivision.

They need to be rooted out — and outed. Whether that turns out to be a useful strategy, or people take it as a compliment, and a benefit to their reputation, at least we’ll know who is who.

Recent studies have determined that right-wing terrorism has been more dangerous to U.S. citizens living in the homeland than any Muslim-related terror. Yet, we spend many billions specifically earmarked to keep tabs on Islamic extremists, but Republicans in Congress kill any efforts to deal with the right-wing threat. It’s quite stupid.

Especially important to name are those in charge. Racists that sit on city councils, hold legislative seats, work for the government and the loudmouths who have a daily radio or print presence. I’ve already named a couple.

North Dakota is one the most homogenous states in the union, but there are still Native Americans to kick around, as they always have been. The stereotypes never change, and we’re lucky enough to have a blogger willing to smear the First People at the drop of a Twinkie. His blog numbers go way up whenever the weasel trots out his bigotry and aims at the Natives, LGBTQ or refugees. Blogboy will claim so many of his fans are falsely labeled as racists or bigots, but I say… if the pillowcase fits, pal …

I think that Russian president groper has established where he stands. And we have so many of our lawmakers, at every level, who find Trump’s white friendly schtick, a dream come true. After eight years of suffering, somehow through competent governess, it’s good to get the old Nazi flag out the closet for the first time and march for the right to have separate water fountains once again.

So, disavow, sincerely, the supremacy bull$#!*, you North Dakota D.C. reps, leaders in our state executive branch, legislators, mayors, council people, commissioners, or prepare to be outed. As Sam Kinison screamed at a sweaty Rodney Dangerfield, “SAY IT! SAY IT!”

Then, you can brag or complain.

RON SCHALOW: Port Whine, Part 3 — Blusterbum

It’s been a tough few weeks for North Dakota media star Rob Port. He was outed as an unwitting copy machine (an HP, I think) for the DAPL propaganda team. Voldeport has absolutely no idea which words he published to advance Energy Transfer Partners, and his pal Kelcy Warren’s, interests, were true, and which were false, and probably doesn’t care. It’s not his style.

The Fargo Forum might care. I think they did once. Newspapers used to be fussy about the truth.

So far, Port has chosen not to address the charges of premeditated stenography, by multiple sources. He hasn’t made any denials or excuses. Who you gonna call?

His blog numbers are dropping faster than 45’s approval ratings, as has his word count. I’m all for the minimalist approach when it comes to posts by Port. You can’t lie, at least in print, if nothing gets typed. Smart move by Forum Communications.

This weeks Portfolio of Shame:

The Smear of Rep. Kris Wallman

“ND Democrat criticizes gender, skin color of Republican candidates,” reads Port’s very serious headline. The hound had sniffed out another major scandal by one of those darn Democrats and stretched the bounds of mediocrity, once again..

The implication was that Kris Wallman was a racist and sexist, because she was pulling for two experienced Democratic women in District 21, over two inexperienced Republican men.

Wallman also accurately stated that the North Dakota Legislature is made up of mostly white men? Not politically correct to say? Has offense been taken? Have the dueling pistols been oiled and dusted?

I don’t even know how you criticize gender or skin color. “Say Bob, your forearms seem to have slipped into beige. You know we require our employees to sport a Dutch white shade. Over your entire body this time, Bob! No sunshine for you, mister. And knock off the manly spitting, and the haphazard urinating in traffic.”

To even insinuate that Kris Wallman is prejudiced, in any way, is more pea-brained than claiming that Rob Port is a prima ballerina, or a trapeze artist.

I think Port needs to learn how to diagram a sentence.

Port has well documented issues with woman, Native Americans, and he denies the very existence of discrimination, racism, and inequality in North Dakota. Sounds like a hypocrite.

The Smear of Rep. Gail Mooney

“Democrat Legislator Says Kevin Cramer Makes Her Want To Take A Shower,” the Port headline begs for attention.

If she DIDN’T feel like a shower, it would be a concern.

“This morning she had a run-in with Rep. Kevin Cramer,” says Port, if a run-in means standing in the same line for coffee.

It doesn’t.

Then, he writes, “…you’d think someone elected to public office would avoid such childish antics in a public venue.” Representative Mooney didn’t do anything in public, unless a childish antic is standing in line for coffee.

It’s not.

And, watching synthetic Cramer “flirting” with the barista in his typical smarmy fashion, lots of people would feel like taking a shower. I would. Whenever I see the Congressmen talk, or hear his latest words of lunacy, I feel the need for a good soak.

Ugh.

It’s hardly a scandal, but Port often runs out of real material. He finishes the brilliant blog post with, “But there’s a lot of hate out there. Which is unfortunate.”

If Port wants to see some hate, all he has to do is read the anonymous comments under this, and every other, horse$#!* set of paragraphs, the nit-wit scribbles. As moderator, Port never shuts down the stone cold bigots and misogynists.

The Smear of Michelle Obama

I can about see Port’s eyes get big. OMG! The Obama’s are commies, and he’ll be the first to connect the dots. Maybe he’ll get to meet Tucker Carlson. What a rube.

The Christian Science Monitor, Salon and CNN sort out this embarrassment for the eelport.

“On a trip to Washington, conservative talk show host and blogger Rob Port took a tour of the White House, and while there he saw something that he found alarming. On a shelf in the White House library he spied two books titled “The American Socialist Movement, 1897-1912” and “The Socialist Party of America.” — Christian Science Monitor

Burn them! I’m alarmed!

“By itself, (the placement of the books in the library] wouldn’t be that big of a deal,” Port admitted. “But in the context of Anita Dunn (White House Communications Director from April through November 2009) saying Chairman Mao is her favorite political philosopher? In the context of the Mao ornament on the White House Christmas tree? In the context of Obama’s economic policies? Well, I’ll let you make your own call.” — Christian Science Monitor

My call is that you’re a delusional oddball, Port.

“In reality, Fox News itself noted that the “first lady’s office says local community groups were asked to decorate hundreds of ornaments but that they are unaware of these specific decorations.” — Salon

Whoops.

“The blog speedily picked up comments and links and looked to be on its way to creating a small firestorm before The Washington Post stepped in. “The only problem is the books Port photographed have been sitting in the library since 1963,” the Post reported. “The library came into being during the presidency of Franklin Roosevelt. In 1961, First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy asked Yale University librarian James T. Babb to oversee a committee that would select books for the library. In 1963, 1,780 were placed on the shelves.” — Christian Science Monitor

Whoops.

Among those 1,780 books selected in 1963 were the two socialist titles that drew Port’s attention. Apparently they have been sitting quietly on the White House shelves for several decades now, including throughout the administrations of Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, and George W. Bush.”

“The use of the phrase ‘favorite political philosophers’ was intended as irony, but clearly the effort fell flat — at least with a certain Fox commentator whose sense of irony may be missing.” — Anita Dunn; CNN

“War is politics with blood; politics is war without blood,” (Newt) Gingrich said, citing Mao.  — CNN

“Karl Rove, another Fox News contributor, wrote in a December 2008 Wall Street Journal op-ed that President Bush “encouraged me to read a Mao biography.” —CNN

Whoops. Bibliophobia, the fear of books, can be treated, Portugall, with the proper therapy.

One of the Many Smears of Kylie Oversen

“For Some Reason Democrat Legislator Kylie Oversen Recognized By The Washington Post.” A jealous headline. Always a wise choice.

“I don’t want to be too mean to Rep. Kylie Oversen, a Democrat representing District 42 in the state House, but I had to laugh when I read that the Washington Post had named her to their Top 40 Under 40 list.”

Port always has to laugh at something, or another. That’s odd, since he doesn’t have a sense of humor. He could have Tourettes. That would explain a few things.

“The list is supposed to denote rising political stars across the nation, and apparently someone at the Post thought Oversen qualified. But you have to wonder why.”

I have to wonder why anyone would think Port is qualified for anything, but I don’t about Oversen.

Here’s why?

Rob Port’s resume.

Kylie Oversen’s resume.

Whoops.

The Smear of (now Senator) Erin Oban

“In Key Legislative Race North Dakota Democrat Erin Oban Avoids Abortion Issue,” reads the Port headline, to which most people would say, so what? Who doesn’t?

But there’s more!

“She’s also the wife of Democrat Party executive director Chad Oban, which is what makes this ad kind of hilarious. While her husband is out on the campaign trail throwing partisan bombs and accusing Republicans of being extremists (remember when he blamed a reservation death on legislative Republicans?), Oban is trying to position herself as a political moderate.”

Weasel thinks everything is funny. And has he never seen a political campaign before? All (almost) candidates use surrogates to handle the delicate topics, and to chew on the tibia of the opponent. Tossing around “partisan” explosives, and calling an ideological zealot, such as Port, an extremist is mandatory and barrels of fun.

“She says she’s willing to represent Republicans and Democrats, but those words ring hollow given her husband’s vocation.”

It could be an inner ear infection, Port, if the ringing doesn’t stop, but I don’t care.

And the Oban woman wanted to marry a lumberjack. It’s been her dream since childhood, but there aren’t enough trees to warrant a full time cutter, jacker or saw jockey. So that fantasy was shot to hell. She moved on.

We have a dude with an old pickup and a hefty chainsaw. He also DJ’s wedding dances and ritualistic killings. He does a fine job.

The Smear of the Fargo Forum

I didn’t laugh. I was amused.

“Last year the Fargo Forum took a bribe from the George Soros-funded Center for Public Integrity to help produce a study claiming North Dakota was one of the states in the nation most at-risk for corruption. How much did the Forum take? They’re not telling, but this ridiculous study also managed to conclude that the state least at-risk for corruption was … New Jersey.”

That’s not what the study says, but poor effort, Port. States were ranked for having procedures in place for a transparent government meant to prevent corruption, but cannot account for the immorality of people, such as the eagerness to lie, and mislead. New Jersey tries. North Dakota doesn’t.

“That just screams “credibility,” doesn’t it?” screams the protector of the good old boys club.

Compared to your last sentence, Rob? Yes.

“Anyway, that the study was simply laying the groundwork for a push for ethics reforms by Democrats is clear to anyone who was paying attention. And, indeed, the Fargo Forum reports today (without mentioning the aforementioned bribe, way to be ethical fellas) that Democrats have introduced a raft of new policies addressing transparency which would be implemented over through several different bills.”

Is Port talking about the Fargo Forum that almost exclusively endorses Republican candidates, or the Fargo Forum that hired a blogger hack from Minot?

Showers for the house!

Release Your Transcript, Port

Questions have come up concerning Port’s time at North Dakota State University. Was it measured with a stopwatch, or a calendar? Many people would love to see the transcripts from Rob’s two days, two months or two semesters. I sure would, so I call on Port to publish the records. Hitting enter, when the information is true, could be a cathartic experience for the little scamp.

RON SCHALOW: Port Whine, Part 2

In Port Whine Part 1, the Mediocre Years Continue; we learned that famed blogger for Forum Communications, Rob Port, is not a peachy guy, smears private citizens without a thought, happily publishes unsubstantiated propaganda and considers himself “one of the most consequential reporters/commentators in the state.”

I consider myself a large ill-tempered racoon, with Vick’s VapoRub issues. Also, this series may get into the dozens.

BREAKING NEWS FROM LAST WEEK

“Activists practicing free speech became terrorists, jihadists, and the propaganda was disseminated to big-oil-trusted mainstream media outlets across the state, such as the Scott Hennen Show on AM 1100, “The Flag”; Rob Port’s “Say Anything Blog,” owned by Forum Communications; and TigerSwan’s propaganda arm, Netizens for Progress and Justice, which according to its website is a “countering the leftist media propaganda nightmare” media outlet.” — HPR
END OF INTERRUPTION

Port misleads. He lies. He’s not the type who would have been hired by a newspaper in the olden days, when credibility was still a thing.

Port claims to be a libertarian, an ideology that has never worked in practice, but its tenets tend to benefit the rich, and hombres who need a gun fast, to shoot up the bowling alley after leaving a split. Say your prayers, you stupid 7 pin!

Word has it, that Port was adopted by a Koch financed group that collectively raised Rob from a malleable mental pup until he was a full-grown indoctrinated weasel, which was odd, since they were expecting a Labradoodle.

Very rigid, except when he’s not. Like his attitude about the lunatic president.

Port started out as a “never Trumper” but had to bend 180 degrees to align with his political pals and base readership. It hasn’t been attractive.

Never, ever Trump, said Port

“He’s cutting up (rhetorically!) the nattering nincompoops in the pundit class. He triggers schadenfreude for a vast swath of the American electorate.”

Oh my; I feel smarter after reading that tripe.

“Can anyone really imagine Trump being an effective leader? I can’t. Not even close. In fact, I don’t think even Trump himself imagined in his wildest dreams that he’d get this far.”

“I do not think Trump should win the presidency, however. He’s an embarrassment. He is not fit to lead our country.”

“Trump knows exactly how dumb his supporters are and has manipulated their ignorance to great effect.”

“Trump seems content to pander to actual paranoid racists.”

Port on Trump, now

Port: I’m pretty sure we elected Zaphod Beeblebrox as president (This was a real headline)
“With Trump, it’s hard to tell if he’s extremely competent, playing some politically themed game of three-dimensional chess the rest of us don’t understand, or if he’s just an imbecile careening from one blow-hard Twitter talking point to another.”

It’s not hard to tell that Trump is an imbecile; so that’s not true.

“Evidence in favor of the former is the fact that the man shocked the world by first winning the GOP nomination and then the national election. He’s also gone on to preside over an impressive rollback of Obama-era policies, which the economy and labor markets are already responding to.”

The economy and labor markets in this country? That’s not true.

“Evidence for the latter lays with the fact that his administration has been plagued by a battery of scandals and undermined by incessant leaks and in-fighting caused in no small part by members of the Trump administration who are Obama-era holdovers filling positions the president wasn’t ready to fill himself.”

Obama holdovers are causing Trump’s problems? That’s not true; The Trump gang has made their own mess.

“The oil industry, which overall has benefited from President Donald Trump’s leadership in the White House, is not happy with his plan to mandate the use of U.S. steel in their projects.”

The oil industry has benefited? What evidence is there to back up that sentence? The DAPL pipeline? It will help a few producers. The Keystone XL? Currently, there is no industry support for the pipeline to be built.

Pipelines drive him nuts

“I’ve found a solution for the #NoDAPL situation.

Instead of building a pipeline, let’s just sell the oil to the hobbits.

I’m serious. We could get Gandalf to ride Shadowfax to North Dakota once every week or so, then he could wave his magic staff about and transmogrify the oil into delicious crumpets which then could be sold to the fine, furry-footed folks of Hobbiton who I’m certain would love North Dakota’s transmogrified crumpet exports.”

The Portweasel was having a particular stressful day on the couch. The remote was under the coffee table. Virtually irretrievable.

“Authorities in South Dakota and Iowa confirmed Tuesday that someone apparently used a torch to burn a hole through empty sections of the pipeline at aboveground shut-off valve sites.” — The Associated Press

From the news story above, Rob gleans this: “You really have to admire the scope of hypocrisy on display in the anti-oil/anti-pipeline movement. All they’re really proving is how dangerous the rabid green movement has become.”

Port, as is standard operating procedure for him, cherry-picks a single anecdote then attaches the actions to a very large group. This particular group starts with folks simply putting their cans and plastic on the curb for recycling, which doesn’t seem dangerous or rabid.

Yet, the weasel, in typical hypocritical fashion, bemoans the use of anecdotes in his July 30th column, titled: “The politics of anecdotes.”

“The activists, with an assist from the White House, attempted a perverse use of a regulatory process intended to produce safe, responsible energy infrastructure to block construction of the same.

And why not? Such tactics had worked to kill or delay other projects, notably the Keystone XL and Sandpiper projects. Had they succeeded in blocking the Dakota Access project as well you have to wonder if any company in America would be willing to risk building new pipelines again.”

Nobody has killed more pipeline projects in the Bakken than the oil industry, those silly activists.

The Sandpiper put their money into the Dakota Access. The Bakken Crude Express pipeline and the Dakota Express pipeline proposals died on the vine due to oil industry indifference, as did the deceased Enterprise Products Partners pipeline project which would have run from the Bakken to Cushing, OK. As already noted, there is a lack of customers to build the Keystone XL.

The science denial activist zealot

Just like he was indoctrinated to do.

“Trump isn’t being treated as a political leader who made what some consider to be a bad policy decision. He’s being treated as a heretic, an apostate, to what has become one of the most popular global religions.

Science isn’t a religion, you mook. The coral reefs aren’t dying because we’re all not believing hard enough.

We’re not supposed to debate climate change policy any more. We’re supposed to accept it as an act of faith as though the proponents of the policy have some divine right to govern as they please without objection.”

There is nothing to debate, and faith isn’t involved, Jethro. I don’t believe in oranges, or T-shirts, or baboons. Same difference.

“I’m glad Trump withdrew our country from the agreement, if for no other reason than to undermine and marginalize the global Cult of Green.”

The shrinking cult of Trump has no power to marginalize renewables or conservation.

Port uses a website called JunkScience.com to prove his point. No need to get so fancy, Rob. Breitbart or InfoWars would have done the trick.

Last year, the Obama administration announced the creation of the National Climate Service. “Americans are witnessing the impacts of climate change in their own backyards,” said the administration, and they need “information about climate change in order to make the best choices for their families, communities and businesses.”

“From a press release sent out by JunkScience.com:

Last Friday’s budget deal blocks funding for the Obama administration’s National Climate Service.

As more details about the budget emerge, we’ll see more wasteful or counter-productive programs eliminated. Departments and agencies that served as little more than government mouthpieces for radical environmentalists are ripe for defunding, and JunkScience.com is glad to see Congress act decisively.”

Trumpcare

“People will die,” Warren (Sen. Elizabeth) said during a recent floor speech.

“That seemed a self-evidently absurd statement to me.”

“While it’s fair to argue that any significant diminishment in coverage can have adverse consequences for overall health, it’s worth noting that many of the people we’re told would lose coverage under the Republican plan aren’t really losing access to coverage.

Most of them would simply opt out of coverage because Republicans would be doing away with the individual insurance mandate. Freed of a government requirement to buy insurance, many Americans would choose to do without.”

People will die. It’s been established, but the Republicans were too busy not governing, so they couldn’t come up with a viable option in seven years. And these deaths are real, unlike the death panels, Port’s people were peddling. Sorry you were offended, weasel boy.

MOST of them would opt out? I’d love to see that study, but I know where the statement was pulled from.

NDSU President Dean Bresciani: Port’s white whale

Teaching weasel Rob how to get past Burger King in the student union would be difficult, but explaining to him how a university functions, would be like teaching a drunk rhino to play the banjo.

The post below is typical. Voldeport knows nothing, and yet he publishes the rumor.

“I’m also told that Bresciani apparently flew to Bismarck on a private airplane, though I can’t confirm this and North Dakota State University’s people at this point only respond to my inquiries when they’re legally required to. I have requested the information, however.

I did check the flight records of the plane which was sold by NDSU to Scheels Sports last year (in a pretty cozy transaction), but there were no flight plans filed for Bismarck today.

Which doesn’t mean that Bresciani didn’t charter a different plane. I mean, you don’t expect him to just drive to Bismarck like some sort of peasant do you? I mean, it’s not like he has a chauffeur or … wait a minute.”

If Port wrote a follow-up post confirming his accusations, I can’t find it. Most likely, knowing the weasel’s MO, the story was false, and he just moved on without correcting the original smear. That’s what he does. Takes a $#!* on your lawn, then walks away.

Net Neutrality

“Today was an internet “day of action” — backed largely by left-wing groups, many with ties to progressive money man George Soros — protesting proposed changes to the rules by the FCC.”

That is what you call a lie of omission. Port doesn’t care if it’s not quite the truth. Half-assed truth is what it is, so as not to step on his pal Kevin Cramer’s wingtips.

“Technology giants like Amazon, Spotify, Reddit, Facebook, Google, Twitter and many others are rallying today in a so-called “day of action” in support of net neutrality, five days ahead of the first deadline for comments on the US Federal Communications Commission’s planned rollback of the rules.” — The Verge

Seems that Port was a bully in high school

From an anonymous source, just like the Portweasel uses them by the dozen.

“Rob Port whatever his #$& dirty name is, was a complete pervert who knew no humor other than racist jokes. He sexually harassed me relentless for about two years of high school (stopped when I confronted him one on one at the oil change place). According to him, I was a faggot …” (decorum prevents me from posting the remainder of the paragraph.)

“The best came about two weeks in to(sp) freshman year at NDSU he writes a letter to the campus paper saying “where’s my parade as a white heterosexual (if you say so Portly) Christian who hates minorities and gays”. Yea, he is aweeeesome.” (Decorum prevents me from posting the remainder of the paragraph.)

Hard to believe, I know

 

RON SCHALOW: Port Whine, Part 1

I’m not sure how many days since Rob Port, famed columnist, political pundit and radio personality was featured on the Forum’s front page, but I’m still blind in my left eye.

Seriously, I was a little startled to see Port’s mug on the front page of the Fargo Forum, for more reasons than one. Port’s visage always makes me jump, especially the screen-filled face shot they use on the Forum webpage. His pupils are the size of half-dollars and not evenly spaced, which is disconcerting.

I also wasn’t prepared to read a minihagiography of an employee of less than two years. The professional lying scold has hit the big time now. We’ll skip my third thought.

“Now I say that when I write something that’s a fact, it’s a fact, because I check them out and am convinced that it’s fact. I also put in some opinion and people may disagree with the conclusions that I draw but I think that the one thing even most of my critics and maybe detractors will agree upon is that if I say something is a fact, it’s a fact.” Lots of baloney in that paragraph.
My father spent 25 years as a real journalist and never became the story until he retired. It never occurred to him that he should be. They also have real journalists, real columnists, real writers and real editors — many of them fond of punctuation and spelling — at Forum Communications, but I don’t know any of their life stories. I know that most of them like commas, though.

Port referred to Bismarck attorney and former agriculture commissioner Sarah Vogel as a retread and doddering. Both assertions were LIES. I wrote in an letter-to-the-editor, that Vogel could probably tip Port over with one hand.

So, what’s my real problem? Port gored my ox, and he just laughed it off. I found that annoying. I never become unannoyed. I didn’t even know this clown until he poked me in both eyes. Then, Port bravely blocked me from commenting on his blog, his blog’s Facebook page and his Twitter account. I’m not sure if my emails get through. I don’t think he liked being called a liar, and he had no response that wasn’t another lie, so he stuck a couple of sausage-sized finger in his ears. The BS front-page article was the last straw.

“While I have no doubt that marijuana does have some medicinal uses, those uses are pretty narrow and would only benefit a sliver of the population.” What a crock.

So I started reading his archive of gems and began following Port’s blog. Was this how the young lad operated on a regular basis? The answer was yes. He starts with a premise and then uses every deceitful rhetorical device in the book, including lying, to prove his point, or whatever he was indoctrinated to believe. Some days, I can pretty much guess who/what topic the hack is going to choose on a given day, and his take. Smearing individuals, or groups, is a noxious specialty of the weasel.

“What proponents of indiscriminate enrollment growth  people like Bresciani (NDSU President) want is a race to the bottom.” There are two lies in that statement.

Then, I alerted the other lib#$%@ Marxist commie snowflake cucks that I knew at the time and got scolded for reading Port’s Sayanythingblog at all. I thought he should be called out for his lies. Nope, they said. He makes money with every click, I was told. And if we don’t go to the blog, he’ll go away. How did that work out? He failed up. Plus, he wasn’t surviving on click-through Amazon ads. Now, he has been normalized by the largest media organization in the state.

“So why then should we have a law forcing a graphic designer to create a pro-gay logo for a homosexual congregation in Fargo?” LIE. St. Mark’s is not a homosexual congregation; it is a Lutheran Church.
I’m not going to rehash Port’s history of professional propagandizing. Real journalists, like Jim Fuglie And C.S. Hagen already did it .

A Short (Well, Sort Of) Introduction To The Koch Brothers Influence In North Dakota

FOURTH ESTATE FOR SALE

It’s hard to be humble

“I think the folks at FCC brought me on because they recognize that I am a talented and well-connected opinion reporter with a lengthy track record of producing solid analysis and breaking news.”

“I even get them, even though I would argue that in my 13th year of writing about North Dakota politics I’m probably one of the most consequential reporters/commentators in the state.”

“(I’m) not just any blogger. (I’m) One who is widely respected around the state, and writes for a large audience”
“Who is Ron Schalow? He’s a 9/11 truther for one.” FALSE.

Did Forum Communications not vet this joker before taking him on? Does the veracity of their writers not matter? Or is it a feature that Port has no ethical boundaries? So why? I sure don’t know. Why do grown men dive over rows of bleachers for a $4 baseball? Why does Kevin Cramer hate white pantsuits?
Port won Native American Stereotype of the Month honors for this bull$#!*

Anyway, the Forum decided to do a puff piece on Port. I’m going to guess that Port’s numbers need some boosting, which were never as big as Port likes to boast, anyway. Either he doesn’t know the difference between a visitor and a unique visitor, or he’s hoping that none of his readers do. The Forum knows. Advertisers know, and they know which demographics are consumers. Complaints about having an amatuer on staff must be piling up, too. I’ve never claimed to be Hemingway, but Port never gets better as a writer.

Port has such a lengthy history of deceit that only a fraction can be noted here, and I doubt a book would be a big seller. A few specks will have to do.

The Big Smear

In one of the most despicable, sleazy, twisted, Portlike smears I’ve ever seen, Port took offense, for some reason, at an effing letter-to-the-editor in the Grand Forks Herald by Heidi Czerwiec. I use her name because she has personally written on the mob maelstrom Port set upon her. She was the perfect target. A liberal arts college academic and a woman. Port is not unaware of the hatred the alt-right has for education, higher-ed, pointy headed professor’s, poetry, females and anyone who might use less than glowing language about guns.

“On March 21, the story was written up on the Say Anything Blog, a local right-wing outlet, which condemned Dr. Czerwiec’s “overall paranoid attitude.” At 12:47 p.m. the next day, the story — linking to the Say Anything Blog — was reported by Campus Reform, a project of the conservative Leadership Institute that counts Grover Norquist, Ralph Reed and Karl Rove among its alums. By the end of the day, Fox News had republished Campus Reform’s piece, and Tucker Carlson’s The Daily Caller had published an article, also linking to the Say Anything Blog.

At 8:50 the next morning, Glenn Beck’s The Blaze had a piece up about the controversy, as did the conservative Washington Times (which linked to Campus Reform) as well as Alex Jones’ Infowars with “Paranoid Anti-Gun Professors Calls 9-1-1 Terrified By ROTC Exercises,” where a commenter added Czerwiec’s campus email and office phone.” — Attack on Academia

Port went to the well four times, on, I repeat, an effing letter-to-the-editor, because it was a ratings winner, misleading all the way. And all of the losers circled in like vultures to enter crude comments below each post. Forum Communications has a code of conduct for commenters on their Facebook pages, but anything goes on the FCC owned Sayanythingblog. And Port has an Algonquin Roundtable of howler monkeys to guard SAB’s comment section from sanity, and try run off anyone that might disagree with the mob.
“Maybe a better strategy for UND would be to hire professors who function as adults.” The smarm oozes from Port’s fingers. The joke is on him, though. Dr. Czerwiec’s family had already chosen to follow other opportunities before the school year even started. She still has a doctorate, and a good job, while Port will always be a moron, renting from his parents.

DAPL
The state led Port around by nose during the DAPL protest. He claims that the government can’t do anything right, but he played the stenographer for the state of North Dakota and law enforcement, without fact checking what he was publishing for months. Nonwhites get the clicks. He detests Native Americans and loves oil tycoons, more than he hates government, it appears.

When a young lady nearly had her arm blown off, during spray the crowd with cold water night on the bridge, alarm bells sounded, the spin was written, and it was, “Oh my, who is the most gullible typist in North Dakota?”
“How can we get this story out? Rob Port?” Maj. Amber Balken, a public information officer with the North Dakota National Guard, said. “This is a must report.”

Cecily Fong, a public information officer with the North Dakota Department of Emergency Services, replied saying she would “get with” the blogger for wider dissemination.” — HPR
Port didn’t even know that TigerSwan was in charge, so he doesn’t know if half of what he wrote was true. The paramilitary mercenaries spied, infiltrated, instigated, screwed with the signals of electronics, concocted falsehoods and fed the truffles to Rob.

His excuse; “Was there anyone operating under the impression that this “wasn’t” happening?”
Evidently Port was operating cluelessly because he kept on buying whatever was slipped into his burrow. Or maybe he knew. Either way, no reputable newspaper operation would put up with such shenanigans.

“Communication between the various agencies attempts to paint the activists known as water protectors as criminals, out of state troublemakers, and sexual deviants, a theme widely reported by the state’s media, particularly on the Forum Communication Company’s right-wing editorialist Say Anything Blog, managed by Port.” — HPR
If anything remotely criminal happened within a hundred miles of Cannon Ball, the Portweasel let innuendo do the talking. He does love his innuendo. OMG! Thirty cattle are missing! Oops, never mind. They were hiding behind that elm tree.

Now, we find out that “the firms Delve and Off the Record Strategies, apparently working on contract with the National Sheriffs’ Association, worked in secret on talking points, media outreach and communications training for law enforcement dealing with Dakota Access opponents mobilized at the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in Cannon Ball, North Dakota.”

“Pfeifle (Mark. Off the Record Strategies) agreed in his email and suggested following the press conference with outreach to friendly media outlets to amplify the message.”

“One of those outlets was the Say Anything Blog, run by Rob Port, who the next day, Oct. 6, ran a blog post featuring many of the themes found in the talking points:Over 85 Percent of Arrested #NoDAPL Protesters Are From Outside of North Dakota.”

In his email, Pfeifle had suggested reaching out to Port, who also hosts a radio show on WDAY AM-970 and regularly wrote blog posts in support of Dakota Access during the Standing Rock standoff. When Port’s piece went online, Pfeifle wrote an email that same day to the Delve team, sheriffs’ association staff, Hushka, and others asking an association staffer to share the piece on social media.”

These are the same characters who helped G.W. Bush rationalize the Iraq war. Was Port once again clueless, or was he in cahoots?

Oil

Big oil loves Rob, and Rob loves them back. He just so happens to have the same opinions as the North Dakota Petroleum Council, which simplifies things, I imagine. There isn’t anything the oil industry can do, in or to, North Dakota that Port cannot — or is unwilling — to justify, including the death of people. There is no spill, no exploding train, no employee death, or human misery, that the Portweasel can’t excuse.

“Currently the North Dakota Industrial Commission is considering a draft field order for conditioning Bakken oil before shipment. The rules would not only set a target for stabilization (measured by vapor pressure) but would also dictate how the industry would go about hitting that target.” Conditioning isn’t stabilization. Port never understood that, but he just types away.

The Republicans cut taxes for oil barons in 2015, and Port has been lying about it ever since. “You cannot call it a tax cut when the net result is an increase in tax burdens.”

“Remember over the last few years when the enemies of oil development were hyping oil train derailments?” Nope. Because nobody was hyping anything. News outlets were reporting on the explosions, which seemed normal, since they were danger to public safety. Another thing Port doesn’t understand, so he made it up.

In 2015, the fatality rates in the Bakken were nearly seven times as high as other oil fields in the rest of America, but Port wasn’t having anything to do with those facts. “Yes, worker deaths have increased over those years, but so has oil activity.” He didn’t mention the comparison to other oil plays. Lying by omission and a lame excuse. Poor hiring, poor training, poor management, ignoring the rules, lack of proper equipment, hurry, and asking workers do dangerous things past normal procedures, are the usual culprits, when there is an excess of injuries and deaths. The workers aren’t Port’s concern.

“Left-wing activists have taken to using the term “bomb trains” and are now blaming public officials for not seeking regulatory retribution for the derailments from the oil industry.” The term “bomb trains” was coined by those in the industry, who knew what was getting poured into Bakken tanker cars, and public officials are there, supposedly, to protect the public. They’ve decided not to.

Time to call them Obama trains,” blared Port’s headline. He links to an article that says that Obama dropped the ball on stabilization, which he did, deciding to trust North Dakota to do the right thing, which was stupid.

The Obama administration weighed national standards to control explosive gas in oil trains last year but rejected the move, deciding instead to leave new rules to North Dakota alone. — Reuters

What Port was likely too dense to figure out, or remember, was mocking me for demanding that the state do exactly what he was now faulting Obama for not doing. (The comment section below this post looks odd because I was blocked, and my gentle polite remarks were deleted)

“Schalow has accomplished is really nothing other than organizing a few of his fellow conspiracy mongers and cranks.” We’re so unorganized, I can’t even find the others.

“NGL’s make the oil more volatile, which makes it much easier to ignite. The NGL vapor will expand away from the toppled cars along the ground, which causes a much larger burning area. Stabilized oil does burn, but it DOESN’T “EXPLODE”. We as a country have been transporting stabilized oil by train every day since 1960, how many of these type of accidents do you remember? Without the NGL’s there is no reason to rebuild all the rail transport cars or change what we are doing.” — Myron Goforth; president of Dew Point Control LLC., Sugar Land, Texas

Port doesn’t like to mention it’s only Bakken oil trains that have exploded, (because Bakken crude is not stabilized) how many have blown up, or how many people have died. He doesn’t get upset because they detonate, but because news media notices the 300 foot fireballs and tells everyone.

“… activists have taken to mapping the “blast zones” around railroad tracks, and claim that 25 million Americans live in them.” Because it’s true, and you would think the government would show such concern. We have signs for everything else.

And Rob is just so darn proud of anything flaring. “And when (Amy) Dalrymlpe(sp) does get around to mentioning declines in gas flaring, she puts it in the context of an industry spokesman exaggerating a bit.

Isn’t a 24 percent reduction in the volume of gas flared over the last two years news? It seems like news to me.”

Burgum

Doug Burgum played Port like a jukebox throughout his campaign for governor. Burgum would invite him into his office, and Port glowed. He asked Port for advice, and Port’s ego grew even larger. Then, Burgum would do something that Port didn’t like, such as wearing a cowboy hat (beats me), and there would be three days of debate on whether the future governor was an actual cowboy. It was fun to watch the Minot High trained Port give advice to a guy that knows Bill Gates, and thousands of actual smart people.

It’s the Wind Dude

“Over the last couple of weeks, we North Dakotans, forced to celebrate the anniversary of our nation’s independence through a smoky haze blown down from Canadian wildfires, were left appreciating our state’s normally pristine air quality. That’s because it disappeared on us, at least temporarily.

After decades of coal development and a more recent uptick in oil-related industrial activity in western North Dakota — including more flaring of natural gas than anybody is happy about — it took the tragic wildfires our northern neighbors are grappling with to foul our air.”


Identity politics Port-style

According to Port, unless the political candidate is snow white, male and straight, identity politics are at play.

“And while I detest identity politics, there’s no questioning that it is a factor in how people cast their ballots. Having a woman on the ticket is going to increase Burgum’s appeal among a pretty large demographic of voters. People should vote based on things like gender or skin color, but they do.”

“Per Nowtazki’s(sp) article, Democrats acknowledge having put at least some effort into recruiting Native American candidates, and we’ll in November how that works for them politically. Identity politics are an ugly reality in American politics, but a reality none-the-less.”

“Finally, identity politics do matter. Many on the right are convinced that Rep. Oversen only got her appointment because she is young and female. “

“Particularly hilarious is state Rep. Kyle(sp) Oversen — titular chairwoman for the North Dakota Democrats and a not-yet-graduated law student — lecturing Senator John Hoeven over his call for Obama to refrain from nominating a candidate to replace Scalia.”

He has a particular animus for Kylie Oversen, second only to his hostility towards Senator Heitkamp.

He doesn’t like college students

This is standard language for the alt-right, and Port is probably extra angry because he couldn’t hack the college thing. He often cherry picks an anecdote that fits his narrative, then ascribes whatever irks him to a whole group.

“If this generation of college-aged toddlers want to shirk their responsibilities to pay for their debts and tolerate diverse opinions, then perhaps we should acknowledge that they are, in fact, children and treat them as such..”

“This is the social media generation, after all, which gets its news from smirking comedians and internet memes.”

“Millions upon millions of American students attend university as a way to prolong the high school experience and postpone adulthood.”

Coming in Port Whine, Part 2

Pipelines, science denial, hate crime denial, discrimination denial, Kevin Cramer, Heidi Heitkamp, Trump, e-cigarettes, Trumpcare, Bresciani, NDSU football, Michelle Obama, and more …

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.”

“Whatever.”

“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?”

Burp.

“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.”

“Hey!”

“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?”

“No.”

“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.”

“Tam—”

“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.”

“Oh.”

“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.”

“Sig—”

“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.”

“Fire?”

“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.”

“SIG!”

“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.”