What, Me President?

 

art by Jack Davis

That could be me taking the presidential oath yesterday.  Or could it?   I had a speech impediment too when I was young.   Well, I suppose I would have to get into politics, which I never had a desire to do.

I think I made the right decision not to be President of the United States.  You see, in my latest stage of life I get emotional over the least little thing.  I could cry all the way through a SESAME STREET segment.

If it was me up there yesterday, every song sung and the poem recited would have me coking up.  The military bands playing military music would have me squalling.

Even this morning I heard that President Bide called Jimmy Carter and thanked him for his lifetime of service, I choked up.

I think it would ruin my image during tough negotiations   with the leaders of another country my assistant would have to keep handing me Kleenex tissues every time they by-the-book complemented me.

Life is mean.

Watching the Inauguration

 

We just watched a lot of the Inauguration formal ceremonies and the Bidens walking the last leg of their parade a block of Pennsylvania Avenue, up the driveway, down the sidewalk covered with a red carpet and to a door.  They seemed to pause at that door, maybe gathering their thoughts of reaching the end of their journey.

Then Joe reached for the door.

I thought, “What if the door is locked?  What if Trump had the locks changed before he left?”

The door opened.

The big Biden family flooded into their new home.

Squawk Squawk!

 

The below has been copied and pasted from a previous Chicken-fat blog article, in case I try to sue myself:

We moved in with our Grandpa Hunter in 1948.  Either that summer or the next Summer Larry Bell Park opened their new public swimming pool. 

Daddy got Frances and I yearly passes and I think that was a daily thing for us was to go to the pool.  Frances was a good poised swimmer.  I swam, but without form I think.

Almost every day we could count on a good time at the pool.

It didn’t hurt that the Sullivan family were in charge of the concessions.   The Sullivan family lived three doors down from us in the Clay Homes and their son Eddie and I had birthdays within a couple of days of each other, and for two or three years we would go with them and their wooden flat trailer to Sweetwater Creek near Powder Springs, where I almost drowned – wait!  That is another story.

At Larry Bell Park Swimming Pool the main life guard was Charles Dawson.  Until recently I used to see him at the annual Bell Reunion every year.  Charles turned 80 a few years ago. 

Many kids came from Marietta Place to hang out at the pool.  Marietta Place was just across Fairground Street east of the park.  I lived on a street width from Larry Bell Park on the westside, On Manget Street.

There was a guy who I think lived in the Marietta Place who was a Bully to me.  Vernon is his name.

Every time I got close to him he always said something smart-aleck, or called me Fatso, or just generally rude, and sometimes pushed me.  I don’t remember Vernon actually going into the pool, he hung around outside sitting on a hand rail.

I remember one time on East Dixie Avenue at Atlanta Street, besides Hick’s Grocery he and a friend of his walked towards me.  Vernon got in front of me calling me names and his friend got behind me and stooped over or go on all fours, and Vernon pushed me and I fell and banged my hard. 

I was terrified of the ass-hole and he knew it.  Bully!

I had a friend that lived on the other end of Manget Street.  He lived on the corner of Manget and Waterman Streets.  His name was Frankie Hunter.  His father was Francis Hunter.  And my grandfather, also lived on Manget Street was Frank Hunter.  I’m sure there were some mail delivery mess-ups.  We are not related that we know of.

Frankie Hunter was a good friend. He had a hot temper.  Several times we had scuffled and if Frankie got hurt he would lose his temper and attack me head on.  Each time I easily whipped him.  I wasn’t afraid of him.  

Frankie and his family were new to Marietta.  They were from Boston.   Theday we went to the pool for the first time. Vernon saw Frankie was with me and started picking on him.  Frankie with the short fused temper hit back.  That unnerved Vernon and they went down the hill behind the pool, about where the tennis courts are now, to settle it.  Frankie whipped Vernon ass.

After that event I reasoned out, “Why should I fear Vernon?  I can whip someone who can whip him.”

The next day at the pool Vernon I saw Vernon sitting on the rail, his usual perch.  I considered walking by and pushing him backwards off the rail, like he did me with his friend stooping behind me.  But, frankly, I was scared to, afraid I would get into trouble.

So, I walked by him, ready for a rude nasty remark from him, I was going to bark back and try to get him to go down behind the pool with me. 

He looked the other way.

Maannnn!

I think Vernon reasoned this out the same thing I did, and could probably see the hatred in my eyes towards him.

He avoided me from then on.

Or UNTIL I ran into him at the Bell Reunion sixty some years later.

I walked up to him and introduced myself and told him I heard he was a regular at the Bell Reunions and I thought if I ever come we might have to have a fight.

He patted me on the back, “Lets not do that.”

He had mellowed.

I have too, but I didn’t forget.

We were on speaking terms until the Bell Reunion played  itself out.

Adele Kurtzman, R.I.P.

 

This is the front cover of BIJOU Comicbook #8, drawn by Harvey Kurtzman (1924-1993).  BIJOU was an “Underground” comic with contributors like Robert Crumb, Gilbert Shelton, Skip Williamson,  more.

Harvey Kurtzman created MAD Comicbook and MAD Magazine.  He also created EC War comics, three other satirical magazines, and PLAYBOY’s ANNIE FANNY cartoon.

The underground comix artists held Harvey Kurtzman is high regards.  They said Harvey Kurtzman was the father of underground comix.

Kurtzman demanded a blood test.

 

Harvey Kurtzman’s wife, Adele recently died, within the past few days.  I don’t have the exact date.

 

GAAKAK!

 Who doesn't have shots on their minds these days?  You either just had one or you have one schedule or you live deeply in the forest.

Cartoon by Bud Grace

Click on image to make it readable and understandable.

Pull My Finger

 

A Hypothetical Question

 

Hypothetically, can a sitting president pardon his son,  who  has not yet been charged with messing with campaign funds but is being investigated which the conclusion will be after the said president leaves office?

 Just asking, hypothetically, of course.

The Brits Look at Trump

 

Jamie Sheffield

thtMSadrpccsh gs29onn,s oremnrgh20d2m0n  · 

Someone asked "Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?"

Nate White, an articulate and witty writer from England, wrote this magnificent response:

"A few things spring to mind.

Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem.

For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace - all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed.

So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing - not once, ever.

I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility - for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman.

But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is - his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty.

Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.

And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults - he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness.

There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface.

Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront.

Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul.

And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist.

Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that.

He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat.

He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.

And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully.

That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.

There are unspoken rules to this stuff - the Queensberry rules of basic decency - and he breaks them all. He punches downwards - which a gentleman should, would, could never do - and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless - and he kicks them when they are down.

So the fact that a significant minority - perhaps a third - of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think 'Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:

* Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.

* You don't need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.

After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum.

God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid.

He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart.

In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws - he would make a Trump.

And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish:

'My God… what… have… I… created?

If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set."

11

4-Lane & Roswell St,

 

Big Chicken's Front Yard Years Ago

click on to make bigger

BBQ or Fried Chicken?

 

I heard this story twice.  Both stories take place in the 1930s or 1940s.  One the star is Gene Talmage in Georgia and the other is Lyndon B. Johnson in Texas.   In this story they will be The Politician.

Once Upon a time in (Texas or Georgia) The Politician ran for public office.  He had a rally with free (barbecue or fried chicken).  Thousands of people came to rally.

The Politician felt sure he would win because of he thousands of people who showed up at his rally.

He lost the election.

He said a lot of people had his barbecue or fried chicken free .

 

I heard Trump and his son were  shocked they lost because , considering all the people that showed up for Trump’s rallies.  

What were they serving BBQ or Fried Chicken?

Me and Al Feldstien

 

Me and Al Feldstein, deceased, editor of MAD Magazine for over 30 years.

I Gotta Be Me!

click on to enlarge to make it more readable

 

KING OF STATEN ISLAND is good

 

On TV we saw the movie Pete Davidson’s THE KING OF STATEN ISLAND.  When it first came out the streaming price was a little outrageous but finally came down.

Of Course, you know Pete Davidson is one of SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE’s crew – right?

In the credits Pete wore many hats in the producing the movie.

I think he more or less played his real self.  He really lives on Statin Island and his real father was really a fireman who really did die on the job.

Pete and his pals of the same age, in their 20s, were irresponsible and immature.  They were not above breaking into drug stores for cash and drugs either. 

But everything was done and said in a humorous way.

And believe it or not it has a Disney inspirational charm about it but soaked in realism.

Good movie!

SUNDAY FUNNIES!! HUMBUG #5 Celebrates' Quiz Shows

 This was torn from the pages of HUMBUG #5.  It only lasted 11 issues.  The editor, Harvey Kurtzman wrote the story and Jack Davis illustrated it.

Yeow! That Had To Hurt!

 One of my favorite writers Raymond Adkins said this morning:

I was raised to never speak ill of the deceased, and I'm trying really hard right now, but apparently one of Wednesday's insurrectionists, a gentleman named Kevin Greeson, died as a result of tasering himself in the balls while trying to steal a portrait of Tip O'Neil.

I don't even know where to go next with this, so I guess I'll just let the facts speak for themselves.

Moving Day at the Whitehouse

 

Trump said so himself that he is a poor loser.  Or maybe he did not say he is a “poor loser it was more like “I don’t lose well.”  Or maybe it was more like “I don’t lose”.

I think in a nutshell, and I do mean NUTshell Trump never admits losing anything and takes it personal when on the person who points out otherwise.

In that in mind,  will he offended when he is told he and his family will have to move from the Whitehouse by January 20^th?

No handing over the ceremoniously Whitehouse key?

The Trumps being evicted?

 

We just watched a video of Amy and Crista of the Marietta History Museum give a tour of the old Coca Cola Bottling Company building  on Roswell Street in Marietta across from the National Cemetery. 

 

It brought back memories.  We lived in the Clay Homes which is just a hop skip and jump from the building.  Daddy was a patrolman, and we did not own a car.

We bought Coke by the case.

See Frances and me in our only means of transportation?  Back then, in the early 40s I would take my seat in my wagon and Daddy would pull me up the hill on Roswell Street and he would buy a case of Cokes.  Of course, he put the case of Cokes in the Wagon and I had to walk with him back home.

Those were the days.

Growing Pains

 

I could not wait until I turned 6.  Then I could go to school, like the other neighborhood kids.

I could not wait until I turned 13.  Then I could go to the TAC (Teenage Canteen) above City Hall and the Firehouse on Atlanta Street and play pool without the lady than ran it or her husband run us off.

I cold not wait to enter the 8^th grade.  It was not grammar school, it was either high school or Junior High.  I staid in hot water.

I could not wait until the 9^th grade, which was Marietta High School.  I stayed in hot water there too.

I could not wait to get a paper route.  Those papers were not going to deliver themselves.

I could not wait to turn 16, to get my driver’s license.  My wrecks and tickets were minimum.

I could not wait to graduate, which I did, which was a big surprised to the assistant principal.

I could not wait to turn 18 to registered to vote.  And I almost voted every time.  One time my mail-ballot was returned to me saying it arrived too late.  Long story, not my fault.

I cold not wait to get a job, which as did.  The thrill of that poofed soon.

I could not wait to join the Navy.  Well I could wait, but the Cuban Missile Crisis was looming.

I could not wait to get married.  It was the  best decision I have made.

I could not wait until we have kids.   Well, that is not exactly correct, we waited several years, but when we did have the boys that was also the best decision we have made, tide with the marriage one.

I could wait to have my own handicap hangar.

Opps!  What’s next?

 

Yesterday Was Bad Hair Day for Trump

 

Yesterday was not Donald Trump’s day.  In just a few hours it appeared most, if not all, of his legislator buddies, including Lindsey Graham and Mitch McConnell turned on him and publicly criticized him and a huge number of people are demanding that the 25^th Amendment (Removal) be utilized.

And  that is not worse of it:  Trump’s twitter account has been frozen for 24 hours!

Karma!

What Is Truth?

 

It is about 5:45pm Tuesday Evening, January the 6^th.  The pollical campaign radio and TV ads should have been over for a few minutes now.

Whew!

I’m sick of both sides taking quotes out of text and suggesting the opponent is really saying or implying things he or she did not say at all.

One of the TV stations ran a truth test, lying test. 

Both sides lost.

The truth meant nothing.

We are in big trouble.