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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, the story of King Solomon and Elian."
As brilliant as his retelling the story of King Solomon and the orphan, Baby Eliana is, leading even the most scepticle to conclude my son Michael is a prophet from G-d, in the same inspired tradition as King Solomon, who wrote The Song of Songs, and before him, Moses the Teacher, who delivered Five Books to us, you need some juicy passages immediately; so you can judge our future poet prophet president for yourselves.
This passage is my son's Exit Strategy for getting us out of Iraq with honor, and more!
On September 12, 2006, in an interview with Matt Lauer, President Bush stated, “ If we abandon those 15 million people who said they want to live freely we will have given the enemy a tremendous victory.” A few minutes later, Bush remarked, “This war is too important to let politics get in the way.”
King Solomon muses: I could knot agree more. “Grant, plucking Saddam was a necessary move on the road to world peace; our ‘war on terror’ our excuse for taking him down; but our democracy mission is far from accomplished, thousands have died since Bush proclaimed, “Mission Accomplished,” and thousands more are bound to needlessly die. The end won’t be in sight until we pluck George Bush from our highest office.
Love him or hate him, we need to leave him, to send Bush packing; in fact, we cannot win in Iraq without first turning George out, as George W. Bush is Saddam Hussein’s vain counterpart. Saddam is gone. Sew now our Bush needs to get plucked big time, to join him, because the Iraqis need a fresh face.
It’s a sad day for republicans; but we backed a loser. In the words of sage Yogi, “It’s déjà view a snoozer all over again.” To paraphrase some recent pre-election claptrap from the last election, George W. Bush has been leading the nation’s tax wealth in the wrong direction.
We should either refocus our presence in Iraq, on democracy and commerce for their own sakes, or else we should pull up stakes!
Anyone wearing an American uniform in Iraq is a death squad target.
Liken Iraq’s interim constitution to our own original Articles of Confederation. Iraq needs a constitution that will last. Ours should be their document, word for word. We are the youngest nation on the planet, with the oldest standing government. Our constitution and Bill of Rights should be translated, and the Iraqi people challenged to read them; then vote to set aside what they ratified, to give our hearty constitution, with its built in religious freedom, a ten years trial.
The Iraqi people in the suburbs might embrace our tried and tested method 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 pre-paid baathists, and al Qaeda’s terrorist insurgents, those, mostly foreign interlopers, for our guys to deal with.
We should be going over our constitution for the Iraqis line for line on Iraqi television; and in their newspapers, all day long sew the Iraqi people can adapt it as their own. Unless we win the peace, the war was a waste, and all of our kids will have died in vain, but to win we need to innovate, beyond our constitution, with thousands more of our own people in Iraq than we presently have.
Those we send should be civilians, not soldiers in uniform. It’s time the American people are imbedded with the Iraqi people, key for our success. We need to deliver copies of our constitution to every Iraqi village, pass them out with a hand shake, and establish actual democracy in Iraq from the bottom up, which is the way democracy has always started up, contrary to Bush’s top down style of business, and to do it right, to win, (to 'go forward') we need the right truck.
In order to leave victorious we must supplement our troops with 40,000 citizen ambassadors. President Bush must immediately order an independent retrofitting of ten thousand off road trucks and SUV’s that today are gathering dust at our automobile dealerships, with volunteer ambassadors from every state flying over with them, in forty vehicle teams. Christen our trucks, The Scorpion Brigades, with license plates from every state, and Onstar installed sew we can keep track. GMC Sierras, Envoys, and Yukons, Chevy Tahoe, or Silverado will do fine, the over voice proclaiming for all, “like Iraq!” 
Required, you bring your own assault rifles with cases of ammo, too. Know how to pull the trigger or you can’t make the trip.
Commonest of sense, American ingenuity, dictates our menu for gorilla war-mien retrofit embedding: coat machines desert cream, especially the chrome; uniformly splotch beige; rig grills with cast iron shields to protect motors, also splotch; beef suspensions; enlarge gas tanks; install Mobile One in crank with charcoal dip filters of air conditioning; stick-on dashboard compasses, besides the Onstar; reupholster camper tops in Kevlar, same stuff in door panels. Plate sides, doors and undersides, using inch iron plate from junkyards.
Include the best dash-bracketed 40 band, Citizen Band radios and most importantly, high powered binoculars, with police radar guns too, distance recalibrated, so when our Scorpion Brigades dash around the desert floor in forty-tooth combs we mean any suspicious Iraqi rolling, stopping to plant a road-side bomb, and then rolling on, is guaranteed a surface-to-surface laser-guided ticket.
Load cases of bottled water, freeze-dried everything, and microwaves, with delicious ready-to-eat meals bought off the shelf.
Every mission critical democracy truck flown over should have a digital camcorder and laptop with wireless Internet access, so we can see what is happening. Every camper top needs tow missile brackets, so over night trained civilian gunners can park their tails on the spare tires to fire. Every quad cab needs 50 caliber machine gun brackets on their roof, so in case the need arises, whoever is riding shotgun can ride standing upright in the sunroof, and stinger a border crossing suicide bomber, too.
We should be getting our quad cabs ready for off road desert duty immediately! The army pipeline for a bureaucracy armored GMC Humvee is 18 months. Our Scorpion Brigades could get their iron plating and be painted for emergency service within 48 hours!
The president should speak to the nation and order it. His refusal to do this is one major reason to get him out now! We cannot allow President Bush to lose any more of our precious kids in a guerrilla fight to the finish, which is almost guaranteed, absent these retrofitted trucks in the mix.
The genuine threat of impeachment could motivate him. Bush must surely know the more our troops are wounded or lost, the less the likelihood for republicans holding office, proven by the mid-term elections of 2006. When this was originally written, before FBI knocked on my back door with my email to newspapers in hand, Americans killed in Iraq numbered 650 and counting. 4000 were reported as wounded, politic-speak for arms and legs sheared off, with a total 13,000 casualties. What constitutes a casualty?
Ten thousand trucks, four civilian ambassadors in each, is the minimum required to establish a foundation for Iraqi democracy.
Besides visiting every 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, and guard the oil pipe lines while watching the highways and byways, in quartets or pairs, parked off-road a couple miles apart, their CB’s and cop-car radar guns, powered to mark any insurgent vehicle that pulls off road to leave a makeshift bomb, along with their human detonator, left back to click their remote trigger from behind the nearest sandy berm.
The spotters can CB down the two-lane which vehicle needs disabling, etc., then proceed to take out the detonator left there to blow us up. The Scorpion Brigades on guard will nail each and every insurgent they encounter, enabling us to secure the country at large.
The Scorpion Brigades, ten thousand trucks strong, will own the checkpoints, solving that prob limb. The insurgents pay for their insurgency smuggling oil, which they sell for cash in Jordan. We will ‘ticket’ those tankers before they arrive at the border. Insurgency is a full time job. Insurgents have to eat. When we own the length of all their border roads, the continuous feed of Hezbollah terrorists from Lebanon, and others from around the Middle East, will be cancelled, as will their means of jihad finance, which are smuggled goods.
10,000 quad cabs, four people strong, ought to be enough to control all of the Iraqi borders, visit every hamlet, and truly own the roads that roll into the baathist and al Qaeda controlled districts.
We want the Iraqi parents to let us bring 25 thousand of their kids back with us, to live in America and go to our schools, for a couple years anyway, sew they are safe from flaring violence, there, and learning democracy here. This kid exchange, for them, goes with Congress also awarding Iraq favored nation status, sew our quad cab ambassadors can make deals with every farmer for all their dates, figs, and nuts for export, in exchange for American cash on the spot.
The above is my strategic way out. We will leave the oil rich Iraqis in control of their country. With 25 thousand of their children going to our schools in America, Iraq will become a very firm ally.”
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 passage above began on page 101. 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.
Only the innocent are called to Allah’s bosom. But for their families here on the earth we could have bagged and tagged the first 50,000 bodies found on the ground, whilst they were identifiable.
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 this:
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 this page when he wasn't looking. Golashes Journalista is his favorite nom de plume. His journalist pen name translates, 'reading the newspapers wearing hip boots': From “New World Hors D´oeuvres.” By Golashés Journalista
Ah, dear peers, do not pass go.
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!
Jacklegs’ fringe candidacy is their haute reference to the poet's tallis, the Hebrew prayer shawl, his, an ancient undergarment, four-cornered with fringe. Who ever said J. Edgar Hoover’s anti-Semite bureaucrats were a humorless fascist lot?
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. ( get your copy now!) |
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