Passages are from
"New World Hors D'oeuvres"
Michael Stephen Levinson
Golashes Journalista
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I, Mary Levinson, the oldest webmaster in cyberspace, am cutting in on my son’s book sampling.
He started this page quoting the opening dozen pages from "New World Hors D'oeuvres."
As brilliant as his retelling the story of King Solomon and the orphan, Baby Eliana is, leading just anyone to conclude my Michael is a prophet from G-d, in the same inspired tread as King Solomon, who wrote The Song of Songs, and Moses the Teacher, who delivered Five Books, you need some juicy passages immediately; so you can judge the future president for yourselves. This passage is adapted from New World Hors DŽoeuvres - my son’s Exit Strategy for getting us out of Iraq with honor, and more! You have a choice: world peace or smoke and mirrors.
Regardless your political party affiliation, my son’s explicit Iraq Exit Strategy is the only viable way for us to draw down our troops and get out of that country without a debacle. Have yourself a read. My son should be our next president. He’s old enough! Exit Strategy out of Iraq
I’m the dark horse, "nota" candidate for president, yet to break a sweat from way in the back. But when asked about, I poll the most votes, ahead of the pack. "Nota" is an acronym for "none of the above," in my case, well above them, the man with a plan for lasting peace in Iraq! I seek the singular nomination of both parties, a first. I'm sure to win every heart. My peace tableau sets me apart.
I bring to our table the prophetic potential for world peace, for all mankind, given to me, in 1969, in the wilderness, 40 days and nights on an open sea, my qualifier for poet prophet, universal nominee.
During that journey, on an ocean going ship, with the ship's crew for witness, the LAN Lord uh pin Heaven revealed His word unto my mind, within His every line a delicate sensible rhyme, like what He did for Dante, when He inspired the poet with His Divine Comedy, and Moses the Teacher, to whom He gave His Pentateuch and Kabbalah.
Is it a 4th Estate job, locating the men aboard that ship, yet alive, to hear what they say they saw play in the sky, 38 years past yesterday?
People like "eye", given what we pop, only show up, perhaps every other thousand years. G-d inspires when His works require. Is anyone else about, with a double column book they can sing, like old blind Homer, a chant, say from cover to cover? Rest assured the end of His fav water planet isn’t until our universe hiccups, in 185,000 years.
I bring to the marketplace a new word order, the mull tie ling well Television Scripture, words, world orders, and word hors d'oeuvres, written down to be performed on worldwide television, from dusk until dawn, for all the world's peoples to participate in all at once: nothing less, likely more. Here in our land of the free and home to the brave I seek to speak my Peace: a new world order, your words reordered.
The other candidates for president of United States, politishinz, aren't galloping around with words for all mankind, promoting an exit course to get us out of Iraq, with a strategy inspiring the Iraqis to love us. Regardless of assassins, politishinz, or elections, my plan will de-quag us from Iraq, my game plan is our exit with your loved ones intact.
Do you want world peace? Then alter your format, let my words play.
I characterize The Television Scripture, "The Book ov Lev It A Kiss," a Vehicle for World Peace. "The Book ov Lev," lettered by hand, is a magnum opus of our oldest stories, woven with current events. Nixon leaves the White House in disgrace; dioxides bloom, the Arctic ice caps melt, plus Adman and Even back in the Gar Den ov Edum, c. 1971.
This truly prophetic Scripture is an inspired, living work, with world events, described in advance. The Book to come, a twelve our video trans crypt, will be given live for all the world’s peoples at once, on whirled wide television. To you this is miss tickle. You miss a lot but get a tickle; yet to me, my words come natch a rill.
I tried to hold off the 1st Gulf War with, "Kuwaiting For The Dough." I flipped a coin, between The Gurgle and The Slimes, passed on The Wall Street Gurgle, and sent "Kuwaiting for the Dough" certified, with a self-addressed stamped envelope, to The New York Slimes.
A couple days later, a telling government echo bounced in my ear, my home phone on Hoover's party line. My "New World Hors DŽoeuvres" chapter, "Kuwaiting For The Dough," with its years in advance descript of the twin Trade Towers coming down, was not 're-turned to cinder.' The Times’ copy is with FB-Eye, Classified Top Seek Writ, inside the folder, a Hoover original, word for word: "Shut this demagogic prophet down," writs of J. Edgarina, the fascist cross-dresser.
Hoover’s quota, a written tattoo, lives forever, like an Auschwitz blue.
After a few days the echo was gone. I noticed, over the years the echo would be there, then, a few days later, it disappeared. Whenever my brother called, click, the echo. Today though faint, it’s around the clock, against our law, good reason to seek our highest office; my seek writ reason for wanting to be our president, to obtain, as much for you as for me, my domestic files which contain the deepest of profiles ever to be doctored, for domestic counter intelligence reasons, on any American citizen, for purposes of violating said citizen's Constitutional Rights. My Rights, obliterated yesterday, blight your tomorrows.
Before we trampled the Iraqi border the second time around, my car was keyed with a note left behind, "Give war a chance." I should have hollered, "hold up," at every Internet stop before the die was cast, our troops into Iraq. By the same token, when I chanced an email to newspaper editors, Hoover’s FBI came knocking on my door, waving my email, asking could they come inside for a talk. Today it’s my back door they knock. When will they show up to rattle-tat chat with you?
With my Television Scripture ready to roll, my belief in the Bush cabal absolute, unimpeachable Colin Powell, poaching chemical trucks on network television; I watched for Bush to pluck Saddam, it was just so easy to follow, mass weapons, Saddam or us, his lute for the course!
Today I curse my stupid trust, but for George W. Bush, his "war on terror," Bush imagines, will outlast us, beyond our judgment of history: Bush got Saddam, The Big Salami, "Little Bush’s" self-imagined enemy, his Hussein take down and then some, conveniently propping his waning 'war on drugs,' death trap street corner smack, heroin pure Afghani black, replacing crack, victims in US, veiled for fresh arrest.
To exit Iraq, we must admit Bush-Cheney’s Iraqi mission, democracy, was claptrap, their only true purpose behind our thousands dead, democratize the Iraqi oil, paying Iraq a royalty. With Bush’s possession of law, instead of Iraqi oil Iraq’s, bingo! Iraqi crude beholden to Noco, that obligate, Iraq’s fake benchmark leaders cannot mete.
The Iraqis despise our Bush and Cheney as much as you do! Thanks to president "Little Bush," 97% of the world's opium crop, grown in Afghanistan, is cooked into cheap heroin, blossoming trade that funds al Qaeda, their drug deals coursing from Pakistan to Lebanon's hashish alleys, throughout Russia, all of Europe, and from Mexico, into USA. Expect a suicide bomber rash, the family’s cut, sales of heroin cached.
Thousands have died since Bush proclaimed, "Mission Accomplished," and thousands more are following them. The end won't come into view until "Little Bush" is plucked from our office, and we are rid of him.
Like it or not; love Bush or despise him, we need to leave him, to send him packing. We can't have world peace without first getting Bush out, as "Little Bush" is Saddam Hussein’s vain counterpart. Impeachment is required! Bush needs to get Saddammed, hung out to dry, because our friends the Iraqis need a fresh face. To achieve world peace, Bush, a disgrace, must be displaced! History can be his judge, his absolution.
The warmonger Bush preaches a surge; more troops, more killing. Congress’ call for exit will also increase murders. Bush's ribbon shirts, military bureaucrats, show allegiance to Bush’s world-view, not us.
I will appear on television with my oldest cat, Oliver Kitty. Regardless how I pick up Oliver for a tickle, he will position himself, his front paws draped over my arm, back legs stretched regal. The fascist in the newsroom blows his stack: "This guy wants to be on TV with his cat?" Yet the mid-east scholar is floored; realizing Mohammad, Allah’s prophet kept cats and had his favorite, which all of the tribes, over the whole Middle East will smile in their hearts and woof about.
The choice is clear: beltway blabberific fears, with smoke and mirrors, or poet prophet cosmic wrapper, resurfaced to quell evil, via powwow.
When me and my Iraqi strategy are public, and we hold a meet with no holds barred, know in advance, I plan to refocus the whole Middle East, at middle speech, focus on CNN’s cam, and sing a Hebrew hymn, slowly turning an ancient Hebrew hymn into an Arabic hymn, and then, with every eyeball calmed whirled wide, glued to their television, I will, in two minutes flat, solve one of their stickier prob limbs, a neighborhood issue for them. Should we have a dry run? The Scripture for peace in the Middle East was carefully written down c. 1971.
We either refocus our presence in Iraq, on democracy and commerce for their own sakes, or pull up stakes! Americans out of uniform in Iraq are death squad targets, as I, on Hoover's original list, am FBI’s most potent, oldest target. Lucky, J. Edgar's group is squad less, their fascist itch, gone since Ruby Ridge, and now, after all of these years, arrived on the set, Hoover’s Jew. See Slimes’ archive; Enter, "jacklegs jumping up." Read Maureen. Bush’s blurt is calling for a Hoover crew.
Liken Iraq’s interim constitution to our own Articles of Confederation. Iraq needs a constitution that will last. They do not have one yet. Ours should be their base. We are the youngest nation on the planet, with the oldest standing government. Our constitution and Bill of Rights should be translated, and the Iraqis challenged to read it.
The Iraqi people might embrace our tried and tested methods where everyone's rights are protected and all religions are equal under the rule of law! Our own Constitution, in place, could bring about closure to the Iraqis’ internecine fighting, leaving only Saddam’s Baathists, and al Qaeda's sponsored terrorists for the Iraqi militias to deal with.
We should be going over our constitution for the Iraqis line by line on television all day long; I'm ready to do it, and in their newspapers, too, so Iraq’s people adapt our constitution as their own. Unless we win the peace, the war was completely a waste, all those lives wasted for Bush's vanity, but to win we need some innovation, beyond our constitution, with thousands more of our own people doing their part, some good in Iraq, or we can?t pull out.
Those going over should be civilians, not soldiers in uniform! It’s time the American people are embedded with the Iraqis, key to our success! We need to deliver our constitution to every village, pass out translated copies with a hand shake, and help establish democracy in Iraq, from the bottom up, which is the way democracy has always started up, contrary to Bush's style of doing business, top down above us, and to do it right, to win, we need the right truck.
In order to leave Iraq, peace, our victory, we must supplement our troops with 40,000 citizen ambassadors. President Bush must order an independent retrofitting of ten thousand off road trucks that today gather dust at our dealerships, with volunteer ambassadors from every state aboard, in forty vehicle teams. Christen our trucks, The Scorpion Brigades, with license plates from every state, and Onstar hooked up, so we are there, too. F-150's, Sierras, and Silverados are made for the job. I can hear the announcer's voice proclaiming, "like Iraq!"
In my administration this dangerous civilian volunteer mission will pay minimum $27 an hour with double time for overtime, including life insurance paid by Uncle Sam. The president must instruct our potential citizen ambassadors to go to their favorite dealerships and register for emergency service. His refusal our reason to immediately begin his impeachment! Required you bring your own assault rifles with cases of ammo, too; and not be afraid to pull the trigger with a person in the crosshairs, or you can't make the trip. In Iraq kill al Qaeda or be killed.
Include the best dash-bracketed 40 band CB's and most importantly, high powered binoculars, with police radar guns, too, distance calibrated, so when our Scorpion Brigades dash around the desert floor in forty-tooth combs we mean any suspicious Iraqis rolling, or foreign Jihads going home, stopping to plant a road-side bomb, and then rolling on, are guaranteed their surface-to-surface laser-guided ticket.
Load cases of bottled water, freeze-dried everything, and microwaves, with delicious ready-to-eat stuff bought local, off of the retail shelf.
Every mission critical democracy truck flown over should include a digital camcorder and laptops with wireless Internet access, so we can see what is up with our citizen volunteers. The camper tops need tow missile brackets, so over night, trained civilian gunners can sit their tails on the spare tires to fire. Every quad cab has to have 50 caliber machine gun brackets on their roof, so when the need arises, whoever rides shotgun on the border can ride standing upright in the sunroof, and stinger a crossing suicide bomber, besides the foreign interlopers going home on leave, who need their tires blown out in their tracks, in the middle of nowhere, then swatted like flies.
We should be getting our quad cabs readied for off road desert duty immediately! The army pipeline for bureaucracies’ armored vehicles is 18 months. Our Scorpion Brigades could get their iron plating welded and ready for emergency service inside 48 hours!
The president must speak to us; give the order. C5-A Constellations should be flying from city to city, loading trucks bumper-to-bumper with crews aboard, tailgate parties scheduled to be held on the desert floor. Bush’s refusal is a major reason to throw him out! We cannot allow Bush to sacrifice any more of our precious kids in a guerrilla gun battle that refuses to finish, that guaranteed, without these above described, retrofit, quad-cab 4-wheel drive, off-road trucks in the mix.
The genuine threat of impeachment could motivate his wife to read her Bush our riot act. The wimp must surely realize the more our troops are wounded or killed, the less likely republicans will hold their offices, shown by the mid-term elections of 2006. When this was first written down, before FBI came knocking on my door with my email to editors of newspapers in hand, Americans killed in Iraq numbered 650 and counting. 4000 were reported as wounded, politic-speak for body parts sheared off, and 13,000 casualties. What qualifies the label: casualty?
Ten thousand trucks, four civilian ambassadors in each, is the minima required to establish a foundation for Iraqi democracy and peace. As long as Bin Laden sends volunteers to al Qeada in Iraq, why can’t we?
Besides visiting every country hamlet and town, to make friends, assess needs and begin a grass roots, people to people Marshall Plan; in groups of forty, with cells and CB radios, our Scorpion Brigades will seal, in and out, all of Iraq’s borders, guarding the oil pipe lines, too, while watching all the highways and byways, in quartets and pairs, parked off-road a few miles apart, their CB’s and cop-car radar guns, powered to mark insurgents that pull off road to plant explosives, along with their human detonators, left back to trigger their remotes from behind the nearest berm.
Our spotters can CB down the two-lanes which car needs disabling, etc., then proceed to take out the sucker left there to blow us up. The Scorpion Brigades on guard will nail each and every insurgent they encounter especially by the border, enabling us to secure Iraq at large.
The Scorpion Brigades, ten thousand trucks strong, will binocular every checkpoint, neutering that issue. The Jihad insurgency pays its own way, smuggling oil they cash out every day in Jordan and Syria. We will "ticket" the tankers long before they pull up to the Iraqi border.
Insurgency is a full time occupation. But insurgents have to eat. When we own the length of all the borders with our Scorpion Brigades, the continuous feed of recycled terrorists from around the Middle East will be canceled, as will their means of finance, which are smuggled goods.
10,000 quad-cabs, four people strong in each, ought to be enough to control all of Iraq's borders, visit every hamlet and town, and also own the roads leading to the outskirts of the al Qaeda controlled provinces.
We want the Iraqi parents to let us bring back 25 thousand of their kids to America with us, to live in America and go to our schools, for a couple years anyway, so the kids are safe from flaring violence in Iraq, and learning democracy here. This kid exchange, for the Iraqis, goes with Congress awarding Iraq favored nation status, so our citizen quad cab ambassadors can palaver ready deals with the farmers in every village we visit for all their figs, nuts and dates, packed on the spot for export, in exchange for American cash over the Iraqi barrelhead.
Regardless your party affiliation, my Iraq Exit Strategy is a viable way to stage a military draw down and get out without a debacle. Unless we seal Iraq's borders first, when the date certain for leaving is public, and we begin a pull out, al Qaeda cells from surrounding Arabic lands will send recruits to practice bag an American, the Bush legacy: our patriots body bagged, but beheaded, their missing heads lined on the roadside, heads as melons, wired to a scarecrow stake, dead eyes on a roll, haunting our troops on their way to the airport, remotely blown. Osama Bin Laden's barbaric message will reign. We must not allow it.
Nor can we stall Iraqi civil war or talk them down absent my program. The above, my end war strategy isn't a game. Dumpster Bush-Cheney and their plan for privatizing Iraq's oil. Impeach them. Let Iraqis be in charge of their own oil and country. With 25 thousand Iraqi kids in America, going to school, Iraq will become our very firm ally, a bastion of western styled democracy, a model for all the Iranian and Syrian and Palestinian kids to follow.
You have a choice: world peace or smoke and mirrors.
Regardless your political party affiliation, my son's Iraq Exit Strategy is the only viable way for us to draw down our troops and get out of that country without a debacle. My son should be our next president. He's old enough! The above was adapted from writing that began on page 101, rewritten for newspaper publication. This next passage begins on page 81. Enjoy the read!
Sew how much presidential diff rinse is there really between our Billy Clintstone and George W. Bush? Upping his dad, George W. wanted to stick it to Saddam, his stick up, an extra-marital fornicate unparalleled to none. In December of 2005, talking to NBC news anchor Brian Williams, absent a forehead flinch, President Bush thought 30,000 Iraqis had been demolished since his flight suit photo-op, his haunting speech on our aircraft carrier, that navy flat top set to the wind for Bush’s “Mission Accomplished” back drop.
George lied to us, and misled us about Saddam’s mass weapons, sticking thousands of our kids into the ground, grounding out Saddam, the lute playing tyrant, he, growing old as George’s dad, mellowing out on oil for food. Upon our own, near three thousand dead kids, dead patriots and counting, and, when this was written down, thousands more innocent Iraqis, also gruesomely killed, the grueling scene for his upstaging, President Bush did upstage his dad.
We lost, are losing all of those kids, our treasures, the Iraqi mothers’ treasures, kids, and keep losing more, their lives into the dust, yet the underlying cause for getting us into this unjust war was, ‘just a family affair,’ “Little Bush,” wun-upping his wimpy papa.
All that annihilation, marching in, and all the ongoing death began, didn’t we know it from the start, as a family affair, King George’s personal pay back to Saddam Hussein for taking a pot shot at his pop, in mom Bar-Donna’s view, (my son calls Bush's mother Bar-Donna Bush Corleone) redemption for her alcoholic son made president, the treasure of our patriotic youth risked to redeem his father’s legacy. Anyone this war has touched prays for a pox on all the politishinz’ houses! We support our presidency, knot this president.
King Solomon muses:
World events did not compel us into Iraq. The Jap Sin Easy weren’t bombing Pearl Harbor, or the Nazis on a blitzkrieg, taking over Europe. Bush was hot to get Saddam for his own personal reasons. He wanted Saddam before 9 / 11, sew Bush’s orchestration was to war over there, your kids and your neighbor’s kids in harm’s way, knot his, but your kids’ lives given over to Cheney and Bush - their wampum of mass destruction: Lies, and caskets covered up.
Sickening, this current Wimp-in-Chief, when out, selling his ‘State of the Union’ speech, telling select audiences how much it moved his heart, “spreading freedom,” watching “democracy on the march;” he paralleled Adolph Hitler who mouthed a similar line to his own Wehrmacht, after his Waffen SS panzers rumbled into Paris.
Then, after billions of dollars spent, we got Saddam. Bush ad-libbed to the press, upon Hussein’s capture, “I’ve got my own personal views on how Saddam should be treated.” Exactly what our Founders wanted us to avoid - wars decided on by Monarchs for their personal reasons, the Founding Fathers’ reasoning behind their legacy, our constitutional sense of ‘checks and balances.’
Bush’s take down of Saddam was personal, the ‘why’ behind our attack on Iraq! King George verses the Tyrant Hussein, innocent citizenry cannon fodder, our soldiers, roadside kill, our taxes to cover the killing bill, and the Iraqi’s stolen oil, that in al Qaeda’s till.
Regardless your belief, for a few days we felt relieved. For all we knew, a couple more weeks and Saddam might have surfaced in lower Manhattan, pushing a homeless grocery cart, his plastic bags packed for a pilgrimage to Ground Zero, the Terrorist’s Mecca.
To hear Saddam’s side, he, Saddam Hussein, though on trial for his life, is (was) still legally the president of Iraq, sew how come no one bothered to read the Big Salami his Miranda Rights?
Recollect those Iraqi kids from Bush the Elder’s first Gulf War, cross-haired by Saddam’s death squads, or made smart rock fodder by our guys, kids now gone more than a decade. Didn’t they have mothers and fathers, too, loved ones waiting at home? Why did our first President Bush skip over those fifty thousand dead Iraqis scattered around in freshly plowed berms, until storm winds blew a leg sand clean for a fly feed, or scorpion’s dessert? Surely those kids, too, were well worth $38 bucks a pop, the wages of body bags, our human duffels for carting out the dead.
Oh! Surplus body bags are out there. The hardy duffels are great for hauling a double load of dirty laundry, rigging up a back yard hammock, or keeping your compost dry. But imagine Saddam the war winner, and over here, astride a khaki scud, riding down Fifth Avenue on St. Patrick's Day, an A-bomb under one arm and in his other, a crock brim full with enough bio-poison to obliterate the whole east coast. We’d have all been body-bagged.
It turns that Saddam, the self-described, “Lion of the Tigris,” was just a fraidy cat; a ragged old man, with fear in his eyes and a suitcase loaded with cash, but who knew? Had Saddam won the war he might have opted to become our Commander-in-Chief.
Then all those Wall Street Gurgle readers driving Mercedes would’ve had to hand over their cars as Mercedes Benz was Saddam Hussein’s semi-official Fourth Estate government ride. The Gurgle groupies would all be driving Saddam Deville. Congress would reconvene in Saddamington. Pennsylvania Ave. would have been renamed Saddam Blvd., and during Saddam’s yearly State of Saddamy speech, all our elected officials would have responded to Saddam’s sound bites with their laudatory cheers.
Saddam golf balls - thwack - would have been outlawed, but Saddam cigarette lighters, guaranteed to blow up in the face of your enemy, (his backfired), would still be around.
Saddam face-up on a twenty-dollar Saddam peso? Saddamy mommy on a fifty? Saddam’s cousin, chemical Ali Hassan on a five spot? Why knot? People don’t even bother picking Abe up off the ground anymore. Slurpie? Saddam-11. Chee-burger? Saddam-King, Home of the Chopper. The TV ad would show the truck’s tailgate slamming, and the deep over voice would proclaim, “Saddam Tough!” Shuwop bop a loo bah - Saddam bang boom! And anyone who was opposed to Saddam’s Patriot Act would have been hauled away to Bush’s Guantánamo, the Hussein Asylum.
The captured Iraqi GI’s could have dug grave rows for the decimated shells of their brothers’ battered souls. Oh! What a great and lasting scenery for “Armageddon, The Movie,” their ID papers laminated, attached beneath a Crescent marker, the commonest of respectfulness for the dead on behalf of the living.
Sure those poor Iraqi kids from the first Desert Storm, like you, and me, had mothers and fathers, too; family in Baghdad, or some small Iraqi town, praying with all their near broken hearts, wondering the whereabouts of their poor conscripted sons, hopefully only MIA - missing in action, secretly relocated, unable to telephone, alone in a Kuwaiti restaurant, washing dishes, a part of King George the Elder’s new world hors dóeuvre. Is it any wonder the Iraqis hate us? It’s a toss up, who of those three, killed the most Iraqis, President Bush, his father, or George’s counterpart, Saddam.
It's me again, Mary Levinson. How was that! My son writes better prose than anyone. A bit farther along in the text and you run into:
Fascist is the “F” word in America’s pallah tics. George Orwell, said it best: “Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.” We torture people in black hole prisons around the world yet according to Bush, Freedom is on the march.
Here are the opening pages that my son put up before I snuk on the page when he wasn't looking. Golashes Journalista is his favorite nom de plume. His pen name translates, 'reading the newspapers wearing hip boots': From “New World Hors D´oeuvres.” By Golashés Journalista
This true story of Elián Gonzalez, the Cuban refugee, sprouted from “Jacklegs, Jumping Up,” the fix shin ov “New World Hors D óeuvres.” The Jacklegs, our poet prophet, candidate for president, is “Jumping Up” on the granite steps of the United States Supreme Court when Elián Gonzalez intercedes.
* * *
With my own case pen ding, I believed in the Supreme Coats, those Supreme do-whoppers. I planned on spending my first precious minutes, with Goldbar and the Coats, before Goldbar took sick in his throat, crafting my Torah delight, the story of King Solomon and “Baby Eliána.”
It’s a matter of historical fact. The record shows “Baby Eliána” was the original baby’s name from King Solomon’s High Court, centuries ago, and King Solomon v. “Baby Eliána” is the blind cite that beyond any shadow will settle my case, the unresolved Michael Stephen Levinson v. Federal Communications Commission and United States of America S. Ct. No. 95-5876.
King Solomon is my Courtroom strategy. My distinguished 30 minutes Jackleg spout before the Supreme Coats will stand on King Solomon’s remarkably inspired jurisprudence, King Solomon v. “Baby Eliána,” its ancient DNA well, settled in our bones. With King Solomon’s famous case for openers, the F.C.C.’s Political Branch that even today, cloaks my right to make a live political speech, televised over the air, will get, within the hour, trenched and set aside, exposed for what they are, “an impermissible risk.” Unconstitutional!
But in fact, this current band of Coats has yet to craft more than a line of thought that even approaches King Solomon’s bench, prudence of juris and all of that; sew I’m hampered in re-filing my final petition because I know my writ, however well its polish, is bound for Goldbar’s bucket of sound legal trash; and by his, nay, his successor’s throat-consuming ditch, should history repeat, the juris diction of our Highest Court is breached.
Breached! The boundaries of our Highest Court’s discretion, dumpster driven! Our inviolate First Amendment Right, the Public Interest that governs all writs, my affirmative Constitutional right to give, and the people’s paramount right to hear, have heard my speech for president, broadcast live, is sunken, unredressed, and shot to fascist hell, our covenant demolished.
Jurisdiction is their private fix shin. The Federal Ex-Communications Commission, instigated in 1927, was licensed by our congress to adjudicate all the overlapping broadcast cases governing bandwidth spreads, and also to decide who gets what and where and just how much of what we see and hear any one of the media conglomerates can own.
These air wave ‘ownership’ issues, of major Public Interest, are properly dealt with in Washington, D.C., where all the lobbyists representing the telephone bells, cable cartels, and licensed air wave nets boldly reach for who can get the most palms lobster greased, in furthering their own selves’ in tryst.
But when a candidate for president is denied his entitled media access for a live political speech, to state his case for election, this rarest of Constitutional breach, a candidate’s affirmative Right, under our Bill of Rights, to be given or sold the airtime, trashed; the issue must be adjudicated in the Federal District Court closest by to the stations where the candidate, campaigning, is making his political stand, knot heard and decided behind closed doors, by untouchable bureaucrats, bought and bunched in Washington.
Yet according to the CFR, our Code of Federal Regulations, FCC has a Political Branch, a coven of civil servants, right up the street, a few blocks away from FCC’s main gate. This Enforcement Division, FCC’s Political Branch, is the codified group for redress of ‘speech denied’ complaints, subverting our Federal District Courts whose jurisdiction is our Constitution and Bill of Rights, and where, within a forte night’s notice, Show Cause Orders can be tendered to protect your First Amendment slights.
The founding fathers got it right. They were all 'right on,' when they brokered the First Amendment. “Congress shall make no law . . . prohibiting the freedom of speech . . . or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people . . . to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”
FCC’s Political Branch contravenes our First Amendment Franchise! In practice, their Political Branch / Enforcement Division functions as an ironed legal curtain, shrouding the broadcasters’ obligations to all the so-called ‘fringe’ candidates, however few they may be, but especially singling out in their frustraneous caprice, for nearly 30 years, just our “Jacklegs” candidate, his First Amendment Rights, stonewalled, the fascist bureaucrats, recalcitrant in their refusal to even rule on any of Jacklegs’ formal complaints about his Rights suppressed, until the elections were over with and a couple years bye passed! You have the right to state your case on any street corner; and beneath the umbrella of our First Amendment bitch through a blinding rainstorm, Freedom of Speech to the heaven’s reach.
Screech it on your web site throughout the night, that FCC’s “slippery slope,” begat in 1927, wrought a fascist avalanche. Blog all about it to your heart’s content. But proving that a government agency is unconstitutional, and therefore “impermissible” — such an achievement giant as that can only be accomplished via ruling from our highest bench.
Hark! Peer readership! World events interrupt us! The best laid cosmic plans of King Solomon’s seek writ advisor, Onlion S. Shem, are current evented! We must take leave of Jacklegs’ tale, “Jacklegs, Jumping Up,” grant his case is over ripe, to rejuvenate the canceled citizenship of Elián Gonzalez, whose freedom in America was wrecked. We surely cannot resurrect Elián’s broken rights, but the Gonzalez kernel, freed of chaff, long over due, shall set you free en masse, to change the course of your human history on our good ship mother urf. Nothing less.
Hearken again, dear peer-ship mates, the lot of you are by this writ, courtroom deputized, vested with Solomon’s rags, to judge yourselves the fascist spin that cloaked, still cloaks our Elián, as King Solomon judged the original Baby Eliána’s future in his own High Holy court, centuries ago, ruling on behalf of boaf would-be mothers, ruling right in half right down the baby's middle, until Ms Gullible pled for the infant’s life unchopped, her maiden final begging, at the holy King Solomon’s feet, .
Sew, before unmasking the reel deal behind Elián Gonzalez, we ought refresh King Solomon’s approach to High Court Justice, to ‘keep our erasers in order.’
As far as King Solomon’s “Baby Eliána” case went, the wise and righteous Prophet King realized right from the beginning, right from Jump Street, that of the two so-called mothers who appeared in his court, the both were bluffers, counterfeit.
Early on, after the trial began, nature called King Solomon and his learnéd chief Rabbi, Onlion S. Shem, together take leave of the bench, for a sidebar at the Pish-in trench. There, Onlion S. Shem told King Solomon the actual facts behind “Baby Eliána” that he, Onlion S. Shem, had first hand from a camel driver who had passed through Jerusalem the night before, from of all play siz, Sidon Town, where the bawling shiksa baby had been born.
According to the camel guy, neither of the two women petitioning for motherhood certiorari in King Solomon’s Court, for custody of “Baby Eliána,” was “Baby Eliána’s” true mother! In fact, both of these single ladies were uncertified childless Sarah’s!
De pen ding on who you talk to, or which of those Hollywood flicks you saw, the Hebrew Sages tell us, as your Sunday school teacher told you also, there were two new babies born that day in Sidon, from two separate mothers, but of the two new babies delivered, one was still born, and of the two declared mothers who petitioned King Solomon, they both affirmed the surviving out of wedlock child was from their womb and theirs alone.
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