Poll watchers are writing the obituary for Newt “I Got My Ass Kicked Over That Name A Lot When I Was a Kid” Gingrich. Pundits are screaming at each other with full-throated vigor and the public stands agog that none of the punditocrisy saw this coming.

“Newt’s a smart guy and will pull it all together!” Newt has too much baggage and doesn’t have a hope in hell” go the chants.

My opinion is that Newt has an ego that would give Donald Trump a hard on. And, he likes to play the “(revised) history professor” to a party well-known as the ignorati since medieval serfs used sticks for shovels… and housing… and, when necessary, food. Besides, everyone had a 7th grade history teacher that hated them. That memory is really hard to overcome.

Newt, the Small Salamander
In the end, Newt will fall into his own mouth and swallow himself into a heftily paid lobbyist and “professor” in some of the nation’s most academically-challenged institutions of higher learning. Besides, he’s named for a small amphibian and that’s a heavy cross to bear.

Noting unusual here. Politicians flame out all the time.  What seems to differ this time is that the Republican field is like the Kentucky Derby with 6 more horses than starting gates.

So far, the ultra-insane wing – Michele Bachmann and Governor Goodhair – have fallen prey to that old political disease, Village Idiot Syndrome. Herman Cain – who passes for a moderate in today’s Republican Party – went down with “I Can’t Keep it in My Pants” Disease.

Rick Santorum is a late bloomer angling for the “Uber-Ultra Insanitite With a Cherry on Top” vote. He’ll fare about as well as anyone who, when Googled, displays a picture of runny shit.

Jon Huntsman will die a quiet political death while trying to explain how his billionaire father has nothing to do with his campaign while accepting more money than God from him. Breeding truly tells.

Ron Paul will pull the hardcore daffies like he’s the second coming of Dennis Kucinich, but daffiness doesn’t sell nearly as well as bat-shit, full-moon lunacy.

That religious cultist Mitt Romney – who’s sole redeeming feature is that he isn’t one of the others – will still lose. It seems what you don’t say is almost as bad a saying something stupid. Wearing special underwear and having been named for a piece of baseball equipment will not overcome his challenges either.

I Love the Smell of Moose Urine in the Morning
Who’s left? No, not Donald Trump. He won’t find campaigning nearly as cool as delusional idol worship, gold-plated everything, and swag lamps. The White Trump House is simply not klassy enough for him.

But, is that moose urine or wolf carcass offal on the tundra I smell? Why of course, Yosemite Samantha Sarah is baaaack!

She’s nowhere as loony as Santorum or Bachmann, but they’ve been genetically bred for maximum hilarity – religious, anti-chimp/anti-evolution claims notwithstanding.  Perry gives her a run for her money, but in the end he still sounds like George the Lesser raised from the dead. And the one thing everyone agrees is that George the Lesser should be exiled to Sardinia… forever.

For some inexplicable reason, people will listen to her. Maybe it’s her folksy delivery or sexy schoolmarm schtick. Maybe it’s her “just plain folks” sensibilities. “She just seems so darn nice,” Republican women will gush. People see her as having the same troubles as them. After all, her reality show was cancelled and it’s replacement withered on the vine. Everyone can relate to that, can’t they?

Of course, Obama will win the election – not because people like him – but because they see how bad things are now and are absolutely terrified it’ll get even worse with someone else in the catbird seat.

Surprisingly, Republicans aren’t driving nails into their own coffin with this baffling array of candidates with donut holes for brains. No, they’ll just look like buffoons until such time as the Democrats out-buffoon them and then put up some yokel with lots of money and no morals for the win.

Sigh…

It’s been a rough decade or so for America. One disaster after another. I find it hard to get cranky over anything or anyone anymore and I’m ashamed to say my blog production has dropped off as a result.

People used to say I reminded them of, “a curmudgeon sitting on the porch, throwing firecrackers at the birds.” Now, I post a number of mildly entertaining pop culture videos or some personal story as often as politics. Even my more cantankerous posts lack the panache of old. Really, I don’t know how Christopher Hitchens managed to get his cranky on, even in the face of death.

But, I still dream of the days when I mustered the strength to pop someone’s head like a zit, to just let the vitriol fly and let the pus-covered words land where they may. That day has come. Let the popping begin:

No. 6: Pat Robertson – Failed Faith Healer and TV Evangiswindler

Pat’s never boring. You can count on him to say things so incredibly stupid he has no credibility as a comic after he says them. Pat, here’s to hoping the Lord God Almighty calls you on the Supertheist Hotline and strikes you popped, like a big juicy one.

BTW, take Michele Bachmann with you as a sort of DIY rapture.

No. 5: Sarah Palin – Failed Reality Show Character and Half-Term Governor

Sarah’s sexy schoolmarm look has worn dangerously thin. No one buys rimless glasses anymore. She’s all but stopped the comic gold Tweets and now can’t even seduce Joe the Plumber into the Tea Party – much less be a Kingmaker for the largest group of knotheads ever to run for public office. Republicans? Michele Bachmann. Really? C’mon.

Sadly, she’s a victim of America’s economic turmoil. After her last reality show tanked, she couldn’t get anyone to pick up her newest TV creation – “reality” life with the First Dood. Who knew salmon fishing could be so…um, uninteresting? Who would’ve imagined that she and multi-baby momma, Kate Gosselin, would both find themself unemployed and downwardly mobile members of the 99.99 percenters?

Hand me that Alaskan hunting knife…POP! Woooo, look at that gunk fly.

No. 4: The Occupy Movement

Michael Moore described the movement as “organic” without seeing the irony that mushrooms grown in shit are organic as well. They have lofty goals, most of which I applaud heartily. However, if you can get 54% of America to agree with you and then shortly thereafter have polls drop like anchors, you aren’t onto a good political strategy. (See Baggers, Failure, Tea)

Word. Stop keeping your enemies close and pissing off your friends (for example, the Longshoremen’s Union). Face it, if there’s one thing 99% of America hates it’s people who camp out on the grass in defiance of the Keep Off the Grass signs. Those pro-watching grass grow people mean business (Use of Deadly Pepper Spray Authorized).

BTW, fewer TV interviews with formerly middle class post-grads who trained for archeology, but now can’t find a job “in their field of study”. More interviews with people who not only can’t afford Christmas gifts, but food, clothing, shelter, and water too.

Herewith is a group pop, because the movement is so “organic” no single mushroom has emerged from the shit to take one for the team.

No. 3: Newt Gingrich – Deity

When Joe Scarborough says you’re just plain mean and you’re too crazy for Glenn Beck, some self-examination is in order – even if you’re congenitally unable to do it.

Newt has enough skeletons in his closet to fill the Catacombs three times over. He will not get a pass on those, regardless of how above them he feels entitled to be. He’s now on Wife No. 36, more or less. He’s cheated on the lot of them and is probably grooming Wife No. 37 as we speak. No one believes that he’s really gone over to the God side except the American Family Association, Jim Bakker, and Billy Graham…and he’s almost dead and confused to boot.

Oh, and Joe Scarborough says you are a mean man.

May God have no mercy popping your zit.

No 2. Bill O’Reilly, Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh – Media Mavens Who Hate the Media

This one is really too easy, because they are really the same person. Same buffoonery, same blowhardism, and like Newt, same mean people.

If you have a TV or radio show, website, or both, you can’t talk about the media like it’s some underground nefarious plot by treasonous commies, socialists, or nazis who hate the Hate America First or War on Christmas crowds. Simply put, YOU ARE THE MEDIA YOU MORANS!

Each of you have skin thinner than a condom and egos the size of Donald Trump’s – although most of you have better hair (notwithstanding Rush’s bald pate). This is not an especially endearing combination except with survivalists still looking for Barack Hussein Obama’s “real” birth certificate under a chunk of Kenyan rock, and abortion clinic bombers.

Here’s a huge zit-pop for you.

CAUTION: Readers, please step away from the zit so you don’t get wet. This is a juicy one.

No. 1: Barack Obama – Change and Hope Peddler and World’s Worse Negotiator

He means well. He really does. He believes the whole change and hope thing, but wants to get to it by selling his skin to corporatists and any kowtowing to any interest group more powerful than the National Association of Wiener Dogs. He’s also under the misguided impression that bipartisanship actually works. When your opponents say “no” – or worse yet – “hell no” before you even float the infamous trial balloon, bipartisanship is a loser. How many times will he bang his head against this particular rock?

But, the O-Man’s biggest failure is as a negotiator. He bargains like a Rube trying to buy a Ford Pinto with only 3 wheels at Mad Man Dapper Dan’s Pre-Owned, Used Car Lot (“I’d give ‘em away, but my wife won’t let me.”). You don’t tell Dan exactly how much you have in your pocket and then begin haggling against yourself. Clearly, the Pinto will be just a hopeful and change-deprived dream.

True, he’s gotten few things done after a fashion, but his greatest claim to fame may be that he’s infinitely preferable than John McThusela and the Gun Totin’ Moose Mommy. Not a bad accomplishment in its own right.

Sorry Mr. President, but I’ll make this as painless as possible. I hope you can handle the change.

(Quick Stab) little ooze.

Damn! Vitriol feels so damn good. I FEEL ALIVE! ALIVE I SAY!

Cross posted at The Omnipotent Poobah Speaks!

Newt Gingrich likes to promote himself as an academic with all the answers – academic answers similar to Creationism. The image fits well with his messianic complex as an oracle who preaches the perfection of what’s right – and we do mean right – and true. Plus, the “liberal” media gobbles it up like a plane crash making a smoking crater in the ground.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he lets facts get in the way. Newt has always had a loose grip on facts as foundations of academia. Accordingly, let’s say his academic credentials are a bit light.

In 1978, West Georgia College denied him tenure for failing to publish his “work”. He apparently felt that as God incarnate he needn’t follow the same rules as every other academic. God didn’t call to him. St. Newton of Gingrich called himself.

In 1993, he moved on to that world-class academic powerhouse, Kennesaw State College. He taught the appropriately pompous, “Renewing American Civilization”, because if anyone could do it, he could.

God Created the World in 6 Days, Newt Can Do it in 10 Weeks
By ’84, he’d spread his gospel by moonlighting at  the renown Reinhardt University. His Saving Private Ryan America class only lasted 10 weeks. Afterall, God created the world in a whirlwind 6 days, so Newt left himself a little more because God was a slap dash sort of fellow and Newt wanted to get it right this time.

The gig at Reinhardt was the beginning of his undoing. He was Speaker of the House while singlehandedly creating his Contract On America in his own graven craven image.

As Speaker, he was a strong leader in the image of Saddam Hussein. He left detractors in the desert to die. He scorched his friend’s earth. He developed partisan rancor to a level not previously seen. And, we still reap what he sowed.

Oh yeah, and he was schtupping several ladies while criticizing Clinton for his unseemly affairs of the cigar.

Newt quickly got a lesson in karma and why it’s stupid to piss people off – especially when they have power (even if you don’t think it can rival your own). That little “academic” moonlight gave rise to ethics charges that, if he’d been a more agreeable guy, probably would’ve been a slap on the wrist.

Spreading the Gospel of Newt
Newt 2011 is still spreading the Gospel of Newt. He pontificates and postures in a way that shames the true academic community. And to prove he’s all-knowing and seeing, Newt still does it like no one notices.

He has skin thinner than a condom (or John McThusela’s). He thinks it’s OK to put kids to work without acknowledging that’s a pretty tough sell – except for cronies who would never let it happen to their own kids. Notice he only preaches this for kids in certain kinds of neighborhoods – not rich ones, not ones where people don’t have money to send the kids to private schools, and not ones where No Every Child Left Behind (an evil Federal law BTW) forces teachers to teach tests instead of the three Rs.

Betting that Newt will muzzle himself to avoid catastrophe gets 0-to-0 odds. He’ll still be a Messiah that trips over his loose tongue, still has enough skeletons in his closet to fill the Parisian catacombs, and still can’t keep it in his pants – despite making a tiny head nod to God by way of an apology for breaking the Ninth Commandment and promising to not do it again … many earlier episodes and hypocrisy to the contrary.

Democrats are salivating over Newt as candidate precisely because he sees himself as God. And, Gods aren’t known for their humility. Perhaps this time they can avoid snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, but that’s not a bet I’d take.

The gaggle of Republican candidates with a combined IQ lower than a turnip have done themselves in. And despite Democrats’ Pavlovian drooling, Newt probably will too. That leaves Mitt Runaway who is congenitally unable to take a position. Cultist, 1 percenter defender of the 99 percenters (when it’s convenient), and all around numbskull will get the nod.

Democrats hope the New Messiah runs, but the best they’ll get is Romney – safe, literally every man in the chameleon sense – unless there’s a resurgent Donald Trump or Moose Mamma. A dead guy could beat them.

Oddly, Romney will be hard to beat. In an uncertain and ugly world, strength trumps courage and the fearful migrate to the candidate who seems dull and dazzles them with unintelligible bullshite. On the other hand, Newt is the Professor of Ignorati 101 and there are a lot of ignorant people out there.

The democrats will have a hell of a time winning and prior experience shows that even Newt may not change that.

Cross posted at The Omnipotent Poobah Speaks!

USS Holland (AS-3) Off San Diego With Submarines Alongside (circa 1935) 

As I write this two American flags hang on my wall. Both are folded into militarily tight triangles and protected by flag boxes. One contains a Purple Heart, the other the WWII Service Medal and Pacific Service Medal. One day my own flag with a Cold War Service Medal will join them.

WWI Poison Gas Victims 

My grandfather received the Purple Heart after being shot and mustard-gassed in contested Alsace-Lorraine. He knew his location only by the strange melange of French and German the locals spoke.

His injuries were severe. Gruesome battlefield triage located him near the bottom of the list based on the likelihood his wounds were fatal. They laid him on a blanket spread across war-churned mud to die. He received only a daily ration of bread and some water. After a week, he beat the odds and finally received some medical attention, eventually going home.

The Mail Had to Go Through
He tried to reenlist at the beginning of WWII, but was barred because he held a critical wartime job – clerk on a railway post office shuttling through a dozen of more Montana and North Dakota ‘burgs. His car is on display at the California Railroad Museum in Sacramento, proof the world is very small.

His daughter went to work at Boeing as a draftsman working on the B-29. My mother worked as a crane operator at a former toy factory in Toledo converted to manufacturing tank barrels. They were Rosie the Riveters and every bit as important and deserving of praise as the men they supported.

YP-73 in for Repairs, Kodiak, AK (4/10/41) 

My father joined the Naval Reserve midway through his senior year in high school, only months before Dec. 7. He became a radioman and immediately shipped out to Alaska. There, he served aboard the YP-73, a converted salmon fishing boat tasked with patrolling the Aleutians.

Like many men of the era he was taciturn about his service. A few years before he died he told me a new story he’d never mentioned before. I’m still not sure why he did.

On Dec. 8, 1941 – less than 24 hours after the war began – his small boat forced a Dutch ship carrying a cargo of Japanese silk to stop off Dutch Harbor. His boarding party found a Japanese officer escorting the cargo and took him prisoner. Surely one of the first prisoners of the war.

Aboard the Gar One Last Time

USS Gar (SS-206) at Mare Island, CA (circa 1941) 

Later he became a submariner, serving two war patrols aboard the USS Gar. After the patrols, he transferred to the personal staff of the Commander of Submarine Forces (Pacific), Adm. Charles Lockwood, aboard the submarine tender USS Holland.

Growing up, I heard many tales about the Pacific islands and countries he visited. They were unstintingly light-hearted, “There was one time went to a beer garden and…,” they usually began. I assumed his war patrols had been relatively combat-free and that service on the Admiral’s staff wasn’t exactly tough duty.

It turned out my assumption was wrong.

My Dad died at 86. He suffered a stroke a few months before pneumonia finally got him. The stroke left him semi-conscious for the better part of a week and every few hours he’d verbalize his delusions.

He talked to my mother. He took up his old vocation by controlling aircraft in his sleep. He described a sinister organization called, The Group that imprisoned him in a school. Oddly, The Group’s commandant was one of his least favorite people, Pat Robertson.

One afternoon he started mumbling and his voice grew steadily louder. He shouted the names of his Gar shipmates. He cried out for help and wept as if holding a shipmate during his last moments. It was clear from his fevered talk that he was back 65 years aboard a submarine under attack.

I suppose he could’ve been dreaming about a fantasy like The Group, but his voice betrayed an emotion and reality his Group rants never had. I listened to his cries for help, stung that I could to nothing to ease his pain. On that sunny afternoon I became his crewmate holding him as he held his shipmate. That pain taught me something about the man I’d known my entire life.

I saw him in a different light and was boundlessly proud of him.

Cross posted at The Omnipotent Poobah Speaks!