The B. S. M. G. Report


Jonathots Daily Blog

(4295)

Comprehend the fight

To do what’s right

BAD

Wrong-headed: Incorrect headed in the wrong direction.

Although some people are critical of our country, I, for one, am astounded that things work as well as they do, considering how wrong-headed we are.

We are misguided. It is not malicious, but certainly is ignorant. And ignorant is a decision to ignore the logical.

Can we start with some stats?

Arguably, the most persecuted minorities in our country are the LGBTQ, Jewish and black communities.

Watching television, you are probably convinced that America is fifty percent gay, because they are well-represented in the entertainment industry and have gained the attention of politicians.

Likewise, if you listen to the pundits discussing the election, you might assume that the Jewish vote is at least thirty percent.

And in a quest to find truth, the number of shows and specials which are produced about the exploitation of the black race might cause you to think they are forty to fifty percent of the population.

Here are the real figures:

From the LGBTQ community itself, it is estimated that 4.5 percent of Americans are gay, Lesbian, transgender and such.

Just 2 percent of the country is Jewish.

And 12.1 percent of America is black.

If you add these three numbers, you come up with 18.6 percent of the census.

They are a threat to no one.

They have no plans nor ability to take over our country and turn it into black power, Zionist or homosexual.

Eighty percent of this country is white or other acceptable shades.

I just want to establish the statistics—for it is bad to begin a discussion believing false information. By no means am I offering these facts to make you think that because the numbers of these minorities are small, that they should be treated with disdain.

I’m just saying that you’ll never reach this country until you realize you are appealing that white people be more generous of spirit.

There’s just not much you can do if you’re gay, Jewish and black to change the heart of the United States of America to make it a home more suitable for your feelings.

If you’re a politician, a minister, a community organizer or just a concerned citizen, you should be motivating your white brothers and sisters to comprehend that this 18.6 percent that receives so much ambivalence, if not anger, are indeed “the least of these, my brethren,” that Jesus referred to when he was discussing those who need the most of our love and attention.

The problem in mentioning Jesus is that even though we tout ourselves “a Christian nation,” the religion of our country is…

SAD

Americanity.

It is a blending of our cultures, our likes, our religion, our prejudices, our egos and remnants of compassion.

It has absolutely nothing to do with Christianity.

If Jesus preached today, he would not last for three years. He would stir up trouble, get caught up in the 24-hour news cycle, be declared a cult leader and disgraced in two weeks.

Americanity has three premises:

1. America was founded by Europeans—basically white people.

2. Because of that and many other factors, we consider ourselves to be an “exceptional nation.”

3. Even though we accept an amount of integration, we do not want to lose the power of our white color and composition.

I understand that most people would not admit they have bought into these principles. Nevertheless, they are ingrained in you if you are not gay, Jewish or black.

Let me give you an example:

We are a country that is proud that we freed the slaves. Matter of fact, the average white person would point out that this is acceptable restitution—our gift to the black race for stealing them from Africa.

Now let’s take a Bible story everybody knows:

The children of Israel are slaves in Egypt. Moses wants to free them. Let’s say the Pharaoh agrees to free them, but then the slaves remain in Egypt, hanging around with those people who used to be their masters. How successful would that have been? How important was it for the Jews to escape Egypt, so they could really be free?

Yet in America, we tossed freedom to the black man, but forced him to live, work and worship around his former masters.

We promised “forty acres and a mule” and instead, trapped black families in a history that held them in bondage.

Simultaneously…

MAD

Even though the LGBTQ community, the black race and the Jewish folk are only 18.6 percent of the population, there is a group that is 52 percent, and they are still treated as a minority.

They are women.

They are fighting for their lives; they are struggling for their right to be heard. They are pleading for their bodies—they are demanding an equality that should have been guaranteed long ago.

Before we solve the problems with the gays, the Jews and the blacks, we are desperately in need of a GENDER MENDER: a mingling of education, humor and understanding that closes the gap between men and women.

Can you imagine how much easier it would be to grant equality to other minorities if the treatment of women was mitigated by common sense?

Instead, we pretend that women are about one percent of the population and ask them to stand to the rear and wait their turn.

You cannot solve the problems in the black community until you address the conflict between men and women.

You will not comprehend the difficulties faced by the Jewish race until the bigotry against women is resolved.

And you will never, ever complete the journey of a free America, and open the doors to the LGBTQ community, until men and women in this country arrive at a tender, but firm understanding of their union.

I can certainly assure you, however, that I am…

GLAD

There are young humans living and breathing.

They have survived the shenanigans of twenty years of war, political lying and cheating and murder in their schools.

They have no stomach for Americanity.

And they are completely turned off to the idea that minorities must stand in line and wait their turn.

They are our hope.

Yet even the young humans out there are screwed up on the issue of men and women—borrowing way too much tradition from their parents.

It is time to deal with the BAD. Look at the stats the way they are, realize that America is mostly white and needs to be appealed to for its better angels to make our plans work.

And please, once and for all, can we get rid of the sad Americanity—which believes in red, blue and white supremacy?

I’d like to see us get MAD and start to seek out a way to GENDER MENDER the difficulties between men and women.

Then we can be glad and offer the next generation a better palette, so their painting can be filled with color.

 

The B. S. M. G. Report


Jonathots Daily Blog

(4280)

It is much too easy to establish the will

To take a life and learn to kill

BAD

Yes, it’s bad.

He’s dead.

I didn’t know anything about him. Other people did. They were convinced he was so evil that he needed to be destroyed.

His name was Qasem Soleimani.

He was sixty-two years of age.

And now every small city in America has an anchor person who has to learn how to pronounce his name.

He was like a big general who spent all of his time thinking up ways to scare the world around him so the philosophy and lifestyle he held dear could achieve primal consideration.

SAD

So it is. It’s sad.

It’s absolutely sad that we felt the need to blow up this fellow because of what he’s done, and of course, what he might do.

And see—here’s where it gets me.

A killer kills. That’s bad.

But a killer is killed. That’s sad.

Because one of us—who are supposed to be the good guys—has to do the killing. And no matter how righteous we may think our cause is, there were people before us who thought they were just as righteous, who killed and ended up losing what they had because of it.

I’m not going to wave my flag so hard that I start believing that killing is all right. It is not.

That’s what makes me…

MAD

We’ve become killers.

We have gone into another country and killed one of its high officials and said we had the right to do it because the work he was doing for his country was wrong. Or at least, we considered it wrong.

Yet if I spent five minutes in that country, and they explained to me that we sent thousands of troops to their land—to kill and maim—would I be in danger of being convinced that their cause was just as plausible, if not noble?

When a killer kills, and a killer is killed, we become killers.

We can talk about it, debate it…

GLAD

…but here’s the weird thing.

I’m glad we killed him.

I’m not proud. I don’t want to dance on his grave.

But if my choices are BAD, SAD, MAD and GLAD—well, I’m more glad.

But if I could make one request:

Let’s just stop for a while.

Killing, that is.

 

 

 

Sit Down Comedy … December 6th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4250)

Sit Down Comedy

Now and then I come across someone or something that I believe to be inadequately named by the New Oxford Dictionary.

So I make up a word of my own.

This week I’ve been thinking about “hero.” Everyone has an image in mind when they hear the term, but we do not really have a word for people who are not heroes, but thump their chests, proclaiming themselves to be.

So I would like to offer my word for such a person:

HEGO

Just to clarify:

A hero is an individual who rises to the occasion and is adequately surprised and humbled by the positive results.

A hego is a person who fails to deliver, but still insists that he* did the job.

A hero doesn’t promise, but still provides.

A hego fails and claims he never promised.

A hero considers the responsibility before agreeing to try.

A hego assumes there is nothing he can’t do.

A hero searches for others better qualified than himself.

A hego believes he is the most qualified without ever searching.

A hero demands no reward.

A hego needs the reward to confirm his worth.

A hero carries his cross.

A hego places his cross on another.

A hero tells the truth because he must.

A hego exaggerates because he must be perceived as great.

Whether in politics, business, entertainment or religion, each path requires a certain amount of honor. When this is provided, a hero can emerge. When it’s ignored and shortcuts are sought, a hego is hatched.

A hero gives of himself.

A hego uses others.

A hero fears being a coward and ends up brave.

A hego believes himself brave and ends up a coward.

A hero steps back.

A hego pushes forward.

A hero lays down his life for a friend.

A hego asks the friend to perform the sacrifice.

A hero seeks peace.

A hego yearns for war.

Bluntly, we could consider the hego to be an exercise in foolishness except for the fact that when our enemies know that we no longer respect the role of a hero, they are more likely to attack whomever has become our latest hego.

A hero believes in others.

A hego believes in himself.

It is my heart that America needs a hero, or maybe two. For after all, we are well-staffed with the hego.

 


*he or she

Iz and Pal (Bedouin Buddies)


Iz and Pal

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4196)

Sitting Forty-One

Three days passed.

Karin found it difficult to sleep. She nibbled like a rabbit, trying to sustain her energy. Although she watched all the news reports, she heard nothing. It literally seemed that Iz and Pal had vanished from the face of the Earth. She made many phone calls but was unable to get in touch with anyone who knew anything.

Then, on Monday morning, while she was warming up her coffee, a special broadcast came across the television screen from the International News Network. She was brought to a standstill, staring in disbelief. There, being played out before her eyes, in a news conference, was a guy at a podium behind many microphones. He looked like Matthew Bradley, her photographer/suitor. Yet she shook her head, rattling in her own brain. It couldn’t be possible—because this man wore the trappings of a Catholic priest.

She lifted the volume as he stepped toward the microphones, placing a piece of paper on the podium. “I have a brief statement from the IEA. The two boys recently rescued from the desert and carried to a decontamination center to be tested and treated for injuries have unfortunately died from exposure to lethal chemicals. The boys, Jubal and Amir, who became known as Iz and Pal, left a final statement before passing on. And I quote:

We meant no harm. We just loved each other. Isn’t that a good thing? We wish you all holy peace.”

The Bradley doppelganger continued. “Both the boys were given medication to ease their pain and passed away last evening in their sleep. The IEA asked me, as a man of the ministry, to speak to the public. And may I personally add in comfort and closing, it is just blessed to know that Iz and Pal have gone to a better kingdom.”

With this, the priest folded up his sheet of paper, nodded his head and stepped away from the podium as a barrage of questions was shouted at his retreating form.

But there were no answers. He was gone. That was it.

Karin sat in front of her television for a long time. She wondered why she wasn’t crying—then realized it might be because Matthew Bradley was impersonating a priest. In other words, if the priest ain’t really a priest, then maybe, just maybe, the boys ain’t dead.

Trying to be comforted by the possibility of a false report, nevertheless, finally her emotional will broke. Her anguish and fears began to strangle her internally, draining the life from her soul. She couldn’t breathe. She stood to her feet, attempting to regain the simple ability to take in air and release it.

She felt so foolish. She had been part of tragedies before. She had seen men and women mutilated by bullets, and children blown up by bombs. Why in the hell was this striking her so deeply? Why did she let these two boys into her heart? Why hadn’t she been savvy enough to realize that this had no way to have a happy ending? It was doomed by all those doomsayers who spread doom all over the countryside in the name of their Deity of Doom.

She finally was able to sit down and calm herself, on the energy of one possibility. Maybe Iz was with his friend, Pal, and they were both alive. Karin didn’t know if believing such nonsense was optimistic or just dangerous. But she was tired of being cynical.

As she gradually regained her composure, she heard a knock at the door. Startled, she slowly stood, walked over and opened the door. A young Arab man was standing next to Jubal’s mother. She searched her mind to remember the name. Yes. Shelah. That was it.

It was very unusual to see a woman in public during the day with such a young man—one obviously not her husband. Karin was suspicious.

The young man knew he had surprised her, sympathetic to her predicament. “I am Talsan,” he explained quickly. “I am Amir’s…sorry…I am Pal’s older brother.” He turned toward the older woman, then back to Karin. “I suppose you know that this is…”

Karin interrupted. “Yes, this is Iz’s mother. Shelah, am I right?”

The woman nodded her head, continuing the submissive profile she had displayed on Karin’s visit to her. But then, out of nowhere, she spoke up. “Yes,” she stated. “As you say, I am Iz’s mother. May we come in?”

The sudden burst of speech from the silent woman surprised Karin. She welcomed the pair into her house. Karin offered them food and drink, which they both declined as they took seats on the couch.

Talsan said, “There is much I should say but the most important part is to tell you that I love my brother, and I refuse to believe that he’s gone.”

Before Karin could comment, Shelah piped up. “I will go further. My spirit—the mother within me—everything I hold dear—tells me that my son is still alive and breathing.”

Karin looked at Talsan and then at Shelah. She wasn’t certain what to say. She wanted to agree with them because she felt much the same way, but three fools don’t make a majority. The newspaper woman inside her rose up and cited, “You both realize that they don’t normally give out a false report from the IEA—and whether you trust Americans, or anybody from the West, I have worked with them many times, and they’re decent folk who would certainly not harm two little boys.”

Talsan started to speak, but Shelah patted his hand and said, “We are not accusing anyone of harming Iz and Pal.” She glanced over at Talsan. “We are just saying…well, I’m just saying…”

Talsan interjected, “It is me, too.”

Shelah nodded and continued. “We are just saying that we have done very poorly by these children of God and it is we who are believing that God will allow us another chance.”

Karin found it very difficult to object. All the words being spoken were sentimental hogwash, but still, they were the thoughts stirring in her own heart as well. She decided to offer a possibility. “Did you hear the announcement from the priest?”

They both nodded their heads. “Good,” Karin said. “Because his final thought was that the boys had possibly suffered enough and were redeemed to a better kingdom.”

Talsan jumped in. “I know this could be true. I’m not a fool. I’m an educated man. But it does seem ridiculous to accept the words without confirmation.”

“And beyond that,” Shelah emphasized, “Should there not be at least an attempt for us to let God, the authorities, but mostly the boys know that at the end of their journey there were people that loved them? People that sought them out and people that honored their memory?”

Talsan dipped his head as tears filled his eyes.

Karin realized that whatever powers may exist in the universe, Somebody Somewhere had granted her this visit from mother and brother, to restore her faith—and to help her make a decision she certainly yearned to do.

She took Mother Shelah and Brother Talsan by the hands and said, “I want to thank you for being brave enough to come here. But I wonder if you could be just a little braver still. Would you agree with me—no, more than that. Would you join me on a trip to America to make sure that these two great fellows really have gone to a better kingdom?”

Shelah quickly nodded her head, eyes glistening. Talsan thought for a minute, but then realized there was no way to avoid such a journey and ever be certain in his soul.

An unlikely trio of pilgrims made a covenant with one another to travel to the States to learn the truth about two wonderful guys that they all loved.

 

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The X Word … July 16th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4107)


THE

Image result for gif of the letter x

WORD


It is my belief that all the people of the United States owe a brief moment of gratitude to President Donald Trump, for he spared us another administration of Hillary and Bill Clinton. When they were in the White House, they brought disgrace, confusion, deception and a certain brand of conceit that has troubled us for years.

The American people looked at the binary choice and selected the unknown.

It was a smart move.

In that moment, it seemed a prudent way to avoid many of the mistakes that were made by the Arkansas couple the first time they were bequeathed the honor of occupying the nation’s house at Pennsylvania Avenue.

Yet, President Trump was a novice.

We have all been novices. We immediately had to accept two important factors:

  1. Not knowing what to do, we were required to learn.
  2. Since we were learning, mistakes would have to be confessed and changed.

The novice we elected took a profile of already knowing instead of studying up for the job. The end result is that errors were made, and rather than correcting those mistakes, smoke screens were sent out to disguise the mishaps, and attempts were made to rally “we, the people” behind nasty causes.

That is why I tell you that the X word that should never be spoken or written again is:

XENOPHOBIA

It is a prejudice against people from other countries, but also other lifestyles. It is fostered because of insecurity.

For instance, there isn’t a black person in this country who isn’t a little nervous around the white folks who have caused him or her problems.

There isn’t a Native American who can’t point to mistreatment of his tribe by the immigrants who came from other lands.

Nor is there a Japanese American who is unaware that at one time, his great-grandfather or great-grandmother were put into an internment camp.

The Chinese Americans recall the history of how they were mistreated in the West during the great expansion of the nineteenth century.

And also, every white person in this country is a little sensitive about being cast into the role of the villain on all issues of race.

We are neurotic.

Somewhere deep in our soul is the desire to be kind and tenderhearted, but a fear of one another manifests as a hatred of each other. So when the drums of prejudice start beating, the accusations start flying, the bullets pierce black flesh at white hands, and the nation seems to look on those south of the border as trash, it is time for our leaders to calm us.

They should teach us to appreciate one another. Give us a chance to get used to skin colors and lifestyles, and acclimate to our neighbors. After all, we have an absolutely magnificent country in which to do it.

I say, shame on our political parties.

Shame on the Democratic Party for presenting Hillary Clinton with a side of her husband, Bill, as warmed-over hash.

And shame on the Republicans for failing to take their candidate and place him in adequate restraints for learning and growing into the job of President.

Both parties have turned us into raging xenophobes.

This will not be solved with a political solution. This will require the simplicity of neighbors chatting with each other and gradually coming to a national common sense that acknowledges that even though we are nervous—at times terrified—of the person standing next to us, America is still the best spot to be, this side of heaven.

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Sit Down Comedy … May 31st, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4062)


My definition of awkward: finding myself in an uncomfortable situation and then doing something dopey to try and fit in.

A Convention of Clowns

This happened to me many years ago when a friend invited me to a convention of clowns. (No—I mean real clowns. Not a metaphor.)

I arrived, walked in and realized there were over a hundred people there, give or take a dozen—all dressed as clowns.

Suddenly all the eyes of the room fell on me, with a combination of bewilderment and pity. I felt stupid—not because I was in a convention of clowns and they were all suited in their garb, but because I was insecure that I was not part of what was going on.

Awkward

One of the clowns walked up and handed me a red nose—an extra he traveled with. As I slid it on my nose, he stood back, and about fifteen surrounding souls with floppy shoes applauded me. I’m so ashamed to admit it, but I felt better. Donning the comical beezer at least made me look like I was a respectable participant.

Several months later the same thing happened when I was invited by a friend to a Pentecostal church. The music began and suddenly everybody rose to their feet, lifting their arms and talking in some unknown language which I did not comprehend.  Slowly I inched my way to my feet to join them. I tried lifting my arms but after a few moments they ached. And then, doggone it, I felt so out of place and so frightened that everybody was peering at me, that I pretended to mumble words to imitate theirs.

I felt so phony—but I didn’t want to be the “odd tongue out.”

Then a good friend of mine, Mike, asked me to go to a convention hall to see big time wrestling. Honestly, I’d never even watched it on television. Everyone around me was clad as their favorite character, screaming, pleading for blood and mayhem. Mike kept glancing over at me, wondering if I was going to catch on and join in. Eventually I did find a wrestler I favored and shouted a couple of inane words of encouragement his way.

Yes—not that different from attending a political rally with my friend, Linda. She was really sold out on the candidate. At the time, I was really sold out on her. Signs, slogans, speeches—even a small marching band—bombarded my ears and collided in my brain, pleading with me to cast my support.

I did a little. I hated myself for it. Well, maybe not hated—I just wondered why I still possessed this weakness—a need for some sort of acceptance, even when I was in an environment that was completely alien.

That’s the way I feel today.

I no longer recognize America.

The screaming, the cursing, the ignorance and the self-righteousness that encircle me is tempting me to make an awkward step to blend.

I don’t know how to do it. I don’t want to do it.

Dammit, I despise you Republicans for what you stand for and your arrogance.

And screw you, Democrats, for having a superior attitude to the world around you.

I feel my country has been absorbed by a cult of pirates who want to swash-buckle their way into fame and fortune.

If I resist, I fear they will make me walk the plank, pushing me off to drown in the deepest sea of despair.

How much volume can my voice have in a country full of shouters?

I don’t know.

But just as I was not a clown, a tongue-talker, a wrestling fan or a political enthusiast, I am also not part of this abduction that has happened in my nation.

I will try to be strong and not find a dopey way to slink into the shadows of sameness. 


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1 Thing You Can Do to Become a Great Patriot

 

DON’T

React, Resent, Reject, Regress

OR BE

Rude, Rowdy, Racist, Raunchy

THIS IS NOT WHO WE R

 

REASON

The colonists who settled the Americas were most concerned about wording. They realized that in the future, in studying their original thoughts on creating a perfect union, the words would make a huge difference. So they struggled, parsed and edited—writing documents to include as many people, situations and lifestyles as they could possibly imagine.

Out of that effort came phrases such as:

All men are created equal”

“Truths that are self-evident”

“Government by the people, of the people and for the people”

“Liberty and justice for all”

Even though these men were chauvinists, racists, wore powdered wigs and snorted opium, they were still aware that the greatest power we possess as people is to reason. So:

I will reason

You will reason

Until we discover together the reasonable solution.


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