Mowing with Titmice

In August my lawn mower

With each pass of the yard

Stirs a cloud of insects


A tufted titmouse couple I know

Perch on the fence, bob heads and watch

Then dive through the cloud


Beaks stuffed with bounty

Grasshopper, cricket, moth wings, spiders

For the babies squawking in the sassafras tree

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I took my first walk in five days, after a long rain spell. The clouds still lingered, and the river was muddy and thick, and a north wind kept the mosquitoes at bay. On north windy days, you can hear the whistle of the Abraham Lincoln train pulling into Alton, six miles away.

On August 1, 1969, I was packing to move to Chicago, not a clue as to how my young life would be completely altered. In four years from that day, I would be playing Judas in “Jesus Christ Superstar,” and married to Barbara, and in fourteen years from that day my first play would open Off-Broadway in New York. None of that could I have imagined. Everything I have ever done, unpolished and imperfect, meant that I was born with gifts. I thought of that boy today, but I hardly recognized him.

I climbed Illini Trail Road, and at the top was a very old lady in a calf-length pink nightgown and old-fashioned hair curlers. She was bent at the waist and talking at someone very small, unseen and quiet, behind her hedges. As I came around the corner, I saw a calico cat sitting on her driveway, its tail swishing, the feline receiver of the conversation, and they were quite the couple.

I walked through the woods along the creek, and I was followed. By a monologist dressed as a mockingbird. Mockingbirds are performers, and they need an audience. This fellow trilled and squeaked and cawed and hooted and flew treetop to treetop by my side. The more I didn’t look up, the more the bird expelled its song stylings. I tried answering with some feeble whistles, but a mockingbird can out-caw a crow and out-tweet a finch any day, much less a pale whistler.

The forest is home to several pileated woodpeckers, which one rarely sees, but there is no mistaking the jackhammer sound and fury of a pileated. And there were catbirds mewing and, incongruously, chipmunks “tock-ing,” “tock-tock-tock,” their signature warning tongue click against sharp teeth, that tells the colony that a predator is nearby. They are highly successful, seventy million years old as a species, which means they walked among the dinosaurs.

Small is better.

I have to stop every half mile or so, to manipulate my right kneecap which keeps dislocating and which is headed for replacement. People see me pressing my knee inward to straighten it and count to forty, and they assume something is wrong. And something is indeed wrong—hands and back and right knee damaged from arthritis, and the only way out of pain is to receive robotic parts. At the halfway point, I stretch for ten minutes, back arched and hands on the ground and Achilles tendons pulled and calf muscles rubbed and neck manipulated and spine popped.

I regularly ask myself why I do all this. Dr. Brown, my heart guy, on our Zoom exam the other day: “Well, you do it because it is abating your heart disease.” Ah. I am abating. Abate, ablute, abstruse, absorb, abjure, abnegate—all in a day’s work.

Then I get home and ice the knee and tweak the quads and stretch the hams and tickle the floor with shaky fingertips and pet the cat who walks between my legs and thinks the whole routine is a game. If I didn’t do all that, you would be reading the Shut-in Chronicles, and how my journey to the toilet began with a single shuffle and ended with a trickling urine stream.

I suddenly understood today, why there are mockingbirds and mocking Republicans and mocking, maskless people: to keep one on one’s toes. It keeps you in the game. Mad is matter. I am reminded by Mr. Aristotle that inaction is an action, that “to be or not to be” is indeed the most profound of questions. And there are chipmunks, infinitely more successful than are we, who love murder.

Soon I will be a player in the cemetery of Grover’s Corners in “Our Town,” and so will you, commenting on the follies of youth. It would be a miracle if you read a missive I wrote from there, proof of an afterlife. Thinking of the old lady in the pink nightgown I saw today: there is always someone older than you.

Until there isn’t.


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The Confessions of Ewing Eugene Baldwin

I tortured and raped slaves in Cuba in 1539

I transported African slaves in 1619

I sentenced John Punch to slavery in 1640

I burned revolting slaves in New York in 1712

I raped Sally Hemings in 1778

I brought my slaves to the Illinois Territory, to become its first governor in 1809

I beat Harriet Tubman in 1830

I assassinated Elijah P. Lovejoy in Alton, Illinois in 1847

I hanged John Brown in 1859

I whipped the slave Peter in 1863

I beat and hanged Albert Martin in 1889

I burned Henry smith with hot irons then set him on fire and sold his remains in 1893

I sold Sam Hose’s mutilated body parts in 1899

I lynched David Wyatt in the Belleville, Illinois town square in 1903

I doused Ell Persons with kerosene and burned her alive in 1917

I hanged Mary Turner upside down from a tree and set her on fire in 1918

I burned Charles Wright at the stake in 1922

I forced Willie James Howard to jump to his death from a bridge in 1944

I set a cross on fire at the Elijah Conley house, Alton, Illinois, 1950

I murdered Emmet Till in 1955

I beat John Lewis nearly to death in 1965

I assassinated Martin Luther King in 1968

I dragged James Byrd Jr. to death behind my car in 1998

I murdered Michael Brown in 2014

I suffocated George Floyd in 2020

I shot Breanna Taylor to death for being in her own house in 2020


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two larks

our father named us both Lark—

the pastor at our baptism said

‘Lark songs delivered in flight’

and we shared an attic bed for eighty-three years

long after Our Father and Our Mother had passed

because their room was haunted

their stern portraits above their bed the eyes blinking


we filled it with detritus empty soup cans and papers

and things from the dump in the woods

beyond the blueberry bog the sluices of spring water

from before the Revolutionary War

poison bottles and handblown glass we thought we’d sell

and pistol balls and once a rusted sword


the one cow left we called Seven

that old Moe fed hay and the pears and crabapples

the ancient pear trees barely bloomed anymore

the shallow pond filled with dead cats

the dam long since collapsed

the forest we named Althea


and the Lark songs in flight had tea and doll parties

in our sentient New England woodland our Althea

the smell of pine needles-sponge earth-bergamot

and purple lilacs and bunchberry

and she kept a bear and one moose lived up there

sharing the blueberries in season


then Lark fell sick she stopped eating

electricity long since gone the lamps from 1640

brought to blaze again then no oil

and the long dark nights the freezing nights

trapped smoke from racoon-filled chimneys

the hot summer nights and mosquitoes

filling rooms and fleas of the living cats


on the day my sister starved, 1987,

Old Moe gone to see family in Michigan

we lay in the featherbed shapes carved by decades

and listened to our dead folks talking below

and the New Hampshire bluecoat soldiers in the parlor

the ancient Indians smoking and knapping blades

their babies napping in birchbark beds


then Lark flew my hand on her heaving chest

then still then slowly the trees got eaten I remember

I could hear the crunching of mandibles

in three-four time and Althea screaming from pain

I remember the leaves green to yellow to brown

the branches black to gray to ash

the gypsy moths flooding the mountains

removing Althea’s clothes I remember

and naked she bent to the ground I remember

then the bear and the moose and the cow fled


from the gnash-gnash-gnash

the family’s gravestones the moss dried up

Lark lying back of the fence for Moe to bury

with teacups and doll’s legs Lark calling Lark: sistersistersister

in the gnash-gnash-gnash

but I was paralyzed wings buried in blankets

sisteersistersister dead summer

soaked and marinating the bed drowning

and eaten fell to gnash-gnash-gnash


under the spell of gypsy moths








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Great art shakes one to one’s core and leaves a scar. We call the scar memory. The documentary NOTFILM is one of those experiences. FILM, the only film written by Samuel Beckett, is the subject. Among many pleasures is hearing Sam Beckett talk. Beckett the writing god, Irish baritone, whisperer.

Directed by Ross Lipman, NOTFILM takes us on a journey of the creative process of a writing god. We’re also treated to the story of how Charlie Chaplin turned down a part only to be replaced with Buster Keaton, who professed to not understand a second of what was going on. The legendary Stone Face, Keaton was instructed not to show his face to the camera—with one exception.

Interviewed before her death is the stunning actress Billie Whitelaw, who starred in Beckett’s plays “Not I,” in which Whitelaw’s mouth is the only human thing seen on the stage, and “Happy Days,” where she delivers a searing monologue buried up to her neck in garbage. She told friends that Beckett was trying to kill her. Beckett said Whitelaw was his muse.

NOTFILM is about the nature of seeing, eye and camera, and of awareness of self. (Beckett, whose lined Irish face is iconic, couldn’t stand to be photographed or taped.) Buster Keaton, everyman, walks in a bleak city and watches, people and places, and he catches glimpses of himself, and he is horrified.

I have seen all of the Beckett plays. The Goodman Theatre in Chicago produced “Waiting for Godot” in such a manner that I could not leave my seat after the curtain fell. I sat and wept at what Beckett called “a relaxation.” And then there is the TV production starring Burgess Meredith and Zero Mostel, which blew me away as a kid. And informed my sceptic adult self. Samuel Beckett changed my life.

NOTFILM was born when director Lipman interviewed film director and founder of Grove Press (“The Tropic of Capricorn” and D.H. Lawrence’s “Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” among others) Barney Rosset, who was dying but able to talk with perfect memory of the making of Beckett’s screenplay. And then Rosset revealed a cache of tapes he had recorded of Beckett, the recorder hidden below a table. And so we hear the god Beckett speak.

The film, as bleak—or as funny, if you get what the writer was up to—as Beckett’s plays, received mixed reviews. But the story of the making of the film is breathtaking. On a single canvass are greats of the 20th Century: Rosset, Beckett, Keaton, Whitelaw, Haskell Wexler, and some commentary by the actor James Karen, whom I only knew from his so-so movie career (“Poltergeist,”) and who turns out to be a brilliant eyewitness and analyst of acting and of Beckett’s work.

Everyone interviewed for FILM is dead. By luck of discovering historical tapes and films, and by coaxing Whitelaw and Rossett, both in the throes of Alzheimer’s but with perfect memories of Samuel Beckett, Ross Lipman skillfully narrates a film born by accident. And what an accident.

Sam Beckett, who did research for James Joyce for “Ulysses.” He worked for the absolute master of words and became the master of silence, of nuance, of gesture. “Malloy,” “Malone Dies,” “Godot,” “Endgame,” “Happy Days,” “Not I,” and the list goes on.

I was in a Chicago room with Edward Albee once, overhearing him tell an anecdote about calling up “Art” (Arthur) Miller and saying they should fly to Russia to see some dissident writers, and Art said great idea, and then they stopped off in Paris to see “Sam.” And my knees buckled. And I went home and stayed in bed for days. What else can one do in the presence of gods?

NOTFILM is available on various streaming platforms. I saw it on Turner Classic Movies. It is unforgettable, awe inspiring, lustful, shattering, beautiful. A masterful visual and aural analogue (as I used to tell my theater students) of emotive life. A memory scar which will haunt me to the end.


ESTRAGON: Well, shall we go?

VLADIMIR: Yes, let’s go.

They do not move.

Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot


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Joe Buck: Welcome back to 60-game baseball! The league has taken every precaution, and America’s pastime is back. As you can see, I’m a one man show in this time of crisis. Top of the first, two on, with hitter and centerfielder for the Cleveland First People, Jock Itchiru.

Here’s the pitch. Swung on, deep right field, Cardinals fielder Flame Thrower dives but the ball falls in front of him. The runners held up, but now they’re running. The throw to third—oh, third baseman Flick Friend falls to the ground. He’s retching!

The shortstop, Willie Wonthe won’t pick up the ball because of the vomit, two runs score, Jock Itchiru slides into third. He is… oh my god, third base umpire Vag Groper falls backward. He… can’t smell, and he…oh he’s.

The throw home—now Jock Itchiru is caught in a run-down. Catcher Miller Highlife chases—but he stumbles and falls, sweating profusely and coughing. Scratch slides. Safe! The Cardinals trainer is checking Highlife…he’s okay, oh, my bad, he’s dead.

Nobody out, and nobody left on the Cardinals roster to play right field or third base. Next up, Cleveland First People first baseman Dick Tiny. Here’s the pitch. It’s a spitter—no, the pitcher is spitting up, the ball rolls to the plate… Tiny bunts down the third base line, nobody there to field it, the ball rolls toward left field, Dick ends up at second base. Mel Carnage, the pitcher, is rolling on the mound and speaking in tongues… He gone!

So, nobody out, Dick on second, and up comes switch hitter Elvis Pressedme. With the new rules, there are no substitute players, so since there’s no pitcher, Pressedme has to toss the ball into the air and hit it. He tosses, swings, and it’s a pop foul. First baseman Yankme Quick chases, plate umpire Speck Trometer follows… oh my god, Trometer falls dead. Yankme makes the catch, but there’s nobody to call the out.

Dick scores, and Pressedmeat heads for second. Second baseman Algor Doubting-Thomas makes the tag—wait, he falls dead, and second base umpire Julie Cesar is hit with a seizure! And now first base umpire Arch Fallen falls fleetly onto his ventilator—he was sick before the game started, and oh, dear lord, he’s dead.

Pressedmeat on first. And now the Cardinals are in a predicament. No pitcher, second baseman, right fielder, catcher, and Jay Eyre the center fielder is playing deep while lying on a hospital bed, all the umpires are dead. And wait—down goes manager Pat Metheny, farting all the way.

Coming to the plate, league homerun hitter Fatten Meup. He tosses the ball and swings. Line drive up the gap! The orderlies wheel the center fielder Jay Eyre toward the wall. He reaches. He makes the catch! A female fan reaches for the ball…and falls onto the field. Usher Charlie Baird jumps onto the field and is assisting the fan. I’m told by our producer that the fan is Sheila Segraves. We’re glad you’re okay, Sheila!

There is a commotion in the right field box seats. I’m being told that a hotdog vendor has died, and fans are swarming his body to get free dogs. Wow—this is old fashioned baseball, folks.

Next up, designated hitter Showme State. State tosses the ball and swings. And drops dead! A soft grounder to the pitcher’s mound, but there is no pitcher and no runner. Does a hit with no runner make a sound if no one is pitching?

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Trump’s Address at Mount Rushmore

My fellow pale Americans,
I am honored to be with you tonight, on this sacred July 3 holiday, you audience of thirty thousand people sitting below giants. Teddy Roosevelt, huge! Huge man! Huge and perfect and the best—well the best until I came along.

My staff tell me… that many of you said as you walked in, that the park should be renamed Mount Trumpmore. It’s not for me to say, but I wouldn’t say no.

What the leftist radical Marxist commie libtards won’t tell you… is that Cary Grant, on these sacred stones, defeated the enemy James Mason—he was a Limey, of course, and he killed himself—that’s right: booooooooo! boooooooooooo! booooooooooo!—and Carey Grant saved the virtue of Eva Marie Saint right here where I stand. Eva Marie. I would have dated her back then; very Ivanka-ish, if you get my drift.

The Godless, science believing, nutso-freakos will tell you that was a movie with the fake title “North by Northwest,” instead of the documentary by the great director Alfred E. Newman.
They will tell you that Cary Grant fought the Limey on a stage set in Chicago. Do you believe it? The stupidos?

I saw Cary Grant defeat the Sassenach Martin Landau—right here! When the golfers on my Scottish course insult the English, they say “Sassenach.” Martin Landau fell from Honest Abe’s nostril, and his head split open on this very stage—I see the bloodstain!

And the whino-wino-anti albinos will tell you that Indians consider this sacred ground. Well, Sitting Bull didn’t sit here. Sitting Bully Pulpit sat here. Not antichrist Franklin Roosevelt, but Teddy. That’s right: Ted-dy! Ted-dy! Ted-dy! And Teddy said, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” That is in the bible just in case our enemies are foaming their lattes over at MSNBC. Mark, Chapter 3, Verse 12: “Verily, I say unto ye, the only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

But I am not here to talk about dead Indians or pissed off welfare blackies. No, just as I am ordering the forests of the United States turned into toilet paper—thank you, thank you—so too are the Barack-Thirty Rock, Asiatic-sciatica, Atticus Finchy, Puratino-Americans trying to kill Whitey!

Kill Whitey? Can you imagine? Kill all the Old Testament Noah’s and Eves and Adam’s family and the Jesuses? Jesus—I am so Jesusy right now, I am wetting myself! That’s right: White Je-sus! White Je-sus! White Je-sus!

I am a Whitey. I am not ashamed to say so. You sixty thousand whiteys gathered here: Are you ashamed? I want you to stand up and shout to those rocky mountain men above us: I’m as white as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore! Oh, thanks to the lady in the coonskin cap in the front row: “Not counting Jews!” Except Larry Kudlick! Or is it Kudlow? Lick, low, who knows. Who knows where the lick lows.

But I digress. Can you imagine, Sleepy Joe Biden up there carved in stone? Gropey Joe with a stone titty in his hand? Dopey Joe? Old “black” Joe? With the alzheim—whatyoucallit?

But! Can you imagine…moi? Moi? MOI? MOI UP THERE? Next to Abe, only my head is bigger?

And something else is bigger, let me tell you, but I am not going to pull my pants down on this sacred July 3. My wife Melania will tell you what is in my pants. Melania? Where is Melania? Oh, she is in the VIP section confabbing with your fabulous governor Kristi Noem with her new poem: “Virus?-Miley Cyrus?-You Scum Appendicitis!”

That’s right: Moi that wall! Moi that wall! Moi that wall!

And God bless the United States of America—and my presidency until the Covid-19 thingie is over, which may be four more years because you suckers—you people with Trump cherry suckers in your mouths, that is—are, as the young white kids say before I date them, sick!

That’s right: We are sick! We are sick! We are sick!

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Touch Him, Touch Him

I’ve been having vivid nap dreams for weeks, and today’s, when I woke up, made me exclaim, for in the dream, as I watched my friend Ken sort through old newspapers, his clipping scissors at the ready, in his plaid shirt and slacks and shuffley slippers, I said, “Ken, you are dead,” and Ken, as Ken does or did, kept right on talking.

And I talked to myself: touch him, touch him, he is dead.
When I awoke, tears streaming down my face, I knew the truth; Ken was dead, his visit was from the ether.

Touch him, touch him, he is dead.

He lived in a house, and he had a tiny, faceless wife with black bangs, wearing an apron with a story printed across it in tiny print, the words moving left to right. She cooked meals in a wok, and though I was a guest, the food was only for Ken.

When I awoke, I felt drugged, exhausted, but then my days are spent, me drugged and exhausted, as I think about not thinking, not being, not remembered, not loved, not accomplished, not more than a speck, an electron, spinning and soundlessly, endlessly, and unblessedly nothing.

I got up and decided to go out, and as I pulled out of my driveway, the sky a sere green from a dust storm in a desert far away, I saw a lone figure on a porch swing, across the highway, my friend Orville, and I drove into his yard and joined him and the sleeping barn cat curled up against him.

“You alright?” Orville said, asking a question which had no answer, for no one is alright and any answer is a lie.

“I’m good,” I lied. “You?”

“Oh, you know, in and out the doctor’s. ‘Take this, or you will die,’ ‘do this, or you will be in terrible pain.’”

But I didn’t know. He thought he had told me something, but he hadn’t. But my eyes told me weeks ago something was wrong.

“I am eighty-two, eighty-three in September—what the hell I want to live on for?”

He has cancer.

And I talked to myself: Touch him, touch him, he is alive.

But I didn’t. I once saw a mutual friend of ours hug him, and I saw the look of horror on his face, and it seemed funny then, and today, the cat pawed at him but he didn’t paw back, and I wasn’t going to set a precedent or make a fool of myself crying but I wanted to cry and my tears would have flooded the fields, the Sea of Eugene, the see of Eugene. Orville watched me watching him. He shrugged.

I cried inside, a fearful silence in an empty room in that delta of song and story and orgasm and bird and beast and tree of Eden and the shadows of the old folk . . . and there was Ken, by the blackberry bushes, watching, nodding, ready to escort me and Orville and Miss Halter the fourth grade teacher who told me I would be a writer and Angelina and Nicole my daughters and the cats Christopher Robin and Wheatstone Bridge and Tamsin and Scout—

“I ain’t afraid,” Orville said, interrupting me—interrupting my brain. “What I got to be afraid of?

“What has he got to be afraid of?” Ken said.

Touch them, touch them, they are

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A Modest Proposal

Former Saturday Night Live actor Jay Pharoah was recently pulled over while jogging, by LA cops, as a suspect in a crime. Pharoah was let go after they Googled him, but. Given the state of this country, I have used my playwriting skills to come up with a script for white police officers, that could be read to a black person being pulled over in a car (or jogging or strolling or sunning or dining or reading or birding or breathing).

The script’s purpose is to spur a black driver to think about his or her response. The officer reads the script to the driver (or jogger or stroller or sun worshipper or diner or reader or birder or breather) and then proceeds with law enforcement. The goal is to save the lives of black people who behave themselves.

Officer: I have pulled you over because ____________________________. Here is what can happen now. 1) I may cite a vehicle malfunction, say a taillight not working, and issue you a ticket. Have a nice day. 2) Because you are black, and prone to pernicious behavior—my grandpa Will told me this—I may search you. 3) Because you are black, and like President Trump I am uneasy around blacks, particularly males, I may use a taser on you, teargas you, pepper spray you, rubber bullet you, with no warning. Or 4) Because you are black, and you believe black lives matter, when all lives matter, I may pull my gun and shoot you if you are making me too nervous or you are one of those mouthy, entitled middleclass or above people of color (coloreds). Please choose your option now, saving both of us time.

My proposal is fair and just. It allows time for a black suspect, even if not guilty of anything, to consider the consequences of questioning, challenging, mouthing off, greeting in a friendly manner, refusing to comply, complying, or pulling out a cellphone and filming. Thus, the officer is comfortable, does not bear the burden of racial unease, and he or she has options.

Following is yet another script, read by assisting officers to black bystanders who charge in to film the scene with cameras.

Assisting Officer: I am warning you to not interfere in my partner’s interrogation of a black suspect. Turn and walk away. Here is what can happen now. 1) This is none of your business, but I will make your action my business if you do not comply. 2) Because you are black, and prone to pernicious behavior—my grandma Sally told me this—I may search you. 3) Because you are black, and like President Trump I am uneasy around blacks, particularly males, and you are filming this, I may use a taser on you with no warning. Or: 4) Because you are black and you believe black lives matter, when all lives matter—even if you are not the suspect, but you are a busybody who won’t leave enough alone, and why didn’t you just stay in your own colored neighborhood—I may pull my gun and shoot you if you are making me too nervous or you are one of those mouthy, entitled people of color (colored). Please choose your option now, saving both of us time.

The above will save lives. Harmony will break out among the races, cue the “Hallelujah Chorus,” even though there is no such thing as race, but we as a society must keep promoting this trope, or else we’d all be equal and—.






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I Heart Huckabee

As per Mike Huckabee’s comments, I feel it is time to come clean. I apologize to all those on the right. CNN is paying me $100 a day–tax free–to hate Donald Trump. I fell into this welfare scheme, and I began writing hate essays about our beloved president.

I opposed sexual assault and lying and graft, and now I’m deeply ashamed. I made fun of Sarah Huckleberry Sanders, and Michele Bachman and Ms. Palin, and I didn’t even walk a mile in their moccasins. Sure, they have teeny feet, and I only would have made it ten yards, what with my corns, but.

I excoriated Supreme Court Justice Brett for boofing, when the truth is, we all boof. We are a nation of boofers. Right now, I have White House press secretary Kayleigh McEnany holding a press conference up my ass.

And now I name a name. Wolf. Wolf paid me. Wolf is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You look at Wolf, and you think, grim old Uncle Henry at the kid’s table at Thanksgiving. But Wolf is a wolf is a wolf.

“I sing the body D. Trump,” to paraphrase Walt Disney. I praise his holy name and his corporations and corpulence and co-conspirators and coal-love and Covid bravery. You Mexicans: you hate mongers, you. You blacks: you black hearts, you.

Here is the real conspiracy: Jesus WAS white. the truth is hidden in some Harvard handbook by a handy, wholesome, hardy, heady, heifer Harvard handmaiden with an ax to grind.

Writing comes naturally to me. Hate writing, why that is right in my wheelhouse. I am Mr. Cheap Shot.

To atone, tonight at 10:00, the Republican witching hour, I, the artist known as Cheap Shot, will take a knee for 8.3 seconds, the time it took for Mr. Huckabee’s comment to fly out of his scared mouth hole.

Dog bless you, Mike Huckleberry Hound. And Dog bless the United States of America. One nation, under Dog, with Lindsey Graham and Liberty Valance for all.

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