Stable Genius

Chief Stable Genius of the United States

There’s nothing like a good think.  A genius like me has to be careful though.  This big brain of mine makes me top heavy and I am wont to topple over.  When I have a think, I brace myself against a solid surface for stability.  Safety first.

Yes, I am a stable genius with these precautions.  Elevation matters too.  I find that I think best between 275 and 350 feet above sea level.  The ratio of oxygen to sulfur dioxide has to be just so.  Then the torrent of my brilliant ideas floods the room like a broken water pipe in winter.

I am sure my cogitations excel over those of the Chief Stable Genius of the United States.  I know that because

1. I know how to read

2. I stay inside the lines in my coloring book

3. I can drink from a bottle of water with one hand

Now, I know it sounds like I am bragging, but we stable geniuses have an obligation to warn those around us, lest there be unintended injury.  My brain can build up such a massive charge that poisonous frog darts may emanate from me through the sheer will of narcissism.  It is all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.

Most Admired Man

Barry O'Bama

Once again, Barry Obama beat me out for Most Admired Man in America.  I am flabbergasted.  How the American People can have failed to notice my superior qualities, I’ll never know.

First of all, I am always right.  It says so on the internet, even though I might have put it there myself.  Second, I am better looking.  He has those funny ears.  I have noble ears which I have no fear of getting caught in the elevator door.  Thirdly, I’m a better community organizer.  Why, just last week I organized a little band of elementary school children to sniff out illegal pot farms.  All we got was poison ivy, but that’s beside the point.

As they say, there is always next year.  Maybe O’Bama will die of alcohol poisoning next St. Patrick’s Day.  Until then, I remain unrefuted.

Puerto Rico

Puerto Rico

Just as the President knows more about war than the generals, he also knows more about geography than the geographers.  The President explained it:

Puerto Rico is an island.  It's in an ocean. A big ocean. If you want to rebuild Puerto Rico you will need ships and aeroplanes.  Ships and aeroplanes! It will take years.  Who knows how Puerto Rico got built in the first place! F*ck 'em. They don't even talk English.  Except on TV. Fake news only shows Puerto Ricos speaking English.  You can't order ketchup in Puerto Rico cause they don't know what you're saying. So when Puerto Ricos are speaking English on TV, you know it's FAKE NEWS! But we will rebuild Puerto Rico without ketchup. Believe me!

Yanky Doodle

Like my facebook page here

I'm a Speaker at the Republican Convention!

Hey Would-be Refuters! Good news. Yours truly has been asked to speak at the Republican National Convention next week. The organizing committee didn't seem all that thrilled in extending me the invitation, but they seem to have a lot of empty slots to fill. Here's my topic: "Historians Agree: Donald Trump is the Greatest President of the United States EVER!" I believe I'm scheduled for Tuesday morning at 2 a.m. I'm really jazzed. See you in Cleveland.

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Tears

The picture (left) tells the whole story. The NRA calls them "jack-booted thugs," but thank the Lord for the Boys in Blue. With the black threat safely neutralized, those people mingling under the trees can now relax and safely enjoy their American rights. The policemen's masks are to protect them from her venomous spit. The guy in the rear is reflexively recoiling from it, even though he is protected by his face plate. Can you blame him? It's human nature. His buddy keeps a safe operating distance, as he was taught in his negro-handling training.

Yanky Doodle

Like my page on Facebook

Three or Four Things on July 4

I’ve been reading the internet and the consensus is clear: the best thing about America is bacon. Everybody knows how to cook bacon. Throw it in a skillet and cook it topside on the stove until it shrivels to a third its original size. Arrange it on a sheet pan and throw it in the oven at whatever degrees you can fat-finger into the Apollo Control Panel. It’s done when the smoke detector alarms the dogs and sends their poor little heads under the seat cushions. Even the attic smells like bacon if you did it right. You can’t overdo it either: it built for American Excess. You can cook bacon until it is completely devoid of H2O and disintegrates into black powder when you touch it. People will still eat it. Even the French will eat it if they think nobody’s looking. It is the only meat that can’t be judged when it is grossly overcooked. There’s something truly American about a carbon footprint that’s longer than it is wide. And on July 4, bacon is but the breakfast-y lead-in to Independence Day BBQ.

BBQ is the closest we Americans get to haute cuisine. We can’t poach fish. In fact, we don’t even know what that means. The French tried to teach us when they came over during the Revolutionary War to help us whoop the British, but it didn’t take. In America, we have plenty of fish, and plenty of poachers, but no poached fish. But BBQ snobs we are. It’s very egalitarian. You can make three dollars a day selling people rancid vegetable oil for brake fluid and still be a BBQ snob.

Pork shoulder is the stuff of fist fights. Don’t believe me? Just eavesdrop on the Lone Star BBQ Society. Want to know the real reason for concealed carry and semi-automatic weapons with large magazines? Brisket. A tough brisket is a hangin’ offense in Texas, and who has time for a trial? Or tying a knot in a rope.

You put your brisket in the smoker at 200-plus “Fahrenheit,” which is German for “degrees.” The question of that “plus” leads to at least six annual gun fatalities in Texas, not mention innumerable Facebook trolls. My plus is 12 degrees. In any case, after about two and a half hours, the imperative question is whether it is time to pull the meat off. Now yesterday, I was on my lonesome on my suburban deck and had no one to argue with. The meat thermometer was reading on the high side of 140 and climbing to 150. It was a crisis. Since I was on my own I did the only thing I could do. I stuffed a cherry bomb in my mouth and threatened to blow my teeth out unless I pulled the brisket off the heat.

Stubbornly, I let it smoke for another 20 minutes and then finally took the brisket off. It wasn’t perfect. It ruined my day and that of 300 million of my fellow Americans, even if they don’t know it yet (but they will if you share people!) It’s embarrassing, but I own it.

Well, today I’m smokin’ the spare ribs, which have been swimming overnight in my secret marinade. Ribs aren’t as sensitive to cooking time. Five or six hours low and slow will be perfect.  In the mid-Atlantic, we’re on the docket for heavy rain come the Fourth, but fortunately BBQ leftovers don’t count as “leftovers.” BBQ is as good as the real deal the next day around, which is not true of poached fish.

Statistically, the only thing more dangerous than BBQ on Independence Day is firecrackers, so be careful out there. Remember, to shut down a bad guy with a bottle rocket you need a good guy with a bottle rocket. Make sure you have plenty of ‘em. Just bear in mind that everything in your arsenal was made in China.

Like my page on Facebook.

Yanky Doodle

facebook/unrefuted

Rumsfeld Endorses Donald Trump

Former Donald endorsed The Donald this week, saying he never met a Donald he didn't like. Former Secretary of Defense to Former President George W. Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, endorsed the embattled Republican nominee Donald Trump on Tuesday, saying, "Pooh, pooh, this wasn't even a hard decision."  He likened Trump, who he said he'd never met, to an "unknown unknown," while Hillary Clinton is a "known known," and we all know perfectly well that means, as well as how irrefutably it decides the matter.

  

As Trump's semi-official Poet Laureate, it is my obligation to provide a poem to commemorate this unquantifiable occasion. I have rendered my verse in Mr. Trump's favorite feet and meter. Please hold hands and sway gently from side to side:    

The Twenty-second of June, In the Year of Our Lord, Two Thousand and Sixteen

by M.W. Thomas

Did Rumsfeld endorse Mr. Trump pertinently?

Or was it perhaps inadvertently?

That far could he pass

His head up his ass?

Possibly, probably, certaintly!

facebook.com/unrefuted

Yanky Doodle (Sunday Edition)

Me on Facebook

Bernie Sanders Announces for 2017

In a live stream broadcast to his supporters, Bernie Sanders today announced his candidacy for the Democratic nomination for President in 2017.  If that bid fails, he will run again in 2018, and if necessary, in 2019, but hinted he may step aside in 2020.

In other news:  Republican Chairman confirmed that Donald Trump remains the presumptive nominee for his party in 2016, and announced that House Speaker Paul Ryan is under twenty-four hour suicide watch by the Capitol Police.  "It's no big deal," he said. "The important thing is that we be united, even if it's in the afterlife."

Former First Lady Laura Bush May Vote For Hillary!

Rumor has it that former First Lady Laura Bush may cast her vote in the 2016 Presidential poll for Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton. In our polarized politics, partisan reactions have been predictably violently opposed. On the Trump side, it is seen as nothing short of treason. On the Hillary side, it is ‘meh’. Either way, we must agree there are only two possible explanations:

1.       The First Lady is not a white supremacist, or

2.       She’s on the rag.

Because there is so little difference between the two, it is very difficult to get to the bottom of it. But I will walk you through it. As Trump would point out, the latter observation is too easily misconstrued as a misogynistic insult. But think about it. Would you want an all-menstruating jury to decide your handicapped parking dispute? You are accused of purloining a handicapped spot and you are on trial for your life. What kind of jury should you want? Certainly neither rag heads nor rag bottoms. Furthermore, we all know that a drooling plaintiff in a wheelchair doesn’t count as “white,” really. So an all-white, non-menstruating jury is really the way to go, if you expect a judgement in your favor. You see what I mean.

Now, the Founding Fathers were five fifths human beings and our African Americans were three fifths human beings. Do the math people. Okay, skip the math; it involves fractions. But trust me, it says White Supremacy. It is what our nation was founded on, Patriots. It’s in the Constitution. To say exactly the same thing in other words, women were created by cloning them from man’s rib as recorded in Genesis. We would know a little bit more about which end of the rib this bleeding thing originates from, except that “scientists” are too busy forcing abortions on women who don’t want them in order to exterminate Donald Trump voters (see the Internet for proof: start here, here, or here, using search term ‘Hillary bitch face.’)

So why might Laura Bush vote for Hillary? Why, because she’s bleeding from her wherever on Election Day and is blind to the sacred trust of being white. People of color are counting on us, as white people, to look after them, like pets. It all comes together like chocolate and peanut butter.  Like the white creamy center in a Little Debbie chocolate cake. That is what Donald Trump is all about. That is his wisdom. Laura: don’t bleed on my parade.

facebook/home

Yanky Doodle (Sunday Edition)

facebook

Hiroshima: A Love Letter to Ann Coulter

The way to a woman's heart is through a Hiroshima-style
bomb blast... if she's worth having.

Our beautiful bomb exploded over Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. Six-year-old Sara was at school, a mile away from the detonation. An absolutely perfect distance for the artistic mutilation we the righteous visited upon her. The pressure wave stripped her school uniform off her body and the intense heat raised her skin temperature to 280 degrees Fahrenheit for several seconds, well down into her dermis. A brief vacuum was created inside the building, causing a second backwash of intense pressure in the opposite direction to rip her eyes from their sockets. They hung loosely at her burning cheeks. It was magnificent.

Debris waved violently back and forth within the room. Sara’s deserving mother suffered a similar fate as her daughter’s, her dress about her in tatters, her skin blistered. A part of the wooden frame of the chalkboard had broken loose and turned into a missile. It pierced her jap belly and tore her open from top to bottom. Just as might be prayed for in the most eloquent Psalm.

All those that were in that school room were justly burnt and gravely injured, under the pleased smile of Jesus. The air was opaque with dust. Sara cried with her charred lungs. She discovered she could see through her disembodied eyeballs, since her optic nerves were still attached, though her vision was very blurry and misdirected. She tripped over dead school mates. She heard cries from teachers that seemed to come from far corners. “Mama!” she gasped.

Mama’s intestines were gathered in her arms, covered in soot and charred debris. A shaft of light illuminated them through the broken wall. Mama urged her daughter to come with her into the light.  Oh, Ann, how must we laugh at this hubris! How more undeserving can these sub-humans be of any relief? What delight we take in the disdainful toss of the head they get from Jesus!

For Jesus remembers Pearl Harbor. That’s when the yellow-belly japs attacked us for absolutely no reason whatsoever. What right do they have to salvation?

Yet Sara and Mama crawl through the debris and make their way down to the river. Sara finds that by holding her eyeballs gently, and by applying a little pressure in certain places, she can slightly improve her eyesight.

They arrive at the bank of the river. Mama wades in and begins washing her innards. She tries to flush the ashes and coal from her floating intestines. Her bowels pull loose and the blood and feces confuse her. Sara thrashes as others approach.

Two men drag Sara’s mother to the shore and cover her with a tarp. She is dead. Another damned jap rid of. Two women bundle Sara in filthy towels and carry her away. Sara survives and becomes an anti-nuke protestor in later life. She’s the worst kind of self-apologizer and anti-American complainer.

Anyway, no apologies owed to that WWII dirt. Hopefully we’ll get a chance to do it again, to those Arab Islamic sand ticks.

I know you’re with me when I say we should round up the ones we’ve got and have us a little 21^st century auto-da-fé American style with a YUGE mushroom cloud. We can re-open the old above-ground test sites in Nevada and shred the skin right off their terrorist bones. And let’s include the idiots who want to defend them too.

We’re peas in pod, you and me. Hatred and cruelty are always mocked by the people who deserve to die. We must set it right. We’re overdue for a death march.

Want to do lunch?

facebook.com/unrefuted

Yanky Doodle

facebook.com/unrefuted

What about the Hermaphrodites?

I recently had to look up the term cisgender. Oddly, we need a word for it now. That word refers to somebody whose gender identity squares with their birth penis or birth vagina. It turns out that I am cisgender. I must say, with all due deference to the ill-equipped, that it seems to be a real advantage in life to be able to peek down your underpants to establish your gender identity. Some people are not so lucky. These people may suffer from gender disphoria, which means they’re wearing the wrong underpants, or worse, they are in dire need of a penis tuck.

A year before that I had to look up the ‘Q’ in ‘LBGTQ’. That means “Questioning.” What it is exactly that those folks are questioning isn’t usually made clear, but I guess there are other planets besides Venus and Mars. Shall I board the space plane for Uranus?

Anyway, where does the ‘C’ for’ cisgender’ fit into the alphabet of gender identity? Shall it be CLBGTQ? It seems rude, cutting in front of the line like that. How about LBGCTQ?

Wait! But what about hermaphrodites? What are those? you ask. I quote the sage, Archie Bunker.  They are people who are “too much of both and not enough of neither.” That is, they are biologically bisexual, as distinct from behaviorally bisexual. They are rumored to have the genitalia of both of the reproductive chromosome contributors. One of their great advantages is that they can have sex with themselves without the shame of masturbation. Some species can even spawn this way.

Whether hermaphrodites exist or not, it seems to me we need to cram an “H” into our gender identity code ring. Where shall we put it?

Okay, let’s backtrack. Maybe the fairest way to do it is set it all in alphabetical order. This article has been edited and proofread, so you can’t see me puzzling this out in real time, but after a great exercise of the backspace key I come up with this:

BCGHLTQ

But what about transvestites? This category seems to be more of a “dress-up” thing and not particularly sexual. But suppose we include it (and why not? Transvestites are people too.) The difficulty here is that we now have two “trans” literations to account for in our spell - and if we must keep it alphabetical? My years of government work have provided me with a built in solution:  T(V)=Transvestite, T(S)=Transsexual.  The formula now yields:

BCGHLT(S)T(V)Q

Now I object to myself. The alphabet is arbitrary. There should be some order in the world. Perhaps we should question first – especially if we are a hermaphrodite:

QHBCGLT(S)T(V)

Then ‘B’ seems to be in the right place too.  C, G, and L, are all the same from a biological standpoint. I suggest we group them, to reflect that for clarity.

QHB[CGL]T(S)T(V)

Looks like chemistry to me. I may not be a scientist, but I know how to use a word processor. I’ll let the DSM take it from here.

Anyway, somebody asked me what I thought of transgender girls using the ladies room.  I say a transgender girl should have to use the boy’s room to fix her make-up, where she’ll promptly get beat up by a pack of rednecks as Jesus intended.

Yanky Doodle

Yanky Doodle

Yanky Doodle