What’s the Medical Term for Mean Old S.O.B?

Well, the cards are on the table now.

Tuesday’s report from the White House doctor may have given Donald Trump an “A” for his fine physical and mental health, but it revealed much more.  Much more that Trump may come to regret.

The thing is that up to now, even though he’s denied it with gusto, Trump’s behavior has pointed to a wacky and possibly senile old man tweeting rude, sometimes unreadable messages at all hours of the day or night.  His behavior has pointed to a possibly deranged old guy at the end of the bar arguing with any and all in ear shot.

His behavior has pointed to an insensitive, socially inept man confused by the challenges of the workload of being President, a man who should be excused for his missteps because it was all just too overwhelming.

But the cards – and the truth – are now on the table.  No more speculation.

None of Donald Trump’s behavior can be excused any longer for any reason at all.  He has finally been proven to be mentally and physically fit for the job, so whatever he does is now squarely on his shoulders – the bully behavior, the caustic tweets, the gross and crude remarks, the scowls and shouts, the threats and shoving, the arrogance and the overbearing take down of anyone who stands in his way.

This is Donald Trump and there’s not a thing wrong with him except that he’s a mean, low-minded and brutal SOB who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.

His minions are hereby put on alert – no more feeble excuses:  “He was just kidding…” “He didn’t mean that…”  “What he meant to say was…”  Don’t even think about it, Kelly Ann or Sara or Steve.  No more mealy-mouthing by the GOP.

For my money, chances of impeachment just soared with the good doctor’s news.  When a man, any man but particularly the President of the United States, engages in the worst possible – and flagrant – behavior, that man is a scoundrel in the best/worst sense of the word.  Once he’s shown his true colors, he’s no longer trustworthy, no longer credible, no longer an appropriate candidate for the highest office in the land.

And he deserves not one second of sympathy.  Donald Trump might preen and applaud himself for his fine medical report.  But that medical report has pulled the plug on him and there’s no going back.

Enjoy your moment, Mr. T, but we’re not buying any more fakey jake grins and “presidential” handshakes.  We know who you are.

And don’t come crying to us when it all falls apart and you’re left holding your nine iron and wondering what the hell happened.



Civil Rights in an Uncivil America

Once again we celebrate the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr.  But this year I do it with a heavy heart.

I am one of the many who worked hard for Civil Rights back in the 1960s, and I ran one of the first government-mandated affirmative action training programs in the country. My co-workers feared for me, alone in a training room with six or seven women who were learning to be secretaries.  Just imagine!

My picture was in the paper one day with the women at their typewriters, and a few nights later a young black man who had seen the picture and could tell I was a teacher waited outside in the snow to meet me because he could not read and thought I might be able to help him.  He and his family became friends with my family, and we were among the ones he called the night he was forcefully arrested – we witnessed it – for some minor infraction for which no white man would have been jailed.

The story of what happened to him on the way to the county jail, some miles from where we were, was chilling.  We were in the Pacific Northwest, but we might as well have been in Birmingham with Bull Connor at the reins.  This was the night I learned for certain that no one is ever really safe from mean spirits and prejudice.

I don’t think about those days often, but today I am.  Because we are so hypocritically “celebrating” the birth of a man whose work is denigrated every single day in America.

More to the point, and more in the spirit of our times, Martin Luther King, Jr.’s work is denigrated every single day by the administration in Washington, D.C., most especially by the man who sits in the White House.

My overriding hope on this anniversary is that the Karma Committee is already in session making plans to bring the bastard down. Or that he will turn to look behind him (perhaps for a lost golf ball) and, like Lot’s wife, turn into a pillar of salt.

I’d settle for either one.



A Poet Speaks of the American President – How Much Victory Do You Need?

Last month, Anthony Wilson, a British poet and occasional correspondent, posted an end of the year note about the year’s poetry.  He included in it a poem by noted Palestinian poet Mourid Barghouti.

I was unfamiliar with Barghouti’s work, but immediately taken with the poem from his latest book, Midnight.  Like my favorite poet, Palestinian-American Naomi Shihab Nye, Barghouti leads a reader in an intricate dance that ends with an all-powerful punch.

As I watch the increasingly desperate moves of the current administration and especially the stunning desperation of the titular head of that administration, I’m drawn again and again to Barghouti’s poem.  I have it for you here.  Be prepared for the closing lines.


To the victorious
I will send an unsettling message
and these simple questions:
something gives me reason to doubt.
All the gods of Olympus
support you,
They receive their orders according to your desires,
they point their arrows in whatever direction you point,
the earth revolves according to your wish.
Triumph is your vocation,
every war against us raises you higher and higher
while throwing us down to our fate
like cypress branches in the darkness of a fireplace.
Everything you build lasts and expands,
while what we build is carried away by elegies.
We are destined for the grave
while your hands are destined for the champagne of triumph.
Anyone on your list
is a dead man:
die, and he dies.
victory has become your daily routine
like your morning toast.
Why, then, this hysteria?
Why do I not see you dancing?
How much victory do you need to be victorious?
something makes me suspicious.
What, at the climax of your victory, is it
that makes you so scared?


Miss Fidditch Wishes You A Happy New Year!



 If I Had My Life to Live Over
Nadine Stair, 85 years old

If I had my life to live over,

I’d dare to make more mistakes next time.

I’d relax, I would limber up.

I would be sillier than I have been this trip.

I would take fewer things seriously.

I would take more chances.


I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers.

I would eat more ice cream and less beans.

I would perhaps have more actual troubles,

but I’d have fewer imaginary ones.


You see, I am one of those people who has lived sensibly and sanely,

hour after hour, day after day.

Oh, I’ve had my moments, and if I had to do it over again,

I’d have more of them.

In fact, I’d try to have nothing else.

Just moments,

one after another,

instead of living so many years ahead of each day.


I’ve been one of those people who never goes anywhere

without a thermometer, a hot water bottle,

a raincoat and a parachute.

If I had to do it again, I would travel lighter than I have.

If i had my life to live over, 

I would start bare foot earlier in the spring

and stay that way later in the fall.

I would go to more dances.

I would ride more merry-go-rounds.

I would pick more daises.

What the Dickens? The Three Scrooges and Christmas 2017

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon…Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face.
`Mercy!’ he said. `Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?’
`It is required of every man,’ the Ghost returned, `that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world — oh, woe is me! — and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!’…
`But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,’ faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.
`Business!’ cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. `Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!’
It held up its chain at arm’s length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. 

And so Miss Fidditch wishes Donald Trump, Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan, the three Scrooges, well-known champions of the common welfare, charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence a Merry Christmas and sweet, sweet dreams.

Just don’t come crying to Miss Fidditch when you’re awakened at 1:00 a.m. by the sound of Marley’s clanking chains. It’s going to take more than a Christmas goose to undo what you three have wrought.

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