On Friday the 7th, former president Obama decided to get back on the campaign trail, a favorite past-time. He began his indoctrination right in our backyard at the University of Illinois in Champaign.
Rather than talk about what his Democratic party can do for their constituents in the upcoming elections, Obama used the occasion to torch his predecessor, president Trump. This is considered a rather distasteful tact and unusual for a former president. Imagine the main stream media's reaction had former president George W. Bush disparaged Obama’s policies – the entire Republican party would have been branded racists…again.
It's called deference, Barrack, and your hedonistic insolence to America's traditions continues.
In a speech scorching Trump for evidently just having the audacity to be alive, Obama accused Trump of polarizing the nation with his supposed white supremacist attitudes and his apparent love of anything Russian. Nice words from a former president, huh? It has all the appeal and intelligence of hearing my three-year-old grandson cuss. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.
Having been unaware of the impending oration, and lacking an invitation, I was left with having to read the transcript of the speech. You probably wouldn’t be surprised to know that I agreed with very little of what the man had to say, although he does see one item as clearly as I do. In his speech, he stated, “it did not start with Donald Trump, he is a symptom, not a cause.”
In my mind, with these words, he so much as admitted that Trump is the result of what we got after eight years of near-Socialist policies from President Barack Hussein Obama. Now we have elected a man short on manners, as well as political mannerisms, but a fighter who fully intends to drain the cesspool that exists in Washington. And doing a great job at it, in my opinion.
Mr. Trump thought so much of Obama's speech he fell asleep.
From Illinois, Obama jetted out to southern California, that bastion of conservative thought, to gin up the liberals from our inanest state. Wouldn't this be similar to shooting fish in a barrel? He could have “Ubered” over to speak at the Washington Post in Washington DC and saved us a ton of money.
Speaking of money, try to find out who is paying for Obama’s travel expenses – and if you find out please let me know. My search of the internet revealed no mention of who is paying for the lavish travel of which Obama is once again sticking us with the tab. Even if taxpayers are not footing all the expense, we are for the security, so it is really galling that I am paying for Obama to travel around the country, a step above first class, just to besmirch the guy repairing Obama's mess.
But Obama couldn’t just leave it at dragging Trump's name through the mud for campaign benefit as most politicians do. In a scene right out of the Twilight Zone, the former president that nearly destroyed the US economy in eight years while in office, all the while blaming Bush, is now taking the credit for Trump’s booming economy... while simultaneously screaming about how bad Trump is doing! You can’t make this stuff up folks, it’s real, and liberals are swallowing it hook, line, and sinker, facts be damned.
Now this is where I could go into the numbers comparing the two presidents, but what good would it do? Trump supporters already know and understand the facts - the economy is booming and the world respects the United States of America again; most Left-leaners never let a good fact get in the way of their understanding of the way things should be...on somebody else's dime.
Barack Obama, your time has passed. For eight years you were allowed to destroy our economy, shame our country before the world, and you and your family were allowed to live lavishly off the American taxpayer. With the election of Donald Trump, middle America (except for the state of Chicago) has said we want no more of what you are selling. You are embarrassing yourself by being back out on the campaign trail and should do like presidents before you - go home to your mansion to live out your life comfortably, again off our dime.
If you had any integrity, you wouldn’t stick the people of Illinois with the $175 million tab for roadwork around the Obama Presidential Center either. The one that will sit on the Jackson Park site that previously belonged to the people of Illinois, but was swindled in order to build your “shrine.”
Drowsily sitting in my easy chair while channel-surfing this past weekend, I landed upon Aretha Franklin’s funeral service. Another great performer taken from us that will be missed. Who can forget the song “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.”
But, what particularly caught my attention was a shot of Nation of Islam’s head, Louis Farrakhan, sitting next to the “Reverends” Al Sharpton and Jessie Jackson, as well as former president, Bill Clinton in the special front seats.
Awestruck by this group, my mind began to wander…just before I began nodding.
It is said I resemble the writer Ernest Hemingway. Ironic since I consider myself an author. For whatever reason, my mind drifted to imagining I was the long-lost grandson of Hemingway. I became the toast of the town for a time. Then I passed away…shot by a jealous husband.
I imagined an elaborate funeral held in my honor. Starting at a Bourbonnais funeral home, mourners formed a lengthy procession. The parade included countless shiny, big and noisy semi-trucks backed up as far as the eye could see. Police blocked traffic as the spectacle wound its way through Kennedy Avenue, Court Street, and Schuyler Avenue to head to Interstate 57.
The State Police then seamlessly took over the escort, shutting down the Interstate going south while the entire procession of trucks made its way noisily on to the Interstate
Our retinue traveled to Ashkum, where it exited from the Interstate to snake through the sleepy little town before heading north on the old highway to Clifton, where I lived for years. We loop through town, then north over to my high school, Clifton Central to make a few laps around the driveway while school is in session. Classes stop as high schooler’s and teachers peer out windows.
Finally, having inconvenienced as many people as possible, the procession makes its way to the small white church in the center of Chebanse, a block from my childhood home. Trucks are parked throughout town, engines left on for the drivers comfort and so as to make as large a carbon footprint as possible.
Folks file into the church and onto the red-carpeted nave. Although small, it’s a beautiful house of worship; one can easily view the pulpit from anywhere in the room. The stained-glass windows are a marvel to behold. My casket rests in front of the podium near the few steps leading up into the presbytery.
As I look out from the ceiling of the pulpit, adjusting to my new wings, I am struck by the mix of the folks that have made it to my funeral. Among people I grew up with, there are also favorite authors like Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Greg Isles, and James Lee Burke; as well as not-so-famous-yet local authors Denny Marek and Jim Riordan, all in attendance. These writers must have come to read something prominent they wrote or to sing my praises as the lost grandson of the great Ernest Hemingway.
I turn my attention to family sitting in the front pew, minus my wife because, well, she’s still mad at me for getting shot. All are in a somber mood, but seem curious with the collection of people and dignitaries that have come to honor me in this nave.
I then notice, there in the presbytery are four large ornate wooden, high-backed chairs. These are evidently for notables attending the funeral, a few of which are assumedly going to speak on my behalf. The luminary’s faces’ come into my view…and I am horrified.
There sits former Grand Duke of the Ku Klux Klan, David Duke. On his left, grinning like a Cheshire Cat who just smoked a doobie sits famous tax cheat, Willie Nelson. Continuing left is former mobster and shakedown artist, Nicholas Calabrese. (Who knew he was out of prison?) And finally, on the far right is the renown sexual predator, Harvey Weinstein, lasciviously eyeballing my granddaughters in the front row.
I am appalled by the presence of the four men perched behind my casket who have been given the best seat in the house. Nobody seems concerned about them. Who authorized and arranged for a noted racist, a tax cheat, a hustler, and a sexual monster to attend my funeral, sitting as the guest of honor? They don’t represent me, so who thought I’d want them there? Why is nobody questioning this?
And then I suddenly lurch from my slumber, drool running down my chin. I had fallen asleep. On the television Ms. Franklin’s funeral is still going on.