What’s Up, Doc? Christmas in July

“You can’t allow the forces of political correction to shut you up. I mean, why are people afraid to say, ‘Merry Christmas?’ Give me a break. If people don’t like it, yeah, they can go do something else.”
– Benjamin Carson

Have you hugged a Jew lately?

A beautiful thought . . .

“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.”

From a lovely girl . . .

ANNE FRANK

(1929 – 1945)

In a hate-filled world . . .

ADOLF HITLER

(1889 – 1945)

That has come a long way . . .

Or has it???

KuKluxKlan

1865 –

Louis Farrakhan

1933 –

Green girl smashes Ohio weightlifting marks

This headline came out of Franklin Furnace, Ohio, a village along the Ohio River just across from the ridiculously beautiful Commonwealth of Kentucky, and reminded me how complicated American life has become.

Between gender fluidity and identity politics, offending people is no longer a concern.

It’s a virtual certainty.

In this instance, “Green girl” and smashed weightlifting records are the worrisome terms.

In the good old days, i.e. last year, we would have all assumed that a young lady named Green, a young lady from Green, or a young lady who was sick to her stomach green, dominated a weightlifting competition.

Green Girl Power!

We would also assume she bested other estrogen-based humanoids formerly know as females, presumably grouped according to age, weight, or other criteria to provide a fair competition among peers.


Miss Green did it, in the weight room with the barbells.

In shattering records, Miss Green, the Miss from Green, or greenish Miss You-Don’t-Look-So-Good, would presumably have lifted more weight than others who had gone before in her age/weight/other classification.

Way to go, Greenie! Your records may stand until the Zombie Apocalypse!

End of story? Not so fast.

In the dawn of the American Age of Apology, all these assumptions are outrageous and fraught with social peril. Just think of the many ways I may have misspoken.

Is Miss Green a girl in the xx chromosome or some other sense of the word? Was Miss Green inadvertently born male, and is she transitioning from man buns to pony tails and from GI Joe to Babs?

Perhaps Miss Green was a male weightlifter of modest strength who for whatever reason now identifies as female, and as such is an instant Amazonian phenom.

Or, could Green be a new box to check for the Census Bureau (if the Supreme Court is ok with it)?

We have white caucasians, black African Americans, brown Hispanics, red Native Americans, yellow Asians, mixed race and rather-not-say. Why not green as a hip new racial identity bestowed on conjugal products of marriages, common-law marriages, civil unions, one-night stands and colorful trysts between folks with blue blood and yellow skin?

Am I sexist for positing that Miss Whatsus was competiting only against females, transitioning females and female wannabes? Maybe she beat a gaggle of raging testosterone-powered critters formerly known as boys. Who the hell am I to assume a girl can’t be the next Vasily Alexseyev?

We live in the blue-skies and smooth-sailing age of “If you can dream it you can do it.”

We encourage 5-foot-3 boys who want to take jobs away from Lebron James or Tom Brady. Just wait for that growth spurt, you’re only 23.

Sure, Harvard will like your 2.2 GPA. Just tell them you have high cheekbones like Auntie Liz and had a bad day on your ACT. After all, an ACT of 18 is kind of like golfers shooting their age, right?

Kids who can’t sing the lick off an ice cream cone are summarily jettisoned at auditions and shocked parents berate the judges. Hey Mom and Dad, don’t blame Simon Cowell for your kid’s cruddy vocal cords.

Why prepare kids for the real world when our society is so out of touch with reality that you can’t tell news from fake news, crimes from frame-ups, or a Constitutional crisis from a DNC or RNC platform?

I can think of only one reason. It will hedge your bets in case America comes to its PC senses before it fades into one-world mediocrity.

There’s no brilliant conclusion to be reached here. This is just food for thought and a cautionary note. But be careful what you say. The person you offend may be your cousin Claude, or Claudia, or both.

It’s Gandy to you, kiddo

So, here’s the real story, and don’t let Bill or Karen tell you differently.

It’s a little long, so if you don’t like cats you might want to go back to baiting people on Facebook.

A while back, I was living on my own and had my eye on a plump little finch at a backyard bird feeder. But this guy (found out later he was named Bill) came out the back door, scared off my lunch, and pretty well pissed me off.
So I split. Stupid human!

GANDY AMICK AT TWO, 7-4-2019

But I kept running into him and this nice lady (lots nicer than Bill) since she fed the birds who fed me. You know, the old circle of life thing. Then they started leaving brown chunks that looked like rabbit turds but tasted like fish on their deck, so I helped myself and even started sleeping under their deck.

One thing led to another, and I kinda started to like Karen and maybe even Bill a little bit … but I kept my distance. The only people I had ever known tossed me out of a car and left me, so humans were kinda low on my trust meter.

Eventually, they quit calling me kitty cat and instead called me Gandolf. I was pretty upset. I like wizards as much as the next cat, but fer cryin out loud I’m a girl! I guess the cats that kept eyeing me from the window didn’t tell them, but as long as the fish turds and wren feathers held up I decided to ride the Gandolf train.

It got cold and rainy in the fall, and once or twice I let the humans tickle my ears. Just tossing them a bone, ya know, so they’d keep the grub coming.

Second time that happened was the first time Bill said anything smart to me. I could tell he didn’t want to hurt me. So I went for it: Purred like a 35-pound lynx, rolled over on my back, and dared him to rub my belly.

“I’ll be darned,” Bill said, “you’re no Gandolf, you’re a girl!”

Can’t repeat what I meowed back at him, but then he made an official sounding comment: “All right then, we’ll make it Gandy. You OK with that?”

I was thrilled. I liked the name, so I sank my claws into his arm and bit his thumb to express my pleasure. I can’t repeat what he said back to me, but it was love…I let him carry me into my first house.

“I’m Gandy,” I growled at the three cats checking me out. “I may be small, but I’ll kill you if I have to.”

They laughed and that was that. I was three months old and I had a home and instant family.

Yesterday, big news!

I got extra rations and a big fireworks show just for me. And Karen told me I’m 2 years old. Whoopppeee!!!!

Happy birthday to me, and thanks for all the cards, America. You’re ok for a bunch of upright-walking omnivores!

Gandy Amick

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Happy birthday to America.
To Republicans and Democrats.
To Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists and all people of faith.
To atheists and agnostics.
To people of all colors.
To Native Americans, immigrants, descendants of both.
To millions here illegally and millions more around the world who see hope in the American Dream.
To Donald Trump and Barack Obama.
To Mitch McConnell and Nancy Pelosi.
To farmers and physicians and firefighters.
To police and prisoners.
To rich and poor and the middle class.
To FOX News and MSNBC.
To unborn saints and Cecile Richards.
To Wall Street and Walmart.
To prosecutors and the prosecuted, defendants and defenders, judges and juries.
To wordsmiths and blacksmiths.
To white collar and blue collar and high collar and no collar.
To the aging and ill and dying.
To New Orleans Saints and New Jersey Devils.
To Kentucky Wildcats and Louisville Cardinals, and yes, even to Duke.
To baseball, America’s pastime, and its amazing melting pot of talent from the United States, North America, Latin America and the Caribbean, South America, Asia and the Pacific Rim and more.
To the memory of American heroes, explorers, inventors, artists and artisans.
To family and friends and neighbors.
To the lost and lonely.
To all who serve our country, especially those in harm’s way.
To Senate and House and Courthouse.
To those we remember and those I have overlooked.
To you: Be happy, be safe, live free…and pass the potato salad, please.

Once more, this time with a little Musto

I’m straight, white, borderline southern, politically conservative.

I put Roman Catholicism in my rear-view theology mirror years ago, and now am being slowly squeezed out of Methodism because I’m taking a pass on a leftward denominational lurch.

I’m a college dropout, wrote news and sports, and knocked around motorcycle sport for 30 years. The things I have in common with Michael Musto, a flamboyant gay East Coast entertainment writer and social commentator, are limited.

He presumably hasn’t read my book, a cult classic that enjoyed a five-minute press run and even my mother couldn’t pick up. I’m not really familiar with his Musto’s best sellers, and only vaguely aware of his pretty darn impressive career.

Today, with thanks to Mr. Musto, I learned three things about flamboyant coastal liberals. First, never assume too much. Second, be on the lookout for gems from any source. Third, I like Michael Musto. We could probably run out of conversation over a grape juice shooter, but I’m a fan. So …

Behold an honest journalist!

“In the last few years, the very idea of telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth is dredged up only as a final resort when the alternative options of deception, threat and bribery have all been exhausted.”

Michael Musto

Very sad, equally true.

Kamala’s Folly

I was surprised to hear very little follow up on one of the crowd favorite comments from the first round of the 2020 debates.

Senator Kamala Harris, perhaps the most imposing challenger to The Donald, got well-deserved applause when she shut down an irritating round of unintelligible babble among unknown pols that the MSNBC moderators allowed to go on and on.

“Hey guys, you know what? America does not want to witness a food fight, they want to know how we’re going to put food on their tables,” Senator Harris quipped.

Therein lies the reason Anyone But Trump will again be a losing strategy in 2020.

Note to Senator Harris and the DNC’S dirty dozens of left-handed comic relief pitchers:

“Dear Senator:

“The last thing we want to hear from you is how you plan to put food on our tables. We just want to hear how you plan to get your butts out of our kitchens and out of our way so WE can put food on our own tables.

“Thanks ever so much for your concern, but we just can’t afford any more free stuff at this time.”

Donald Trump is a thin-skinned, boorish hedonist who has found the one world in which he stands taller than the competition: American presidential politics.

Kind of sad to those of us who voted for Trump only because the Dems ran a horrible candidate in 2016. And expect more to come.

Will the loyal opposition rebound in 2020? Doubtful at best.

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