Don’t Bogart that torch, Snoop

One of this summer’s passions is passing the torch. Joe Biden passed the torch to Kamala Harris before he wandered off. And now folks are taking turns passing the Olympic torch as it makes its way to Paris for the start of the Olympics this Friday night.

One of those passing the torch is that famous NBC sportscaster (you’re kidding, right?) Snoop Dogg, known for passing a torch or two over the decades.

By the way, somebody had better tell Snoop that cannabis is still illegal in France before he launches himself on a cloud-scraping high and winds up peeing in the Seine. Such an incident could burn down the Eiffel Tower to ash.

Trump or Harris? No thank you

For me the right went too right, the left went too left, the middle vanished like a hole in a donut, political rhetoric morphed into feverish nonsense, bipartisanship withered like our colonial forefathers’ powdered wigs and nobody in leadership remotely resembles FDR, JFK and RWR (why Ronald Wilson Reagan never has been initialized is the largest mystery of the 20^th century outside of where the hell Jimmy Hoffa and Judge Crater are buried).

I no longer have a home in the political arena. Moderates such as me may not be extinct, but they are (ouch!) neutered.  I’m an orphan abandoned by his country. An outlier buffeted by directionless tides.

With Joe Biden forced out of the presidential race by his own party over concerns his cognitive issues were clogging his carburetor and his resultant endorsement of Kamala Harris to replace him on the Democratic ticket, you don’t have to be a soothsayer or bridge player to know that the Republicans are wearing the Trump suit in this political card game.

And isn’t it indeed comforting to learn that America is a house of cards?

Granted, they say elections are about the future, not the past.

Perhaps Harris and a running mate who’s a popular governor from a swing state will bring an infusion of energy, vitality and donor donations that will signal a symbol of generational change vs. Trump, now the old fogey in the race. I’ve already heard some refer to him as the Old Man of Mar-a-Lago.

However, it’s late in the game and Harris faces an uphill fight in the swing states. And America being America, as a woman of color she likely will be buffeted by the toxic twin tides of sexism and racism.

Trump as of this writing has Moe Mentum running interference for him as he runs, OK walks, downfield toward the White House.

I guess my brain cells are becoming as rare as the Great Plains Bison. Because I just don’t see the allure of Donald J. Trump. MAGA folks and their Republican sycophants swallow his Kool-Aid with heaping gulps while it gags me.

Watching the Republican convention was like witnessing a tragedy that leaves ghosts inside skulls. My stomach was nauseous, and it wasn’t from eating a deceased rodent for dinner. Or perhaps it was from listening to JD Vance, the poster child for opportunist flip-floppers.

I might cut the Trump cult some slack if the man they worship was a matinee idol you could drive railroad spikes with and scratch a match on his stomach. You know, one of those physical specimens who look more mined than born. A handsome dude oozing charm, intelligence and pearly words of wisdom who was so positive he was terminal.

Kind of like the guy Central Casting sent over when you requested The Pied Piper.

Rather, Trump is a petty, narcissist, clownish, vengeful, belittling corpulent windbag with a cracked moral compass, orange skin and a cotton-candy combover who spouts an endless stream of grievances, exaggerations and lies with a ponderous, pontificating delivery that could lull a charging rhino to sleep.

His marathon nomination acceptance speech left much of America comatose as he droned on and on. Demigods are supposed to be forceful orators. Not this one.

When he reflects on his term as president, he greatly overstates his accomplishments and totally ignores his shortcomings. Yep, he can fix everything wrong in America on Day One and he alone can fix it. The former builder who specialized in bankruptcies is a self-styled Mr. Fix-It.

Why Mr. Fix-It was AWOL when he was president has never been acknowledged by his adoring disciples and pom-pom wielding cheerleaders on Fox News.

And now that Trump has survived an assassin’s bullet that grazed his right ear, Trumpites preach the false gospel that their Fearless Leader is God’s chosen one.

Granted, the evangelicals long have embraced this immoral man and that always has mystified me. Now because Trump cocked his head slightly to look at a screen graphic as his Butler, PA rally, Trump disciples swear God spared him and anointed him to lead us all to the Promised Land here on earth.

Yeah, right.

The guy is a convicted felon, a con man, broken several sets of marital vows, screwed more folks in business than most folks screw in lightbulbs and is more Donald the Lying than Donald the Lion — hardly the type Jesus is going to include in his foursome.

Then again, I can’t speak for Jesus, who in full disclosure has never invited me to tee it up with him either.

With the scrambling Democrats trying to play catch up with likely Harris, it now seems rather foreordained that Trump again will be president. I now know what Custer felt like when he eyeballed the approaching Sioux and Cheyenne at the Little Bighorn.

I keep thinking about that old proverb that you won’t ride far on a dead camel or sail far in a boat with a hole in it. We all could be shanghaied onto the USS Desolation setting sail in January of next year.

Trump’s first stint as president was part sitcom, part horror show. With his rants and nocturnal inflammatory and nonsensical social media postings, things were about as boring as probing a lion for a sore tooth. Never mind they many Americans needed smelling salts every morning.

But I would be remiss not to give the man his due. The guy is pure genius at spreading bullspit. He’s turned it into an art form.

He plays the crowd with the same artistry as Jordan played basketball. People flock to see Trump like people went to see Nero play with matches, Astaire dance, Olivier act, Heifetz strum the violin and Horowitz tickle the piano. Virtuosos all.

Trump has made a shambles of the once Grand Old Party and he’s laying waste to the American landscape. Regrettably, he seems as unstoppable as tomorrow

Especially since a lot of folks see Harris, if she is indeed the nominee, as a political lightweight who’ll need paperweights in her high heels to remain upright in the midst of the Trumpian hurricane.

Harris is vulnerable on immigration, which is a bonfire of an obsession with Trump and his flock. Biden installed Harris as the border czar and countless hordes of illegal aliens strolled into our land under her supposed watch. She could have at least installed a tollbooth to somewhat slow the influx.

Harris also was Biden’s champion on women’s reproductive rights and there are many among us who believe left unsaid in that campaign is their perceived belief that a woman’s reproductive rights include murdering the child she conceived but now finds inconvenient.

I’ll pass on Trump vs. Harris and hold my breath until 2028. Perhaps I can get some gills at the fish store before I run out of oxygen.

Thank God football season is growing nigh to distract me from watching America coming apart at the seams, much like Snooki Polizzi from Jersey Shore infamy.

As Plato once noted over a Greek salad, sports serve as society’s connective tissue after the politicians dissect it into a disembodied organ.

The Eagles are moulting

Remember when everybody in these parts was absolutely giddy that the Eagles were 10-1 and had the best record in the NFL?

Now the whole thing seems to be burning down to ash.

Unless the Birds somehow right the ship — and how did that work out for the Titanic? — the party’s over because somebody peed in the Chex mix. 

A week after the Eagles lost 42-19 at the Linc against the 49ers, they lost 33-13 Sunday night to the Cowboys at AT&T Stadium.

If you’re a history buff, that’s 12 consecutive years the Eagles have failed to sweep the Cowboys and six straight years they’ve lost in Dallas – four of them by 20 or more points.

I realize that offseason free agency defections and injuries have depleted last season’s elite Philadelphia defense, but suddenly these Eagle defenders are playing looser than secondhand socks. I hope they wrap Christmas presents better than they wrap up tackles.  

The 49ers scored touchdowns on six straight drives and only failed to reach the end zone when they took a knee on their final possession. Then the Cowboys opened Sunday’s game with TD, FG, TD, TD on their first four drives before finally punting with 12 minutes to go in the third quarter. That was 10 straight drives an opponent scored on the Eagles — nine touchdowns and one field goal. The NFL season is reaching its climax and the defense rests?

And now their once high-flying offense has blown not one but two wings. They can’t run or pass. And the Eagles handle the ball as if it’s coated in anthrax.  Jalen Hurts is the biggest culprit with 15 turnovers in 13 games. His nickname should be Butterfingers.

Perhaps they should run the Tush Push a.k.a. The Brotherly Shove on every snap.

Christmas decorating is no religious experience

It’s a common theme in churches this time of year that we shouldn’t forget the Christ in Christmas by getting too wrapped up in the secular commercialism of the holiday.

I couldn’t agree more. While the secular trappings of Christmas may have others vibrating with joy, they make me cringe like the Grinch.

For instance, I give you Christmas trees.

You overpay for either a live or artificial tree and then stick it inside your house. If houses were supposed to have trees in them, they would be forests. I don’t know about you but none of the furniture in our house is forest green accented by twinkling lights.

And then we hang all kinds of balls and ornaments on these Christmas trees, not to mention stringing those dastardly lights. Those lights, of course, always work when you test them but rarely work once they’re on the tree. That, of course, necessitates stringing a fresh set of lights.

One should never string those lights in the presence of a spouse. Only your spouse knows exactly the right way to string lights. Anything you do in this department is bound to be inadequate. This is likely to trigger severe temper tantrums.

In fact, a survey by some obscure United Nations subcommittee found that 83 percent of all wars in the last 300 years were conceived by leaders within minutes of decorating their Christmas tree with their spouse.

And if your spouse is like mine, the interior of the house is heavily decorated with Christmas ornaments. In our family room we have to look through a wreath to watch television. Even worse, there’s no room on the end tables to put down your drink because of all the Christmas knick-knacks.

The horror of these secular Christmas trappings is that they’re everywhere, internally and externally.

Alas, one must also string lights on the exterior of the house. Otherwise your neighbors will think you’re Scrooge. So you’re forced to string lights across the roof, across the porch, around bushes and trees and even around the mailman if he happens to stand still too long.

And when this glacial process is completed in howling winds and sub-freezing temperatures, just what have you? A house that looks like an airport landing tower and an electric bill that lights up the sky.

More folks also are opting for gigantic outdoor Christmas inflatables of reindeer, Santa Claus, Frosty the Snowman, the Gingerbread Man, a Nutcracker soldier, and a penguin sitting on top of a polar bear with both wearing Santa hats.

What’s next? Immense outdoor Christmas inflatables of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce decked out in Santa outfits?

Then there’s the trauma of wrapping Christmas gifts. Not to bring up gender in these sensitive times, but most males can’t wrap presents without making them look like they were done as part of a kindergarten class project.

I’ve a better chance of making a reindeer don spats and dance a polka than I do wrapping a gift neatly.

I realize by this point I’ve written everything but bah, humbug!

Now I have.

Perhaps the secular trappings of Christmas are thrust upon us to test our faith. After all, few of us are so foolish as to believe in effortless redemption. That would be as silly as believing in Santa Claus.

Everybody had a mother, even Hitler

We all have something in common. We all had a mother.

I was thinking about motherhood the other day because Mother’s Day is May 14 this year.

Mother’s Day was invented, in part, to honor mothers. But the primary motivation was for the retail industry and restaurants to make a killing.

I realize that not all mothers were created equal.

I was blessed that my mother was a saint. My two sons will tell you that their mother is a saint. I agree since I’ve lived with her for 50 years. My two daughters-in-law are saints with our five grandchildren.

My wife, who also had a wonderful mother, and I have been blessed.

But not everybody has a mother straight out of fairy tales like Mother Goose. Or the portrait of a religious and proper Victorian like Whistler’s mother.

Alas, some mothers have been scoundrels.

Susan Smith sank a car containing her two young sons, Michael, age 3, and Alex, age 13 months, in a lake and drowned them.

Andrea Yates was even more ghastly as a mother, drowning her five children in the family bathtub.

I won’t nauseate you by chronicling other appalling transgressions against their children by notorious mothers.

But I was wondering what kind of mother Adolf Hitler had. After all, not every kid grows up to become a monster who starts a world war and kills millions in battle as well as genocide.

Well, she wasn’t exactly June Cleaver, Beaver’s mom.

For starters, Hitler’s parents were kissing cousins, not the ideal petri dish for hatching children with good genetics.

Hitler’s father was born Alois Schicklgruber, taking the surname of his unmarried mother. After Alois’ birth was eventually legitimized, he wisely took the last name of the man his mother had married after he had been born, Hitler, and became an official member of a family that included Klara Pozl.

Who could blame him? Schicklgruber is a mouthful of a name.

Klara was Alois’ second cousin, young enough to be his daughter. She called him Uncle.

Klara initially joined his household as a maid but left after his second marriage. When Alois’ second wife became ill, Klara returned to tend to Alois’ children and home — and ended up pregnant. By that time Alois was a widower but to marry the two cousins had to seek permission from the Roman Catholic Church.

Unfortunately a few months later, Rome granted a dispensation. And the course of history was on the road to destruction. The happy couple wed in 1885 and Adolph was born four years later. Even after the two married, she still called her husband Uncle.

Creepy, for sure.

Hitler may have become a fascist dictator, but he was a momma’s boy. They were utterly devoted to each other, so extremely close that you couldn’t have squeezed a sieg heil between them. In 1943 a profile compiled by the U.S. Office of Strategic Services posited that his childhood had left the Fuhrer with an Oedipal complex when it came to Klara.

When she passed away in 1907, her doctor would later write that “I have never seen anyone so prostrate with grief as Adolf Hitler.”

As Fuhrer, Hitler dedicated Klara’s birthday, August 12, as a “day of honor for the German mother.” For years he kept his mother’s picture in his breast pocket. Her portrait was placed in his rooms and apparently was the only personal picture displayed.

During Hitler’s last days in a Berlin bunker where he committed suicide on April 30, 1945, his mother’s picture was still with him.

As they say, a mother’s hug lasts long after she lets go. Even if her son was Adolph Hitler.

A Capitol offense

When it comes to sedition, Trump is like Mozart with melodies and Rembrandt with canvas.

He’s damn good at it.

Aided and abetted by Josh Hawley and Ted Cruz, Trump incited a whopping can of whip-ass on the Capitol yesterday when the Capitol police folded like a carpenter’s ruler.

Thugs, hardly dressed like medieval theologians and fueled by Trump-laced false claims and false hopes, roamed the Capitol halls and squatted in Capitol offices.

Obviously not America’s finest hour.

Pure madness.  

Trump needs a tutorial on democracy

The specter of defeat hounds lame duck President  Trump. So he keeps trying for one last huge gulp of publicity before he goes under, trying to alter reality with his hyperactive Twitter thumb as his mind darts about like a trapped animal,

Less than 24 hours after he said he was ready to step aside for President-elect Joe Biden, Trump reversed his position, claiming that Biden must first “prove” he actually won the 80 million votes that states across the nation have tabulated in his favor.

On Friday, a federal appeals court panel in Philadelphia shot down Trump’s legal team’s attempt to challenge election results in Pennsylvania, a state Biden won.

Yet in a tweet completely detached from reality, Trump insisted that it’s now Biden who has a “big unsolvable problem.” 

The president-elect can “only enter the White House as President if he can prove that his ridiculous ‘80,000,000 votes’ were not fraudulently or illegally obtained,” Trump tweeted Friday.

He did not indicate how Biden was expected to prove the legitimacy of votes that have already gone through a certification process. Of course, there is no legal requirement for Biden to do so.

Suffice it to say that Trump’s Twitter feed is where truth goes to die. 

Pederson and Franklin couldn’t coach a chicken to cluck at sunrise

I never saw screaming witches burned at the stake, Christians tossed to starving lions or maidens pushed over the edge of active volcanoes. But until I do, watching the Eagles and Penn State fumble at playing football this season is my idea of cruel and inhumane punishment.

Dereliction of duty

Donald Trump supposedly is still our Supreme Commander and Grand Pooh-Bah.

Yet while he clings to the presidency as desperately as a guy grabbing a life raft during a tsunami, he seems to be sullenly unenthusiastic about the job.

Trumperdoo  blew off a G20 summit meeting on the coronavirus pandemic Saturday to hit the golf course.

After logging in briefly to a video conference marking the opening ceremony of the economic summit, Trump boasted that he isn’t accepting defeat and leaving the White House just yet.

“I look forward to working with you again for a long time,” he told the other leaders.

He obviously cannot free himself from the quicksand of his own mind and ego.

Minutes later, Trump headed to his golf resort in suburban Virginia instead of interacting with other top leaders about the pandemic’s impact.

Last I looked, the coronavirus was chewing through America like so much lunchmeat.  

Put another bogey on Trump’s scorecard.

Trump thinks he trumps democracy

Donald Trump’s pathetic attempts to subvert the presidential election demonstrate that he could care less about democracy and that all he cares about is making himself dictator for life.

It’s hysterical that the face of Trump’s groveling attempts to overthrow the government is the ghoulish Rudy Giuliani battling twin rivers of brackish hair dye streaming down his face as he sprays treasonous nonsense spittle.