President Obama delivered a “Jobs” speech to a joint session of Congress, pretending it was not just another campaign speech designed to save the only job he was interested in, his own. Joint session of Congress speeches used to be for something special, like declaring war or announcing we were going to the moon. But Obama has the special knack of turning even the most golden things he touches into a steaming, feculent pile.

“I know a girl in Maine.”

“Bangor?”

“No, I never touched her.”

Yes, the old ones are the good ones

FDR December 8

Kennedy telling Congress

To the moon, and here’s the date

There were giants in the hall then

Reagan, Truman name but two

What we have now with Obama

Can be summed up with pee-yew

Oh he still has his adherents

Union thugs and CBC

Who still think he is the bees knees

And forever thus will be

But the rest of us know better

He’s a joke now on himself

From stage right the hook is coming

And he’ll soon be on the shelf

He can dance all that he wants to

He can smile and tell some jokes

But his time on stage is over

From now on he’s just Joe Doaks

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The United States Postal Service is broke. First class mail revenue is down, and layoffs are expressly forbidden by the labor contract. The USPS is losing 10 billion dollars a year, a rounding error in profligate Washington, which thinks nothing of giving 535 billion dollars to a failing solar panel company whose president is a major Obama contributor, but giving a half a billion dollars to a political friend is one thing, paying for mail service to the taxpayers is another. And so the USPS is looking for ways to cut costs, like no mail on Saturdays, closing almost 4,000 local post offices, and so forth. So it may not be long before delivering the mail is no longer handled by the United States Postal Service but by a private company or companies, like FedEx or UPS, who seem to make a profit, probably because they are not bound down by overly generous not to say golden union employee pension payments. We have seen the mail delivered by horse, by foot, by rail and by air, but it all began with the Pony Express.

He saddled up, this teenaged boy

Five-six or less, a jockey’s weight

Ahead lay nineteen hundred miles

Important letters not be late

The pouch secured, he mounted up

Then off into the wild he’d go

To Sacramento, ten days out

From station home in St. Joe, Mo

Across the trackless western plain

Through Injun country all the while

Through Kansas and Nebraska too

He changed tired horses with a smile

He ran from Cheyenne and the Utes

Vast buffalo herds in his way

He paid no heed to danger for

He had to ride more miles that day

Fort Laramie, Fort Bridger next

Then Salt Lake City, a brief stop

A bite to eat a bit of rest

Then on a horse again he’d hop

Across the empty plain he rode

Distant Comanches raiding north

Nevada desert, sand and scrub

It matters not, the mail goes forth

The High Sierras, bitter cold

Snow and wind, he faltered not

Then California, and on time

Delivered promptly, on the dot

To Sacramento he did ride

To where I lived, a pleasant view

To Occupant, the letter read

I sent it back, there’s postage due

 See my novels and collected verse at Amazon, paperback and 99 cent Kindle HERE

“Rendition” was the non-scary word the United States used to get terror suspects off the streets and therefore harmless, unable to kill Americans. Naturally, the Democrats were horrified that Muslim young men were being captured and turned over to the brutal ministrations of the Libyan or Egyptian security services, who tortured the poor little jihadi young men whose only crime was to kill Americans. Who wouldn’t be horrified at the brutality of harshly interrogating terrorists in order to forestall attacks on innocent American civilians? The Left has stopped Rendition, but fortunately we have hard men who go hunting in the night for the jihadi bastards, and send them off to Allah. 

The Left believes that every man

Has goodness in his heart

And bursts with love and kindliness

If we’d but do our part

To see that he is treated well

His dignity repaired

And our excuses for his acts

Are handsomely prepared

But others, made of sterner stuff

Go hunting in the night

And send the bastards all to hell

While staying out of sight

Who guards the walls, who keeps us safe?

What kind of men are these?

The kind of men the Lefties hate

They smile but don’t say please

 See my novels and collected verse at Amazon, paperback and 99 cent Kindle HERE

The newspapers that gleefully printed Julian Assange’s Wikileaks files of classified American documents are now trying to distance themselves from Assange because it appears they may now be held criminally liable. But who is truly at fault for the papers committing treason? I blame Gutenberg. Without the printing press we would never have heard of Julian Assange, or the New York Times, or much of anything else. It is all the fault of Johannes Gensfleisch zur Laden zum Gutenberg, who invented the printing press in 1450, and thereby changed the world. Without Gutenberg there would be no newspapers to collude with an Assange to destroy the very society that sustains them. And so they die, the Guardian and the Times, along with lesser colleagues, kicking and screaming, graceless and pathetic, a pale shadow of their former powerful selves. My friend Johannes was beside himself with sadness and recrimination at what his grand invention had become.

I tell you sir, it’s all my fault

Had I not made my press

This Wikileaks would not be here

Unless I miss my guess

The printing press has led us all

Right down that primrose path

Where smears, conceits and downright lies

Pile up, just do the math

Until the day it all implodes

And readers say the hell

With all the lying lino types

Who print what now won’t sell

Johannes, boychick, I did say

It’s surely not your fault

Five hundred fifty years and you

Are part of the Gestalt

The printing press, I cried aloud

Has made us more than men

For gods require more than wine

It’s knowledge, do ye ken

That makes the world now what it is

Makes us a human race

Ah yes, he said, with sorrowed smile

But we have lost our place

The book of life is not by type

Nor not by keystroke writ

The Guardian, the New York Times

Are covered now with

Hold on! I cried, I’ll stop you there

Newspapers, yes, are dead

But books will ever sing your name

Without you naught is read

And children read no nurs’ry rhymes

And students pass no test

You’re not at fault for Wikileaks

Indeed sir, we are blessed

That you were put upon this earth

By God to spread the word

What matter that one tiny branch

Of printing is interred