The second week of the NFL season has come and will be gone after tonight’s game in Cincinnati, where the Bengals are slated to humiliate the Steelers on national television.
Not everyone feels this will happen—but enough people do so that phone lines are hot in Vegas with frantic Steeler fans selling out their team with last-minute desperation bets.
Most of us don’t care. It will be an interesting game if for no other reason than its historical implications on “the rivalry.”
We had an interesting football weekend.
Games in Tampa Bay and Seattle were both delayed by lightning. Tampa is a virtual lightning rod. In June of 1994, over 50,000 cloud-to-ground lightning strikes were reported in the area. They are used to it.
Conversely, Washington State hosts a very low number of lighting strikes. The most likely place to be struck by lightning is on top of the roof of the Space Needle in Seattle, so when a particularly dangerous storm moved into the area, the NFL had no choice but to delay the action.
For an hour Sunday night, all anyone could do was stand around and drink beer—even the players and referees. It was a weird game. The halftime score was 5-0. No one was struck except for the San Francisco 49ers offense, which turned the ball over five times in their 29-3 loss.
They do not delay rugby games for lightning.
Rugby players enjoy being struck by lightning. Lightning terrifies Americans, but it is one reason why rugby is so popular almost everywhere in the world except in the US.
Many affectionately refer to the sport as “footie,” and children in Scotland routinely play it on a surface of gravel, broken glass and barbed wire.
Another reason rugby is not very popular in the US is the fact that their uniforms are so ugly.
“Ugly” is a strong word in any context–but rugby uniforms are such an extreme assault to the retinas, they almost defy description.
Contact sports are about blood, sweat and turf. Most Americans find difficulty in becoming passionate about a team dressed like bumblebees paying against a team that wears fluorescent lime green knee socks.
But the Seattle crowd broke the record for “stadium noise” during a first quarter quarterback sack, clocking in a decibel level of 131.9, which can obliterate kidney stones. According to Purdue University, this is above the “pain” level and just below the noise of a military jet taking off from the deck of an aircraft carrier from 50 feet away.
The noise has subsided now and most in Seattle are just beginning to call in sick this Monday morning, while the rest of the country is dutifully working. They deserve the day off. They broke a world record.
Eli and Peyton Manning got to play against each other for the third time, and for the third time, Payton had to teach his younger brother a lesson. No one knows exactly what the lesson was, but Peyton’s Broncos destroyed the Eli’s Giants and sent them home losers for the second time in two weeks. It was like the scene in “My Three Sons,” when Chip set Ernie on fire.
WKGM, the CBS affiliate in Orlando, Florida issued a public apology in a crawl during the Jacksonville game. Jacksonville is only 140 miles SSW of Orlando, and because of that, one of the largest television markets in the southeastern US is subject to horrific displays of ineptitude every Sunday throughout the autumn.
Floridians are angry, and rightly so. But business is business, and when the NFL has a team that has done everything possible short of packing to move to Los Angeles to get out of a city, they might want to consider such a move…because business is business.
In the Weeds 10 31 12
Scary Memories and Halloween
A cold chill shot up my spine when I heard him begin to sing.
He had done it before, when the campaign trail had taken him through the Corn Belt—paying particular attention to the line, “amber waves of grain.”
And now he was in Florida, singing America, the Beautiful again, only this time, he stressed “for spacious skies,” as a nod to NASA, and the soon to be unemployed people who worked in the industry.
He went into the song slowly—almost timidly, at first. Then tore into the “spacious skies” a little too harshly, which forced him to continue his intensity as he continued to sing. It was horrifying.
He suddenly grasped at his collar, first ripping at his tie, and then at the buttons of his shirt. A fifth of Wild Turkey appeared in his hand, and he stood chugging like Jim Morrison for several seconds, before dashing the bottle to the floor of the stage, where it exploded in a mist of bourbon and shattered glass.
A few moments with his arms raised victoriously over his head, his eyes widened crazily, and he seemed to stare off into the distance—before he sprinted forward and threw himself from the stage into the crowd.
Loud, raucous music pumped furiously from the speakers, as his supporters passed his body back and forth. He lay among them, his body spread eagle. Hands clutched and clawed at him. Women were fainting, and men seemed to want to be like him, tearing off their own clothing, and tossing the tattered garments into the air. He seemed to rise and fall with the music as he slowly body-surfed back to the stage, where he was assisted to his feet by two large bodyguards, who appeared to be either professional football players or wrestlers.
Most people never saw this.
But I did—and I awoke from yet another political nightmare with a jerk that almost knocked the lamp from the table beside the bed.
Ah, another short night.
Cold sweats and even deeper, soul-crushing fatigue.
Why do I get so wrapped up in such cheap buffoonery as presidential politics?
Well, I’ll tell you why, Jimbo.
It’s because I hate being lied to by wealthy power-mongers who try to convince me that their political views are better than mine—and if I give them money and support, they will make me happy when they get to Washington.
In retrospect—44 years of being interested in federal politics, from the Nixon/Humphrey race to the rising steam from the piles we were now watching—I have Never seen politicians from either major party do anything other than completely whore themselves for support and money—only to do it again when they face their re-elections.
The old notion that a politician “will say anything to get himself elected,” is no longer viewed as cynical or short-sighted. The New American Politicians are very much like the older versions, except that they Don’t Care that whatever they say in Nebraska will be brought up and used against them in Oregon, via twtter, facebook, Youtube, or any other of the thousands of ways information can be shared these days.
Another old notion, that “no publicity is bad publicity,” used to apply to entertainers only. This is no longer the case regarding politicians, unless the bad publicity includes genuinely putrid examples of kink or mistrust. And even then, the American Mind cannot seem to retain such experiences for two to six years. But it will remember the name, and when the time comes for the American Mind to wander into a voting booth, Name Recognition is Everything.
And so the sun is beginning to set, here in North Carolina—one of the most politically backwards regions in the history of mankind. It is October 31st—Halloween.
Four years ago about now, I became aware that I had lost over $19,000.00 on the stock market. I was working with a friend who had invested much along the same lines as myself. It was a rough morning.
Over time, I had somehow gained respect from peers at that place—and probably ruined all of that when I saw Bill approach.
“Trick or Treat, Motherfucker!” I greeted.
He burst out laughing. Many were confused, until we explained that we had lost a great deal of our savings.
Three years ago about now, it was announced that they would be closing the business where we worked, to open up operations near Juarez, Mexico.
And so here we go again.
Jobs? Are you Kidding? Environment? Apparently unimportant. Terrorism? Everywhere, especially near YOU, Jimbo.
Nothing else seems to matter this election year, regarding the White House.
Many are saying that Islamic Fundamentalist Terrorists prayed Very Hard for Hurricane Sandy to attack the eastern US this week—and the damage in New York and surrounding areas Proves that what they believe is Correct. You don’t want to fuck around with anything that can build a 900-mile wide “Super Storm.”
But mostly so that it would throw a wrench into the works of usually well-oiled political machines, as they approach the eleventh hour of what appears to be a 300-year long political season.
Some are angry that Benghazigate was blown off the front pages for a few days.
It’s still happening as we type. Snow continues to fall north of here—over two feet in some places, and many people are required to squeegee out the New York Stock Exchange, and mop up the mess so they can reopen.
Benghazigate will reappear, but will it be soon enough, to do Obama any more damage than it has already done?
Many compare it to Watergate—but every time a controversy has arisen over the years, they name it Something-Gate. Figure skater Tonya Harding’s bodyguard tried to break the legs of Nancy Kerrigan; Skategate. Hillary Clinton’s cattle futures problem developed into Futuresgate. Disgraced NY Congressman Anthony Weiner, sending naughty images of himself to unsuspecting women developed into Weinergate.
But all comparisons fall flat, they say—because Nobody Died during Watergate.
We’ll see how this all plays out—or how Some of it plays out, because there isn’t a chance in hell the mainstream media is going to give Benghazigate more than a cursory glance, this close to the election.
And now it’s time to go study a video of a debate from 1992, featuring George Bush Sr. Bill Clinton and Ross Perot, who was the only one who seemed to grasp the concept of the Giant Sucking Sound of American jobs being sent out of the country.
I used to make fun of Perot—along with a lot of other people, who thought he was little more than a madman—a lunatic, who somehow found his way into a presidential race just long enough to ruin it for George Bush Senior and win it for Bill Clinton.
But looking back, it becomes apparent that George Bush Senior lost it all by himself, and Clinton won it with puffy hair, large teeth and a soft, hoarse, pleading tone of voice that melted the hearts of millions—a gift he used all through his presidency, even fighting the Monica Lewinsky Scandal. And the impact of Ross Perot ultimately amounted to little more than a trivia question at nerd parties.
It is a good week to not be in Tampa.
I hadn’t planned on going, and I am celebrating this in the wee hours with good coffee and the knowledge that I am 700 miles away from the madness.
I lived in Tampa for a short time, so I can sympathize with the citizens, who for the past month, have been routinely jerked out of their cars and off the streets, searched and detained for no reason.
Sheriff Gee of Hillsborough County emptied several jails to be stuffed full of the “violent anarchists,” otherwise known as “citizens,” who they expect to reek havoc during the Republican National Convention that was supposed to begin on Monday.
Many people are not going.
It is not because there are more members of law enforcement, federal agents, national security teams roaming the city than civilians, and it’s not even because Joe Biden thought it would be a great idea to break protocol and visit Tampa during the convention—a move that even long-time democratic strategist and pollster Pat Caddell decried as “an incredible breech of political etiquette.”
It seems that Tropical Storm Isaac will be visiting near Hillsborough County about the time the convention is scheduled to begin.
The physical address of the venue for most of the action, the Tampa Bay Tribune Forum, is 401 Channelside Drive. It is separated from the Hillsborough Bay by a four lane road called Old Water Street and boardwalk. South of that, you’re under water.
Depending on whom you ask, the “elevation of Tampa” ranges from 48 feet to three and a half feet—while some swear that the “downtown areas” of Tampa reaches a towering Seven Inches above sea level.
All of this may or may not matter, depending on several things.
Should a hurricane pass Tampa to the east, the counter-clockwise spinning of the storm would naturally force a lot of water Out of the bay, away from populated areas. Should a hurricane pass Tampa to the west, a lot of water would be forced Into populated areas—in this case, right up to the podium, where the nominees would be swept out into the Gulf in a scene of mind-bending carnage—which would be Great television, unless they were to lose electricity—which for a lot of people, would be a “sign from God,” to vote democrat.
It also won’t matter if the water subsides, the streets are clear and buses can run—which will all depend on clear drainage.
It will also depend on the GOP keeping their promise to Ron Paul—to allow his son Rand to speak during prime time—in exchange for keeping his delegates from protesting the outrageous list of felonies that they routinely committed against the Paul campaign earlier in the year, from Maine to Washington State.
Other than that, if the GOP can walk away from the thing basically intact, everything will be in order for them—which for a lot of people, will be a “sign from God” to vote republican.
Most of us get to watch the scenes unfold from the comfort of our own homes, unconcerned for the safety of security officials, who will spend a good part of Monday clinging to flagpoles on rooftops while trying to scan the area for potential trouble-makers—while wind-driven rain batters their bodies and makes communication impossible—which might be good practice if they actually find “anarchists.”
In NC, the Fourth of July Feels Like the Third of June
“It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day.
I was out choppin’ cotton and my brother was bailing hay…”
(Ode to Billie Joe)
Today is Independence Day.
It would not be proper to ignore the commemoration of the birth of our nation—the last Great Hope of man, as some have said.
There are many reasons citizens of America the Beautiful should be proud; the invention of the automobile, the airplane, being on the winning side of World Wars One and Two, the Moon Landing, The Internet, the NFL, and about three billion other fine things—great discoveries that started off as failures.
When I was born, there were only 48 states.
This makes me feel Very Old, like some kind of relic from when the world was black and white, and everyone danced a kind of super sped up stutter-step to muted wind instruments.
But now there are 50 states, and as often as people talk about it, Puerto Rico will not become one any time soon.
It would be too expensive to redesign the American flag to include a 51st star.
Puerto Rico will have to wait until a 52nd state can be found, like American Samoa, or Iraq. Or perhaps the entire Middle East that we can break up into how every many states we want, like 75.
An American flag with 75 stars would kick ass.
It would make us feel like Number One again—which has not been felt by anyone since Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon.
Younger generations cannot understand this.
It’s not their fault, but they have no idea how it feels to get up in the morning Looking Forward to succeeding, rather than being mired in some kind of paranoid, defensive trip, where we all have to clutch our lives to our chests so that no government can steal it from us.
So far this year, of the 50 recognized states, one seems to stand out as being a hotbed of political action, confusion and general mayhem.
Usually, when a state is fraught with political tension, representatives of mass media investigate, and the country is bombarded with high-speed chatter of every nuance.
It sometimes makes me want to go where the action is, and get The Real Story; to go to The Belly of The Beast and find out what’s Really going on.
If there is a reason that employees of CNN and FoxNews are not sleeping in your front yard, it is probably because you are very boring, and no one will buy whatever you’re selling. It means that your actions and words are meaningless to anyone but you and you have to ace up your act or be forgotten, like Cher’s hairstyles, or stories of crime-fighting in Guatemala.
North Carolina has been on the national stage several times this year—exactly Zero times for anything good, unless you’re crazy enough to think that the convention of a major political party in your state is a good idea.
No, North Carolina has drawn attention to itself for many wrong reasons—first, the ballot of the North Carolina Primary in May, included a yes/no vote for “Amendment One,” which was said to be a vote to “protect marriage.”
Naturally, it was all stone gibberish, because NC already had laws banning same-sex unions, but this was An Amendment to the Constitution—which quietly included erasing any rights of hetero couples who live together, along with their children’s rights, insurance, hospital decisions, and many other Natural Rights that go along with the concept of All Men Are Created Equal, or Liberty and Justice for All, who happen to live in The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.
But it was packaged as an anti-gay marriage proposal, backed by Billy Graham, Jay Bakker, (son of Jim and Tammy Faye), and a state-wide herd of genuinely stupid members of the clergy and their followers, who said that such “sinful behavior” was “in the Bible,” while ignoring countless other things that are also in the Bible, like shaving, wearing mixed fibers, and many other things that would send them straight to hell as fast as same-sex marriage—which wouldn’t send THEM to hell, mind you, just the participants, and anyone who supported such freedoms—which in a way, forces them to admit that same-sex unions is None of Their Business.
The state overwhelmingly supported the amendment by just under a half million votes, 61% to 39%. It was a fantastic beating, and it was amazing to watch people who supported it try to defend it while saying that religion played no part in their decision, as to either not light the fire of a conversation about the separation of church and state that they knew they couldn’t win, or to hide the fact that their judgment was based on their fear of going to hell anyway—because apparently God is Like That.
But North Carolina politicians were just getting warmed up.
After screwing each and every single human being in the state for power, control and insurance money, the next State Issue that would affect everyone was SB 820, regarding hydraulic fracking.
In a nutshell, it was approved. The Governor then vetoes it—then the house overrode the veto.
Staying true to the North Carolina Politician’s Creed of Stupidity, Arrogance and Greed, this was completed by a member of the House, Rep Becky Carney, (D-Mecklenburg), who immediately after voting, said she accidentally “pushed the wrong button.”
Of her more than thousand career votes, her Only Mistake just happened to be when hers was The Deciding Vote.
She said she was “tired.”
Then she, (along with many other democrats), blamed House Minority Leader Paul Stam, who used a procedural move called a “clincher” to ensure the veto override could not be reconsidered. It was suddenly His fault.
Except that it wasn’t.
Stam was simply doing what he was Paid to do, and Carney was simply doing what she was Paid Not to do.
Although most in rural NC, (49% of the NC population) is angry with the outcome, apparently most in urban NC do not seem to understand that they get their water from rural NC.
We’re all left to draw our own conclusions as to what actually happened with Becky Carney.
Was she too tired to see the buttons? Was she so completely exhausted that her arms flailed uncontrollably and she accidentally pushed the bright green, inch and-a-half wide button, which is several inches above the bright red, inch and-a-half wide button?
Does Becky Carney have medical or clinical issues or conditions that could impair her judgment to the degree that she actually cast The Wrong Vote—or that she actually thinks we’re stupid enough to believe her story?
Either way, “Politics in North Carolina” are hurtling toward the democratic national convention in Charlotte with all of the concentrated precision of a drunken Italian cruise ship captain.
The citizens of North Carolina are not helpless—but an example of their awareness can be seen this morning with reports out of Geneva that the illusive Higgs Boson, “the God Particle” has been found.
This news is superseded by a supposed “melt-down” by Justin Beiber, the current heat wave, and the death of Andy Griffith, who “put North Carolina on the map.”
I thought the Wright Brothers did that, but apparently, like most people who live here, I’m wrong.
Too Big to Work; The GSA Made Famous by a Photograph
Mid and upper-management people have been filling the headlines this week.
And why not?
They’re under a lot of pressure, forced to do more with less. Gallup asserted this week that the unemployment numbers across the US are more like 20%, not the 8.6% as is usually reported by smirking, eye rolling newscasters.
Less employees means more overtime for those who remain employed—until their entire operations close down and the CEOs start learning foreign languages.
Times are hard, they say—worse than any song Johnny Cash could write—but many are still working hard, chasing the American Dream.
Some of them are busily raising their right hands at congressional hearings, pleading the fifth, getting their stories straight or preparing “to go away for a little while.”
No one seems to know any of the Secret Service agents who were relieved of their duties after Minnesota Vikings-style orgies in Columbia before the President arrived at the Summit of the Americas.
And no one really seemed to care when yet another scandal involving incomprehensible greed, stupidity and waste splashed across America, regarding the General Services Administration.
The GSA is described as: “an independent agency of the US Government, established in 1949 to help manage and support the basic functioning of federal agencies. The GSA supplies products and communications for U.S. government offices, provides transportation and office space to federal employees, and develops government-wide cost-minimizing policies, and other management tasks.”
And don’t you forget it.
Since its inception in 65 years ago, the size and scope of the GSA has exploded into an entity that controls a little less than 1/70th of the entire GDP of the United States, according to an estimate by the International Monetary Fund—or roughly $20.9B.
If it were possible to stack 20.9 billion soup cans, they would reach beyond 1,443,142 miles high; approximately three round trips to the moon.
In an entity that large, mistakes can occur—“oversights,” or “miscalculations,” and when you’re running around with access to incalculable stacks of magically-created, freshly-printed dollar bills, it’s apparently easy to occasionally go overboard. It’s also easy to hop a first class seat on a jet for a jaunt to which ever luxury hotel will host the General Services Administration’s next lavish excursion.
The organization boasted a fleet of 210,000 vehicles until 2009, when President Obama thought it would be a good idea to allot $300 million through the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act for about 17,600 newer, greener vehicles, which were to be made by Toyota, Honda, General Motors, Chrysler, Ford, and Chevrolet.
Which works out nicely for “working Americans,” until they realize that they have to pay for the cars they produced, pay for their upkeep and insurance, buy the gas that goes into them, and pay government officials to drive them.
None of this mattered to the US General Services Administration’s Western Regional Director, Jeff Neely as he sat grinning, fat and tanned in a “spa tub” in an upper level of a “loft suite” of The M Resort Spa and Casino in Las Vegas, for one of the 31 photos his wife Deborah, posted on Google+ of their many such trips.
People are beginning to take notice of how their tax dollars are being spent by government agencies they did not know existed.
“Think of it as a way this administration is bringing people together,” said an unidentified man fleeing across the parking lot, carrying what appeared to be a laundry bag full of wet cash and deposit slips.
The image in the online gallery in question was not taken at the October 2010 conference, which featured a clown, a mind-reader, blackjack dealer-style vests for each attendee, books on the history of Las Vegas, a directory assigning attendees to play roles such as Cher, Sammy Davis Jr., Elvis and Celine Dion, overpriced complimentary commemorative coins (for an event recognizing their work in saving money), a motivational speaker, a bicycle-building team exercise that reportedly cost $75,000—where now-famous videos were taken of employees of the GSA dancing awkwardly and trying to rap—with lyrics that express their own disbelief as to how much they can get away with.
The image came from one of one of Neely’s eight “planning/scouting trips,” where they stayed in what was determined to be a “Loft Suite,” which includes 2,400 square feet, two stories, multiple HD televisions, and wet bars—for $1,179.00 per night.
Although the October event appears to have been more of a slobbering display of utterly mad excess than a conference of some kind, the cost for the affair was estimated to be $822,751.00—while the estimated cost for the eight planning meetings totaled at approximately $130,405.37.
Neely did not sweat under the lights long at his hearing on Monday, pleading the fifth. It is possible that he will spend time in prison.
It might be a fine time for people like Inspector General Brian Miller and various members of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee to raise their voices in front of the cameras and show voters They Mean Business about government waste.
It is doubtful that it would be reported that there would have been no hearings at all, had they meant business to begin with—as it was pointed out that then GSA Administrator Martha Johnson awarded Jeff Neely a $9,000.00 bonus after she knew of the excesses in Las Vegas.
When questioned, Johnson said, “I gave that $9,000 bonus because I was focused on performance and because I—the recommendation came from the buildings commissioner.” She then went on to explain that she stepped down to allow the GSA to correct its problems under new management.
When addressing the incredible amount of waste, Rep. Mike Turner, (R-Ohio), asked Johnson point-blank: “How is it that this type of money could be laying around so that it could be used in this slush-fund manner?”
Johnson pointed out that she had assigned a deputy administrator to begin investigating the conference, saying, “Mr. Congressman, I’m just as appalled as you are by those examples of expenditures.”
So far, the White House is apparently still too busy trying to come to grips with its own security issues to comment—but it was noted that they were informed by GSA Chief of Staff Michael Robertson of Inspector General Miller’s preliminary findings last year.
Washington Post blogger, Jennifer Rubin questions why the GSA even exists, saying that all of its core functions; the management of federal property and the purchase of supplies for all non-Pentagon US agencies could easily be run by private firms.
Naked and Crazy at the Summit of the Americas
When many hear the name “Columbia,” they imagine sleek little planes overloaded with cocaine zipping in and out of tiny airstrips; burly men guarding mansions, carrying machine guns—pretending not to notice The Boss splashing around in a pool full of naked prostitutes…
The President visited Columbia this past week.
But there was no indication that Air Force One would return packed to the windows with tons of illegal narcotics.
The trip was to the Summit of the Americas economic and trade talks with Colombian President Juan Manuel Santos and Brazilian President Dilma Rousseff in Cartagena.
President Obama arrived and the historic fortress on a warm, breezy evening, and was seen to walk along a stretch of red carpet that was dotted with strategically placed greeters, who waved and giggled as he passed.
There were no signs of the bizarre lunacy, treachery and treason committed by his Secret Service staff during the week before his arrival.
As with any presidential trip, members of the Secret Service are sent beforehand to sweep the areas the president will visit. In conjunction with representatives of the host nation, they rid the vicinities of anyone or anything that could cause disruption or political embarrassment.
Secret Service agents were housed with White House staff and press corps at the historic Hotel Caribe, a magnificent complex with over 260 rooms—not the least of which is a Junior Suite at $274.00 for a Saturday night.
There, it is possible for a SS agent to dine on whole red snapper with coconut rice and fried plantains before knocking down a bottle of Ron Medellin Anejo or Ron Caldas Rum for about $14.00 from the local supermarcados—and suddenly realize that he is a member of an extremely powerful and elite security team, and he can pretty much do anything he wants.
About that time, he could get his hands on a few cases of licorice-tasting Blue Aguardiente liquor, make a few phone calls, take off his clothes and dance the rumba.
All could go smoothly for several days and nights, (except for perhaps one or two balcony-to-pool mishaps), when one might decide that it would be a good idea to Not pay one of the many local prostitutes who have been spending time in a protected area with members of one of the most highly sophisticated security details in the history of mankind—with copies of the President’s schedule in their rooms…
The exact locations of those documents have yet to be disclosed—whether they were scattered about on the floor amid socks and underwear, or if they were flung among the lampshades amid socks and underwear.
But things went sideways, as they say, after one of the prostitutes called local police to complain about the non-payment—which the police in turn, reported to the US Embassy.
Originally, it was reported the incident involved a single agent. Then 11. This number has since grown to “at least 20 people.”
All of the agents in question left Columbia the day before the President arrived—which is probably a good thing, because Obama was quoted saying how mad he would be if the allegations were true.
We will probably never know how many prostitutes were on hand, how much money was spent, how much booze was spilled, or how strangely their parties resembled containers full of writhing earthworms—because the matter was turned over to the agency’s Office of Professional Responsibility to be handled internally.
Secret Service agents, like most American workers, commonly frown on those who get naked and crazy on the job. The issues involved in this case, reach a little further than such careers as say, a college football assistant head coach or a Catholic priest.
House Homeland Security Chairman Rep Peter King told ABC News, “If all this happened, this compromised the agents themselves,” King said. “It left [the agents] open to be threatened and blackmailed in the future. … They could have been threatened or blackmailed secondly to bring prostitutes in an area that’s a secured zone. It just violates a basic code of conduct.”
Several locals reported that the agents had been to a brothel called The Pley Club on the outskirts of the city, near a region known for international sex tours. They were drinking, partying and watching a strip show before bringing the women back to the hotel near where Obama was due to arrive the following day.
None of the agents involved were members of The Presidential Protection Division, which directly protects the President. But as members of the Secret Service who were assigned to clear, sweep and secure protected areas for the President, their actions were ultimately addressed by one of the nations highest officers, Army Gen Martin Dempsey, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who said, “We let the boss down.”
Until more is known, all we have to go on is the word of a local man who told ABC News, “Cartagena didn’t benefit one cent from President Obama’s visit. All people remember are that the Secret Service agents slept with our prostitutes.”
Mainstream Trayvon Bloopers Keeps Shareholders Happy
Mainstream media outlets continue to beat the drum of rampant racism across the US.
No one is safe—especially You, television viewer.
Relentless gibberish from “panels of experts” who know even less about the Trayvon Martin killing than they knew about Whitney Houston’s death, are climbing over each other in effort to make sure their unlearned, and in most cases, packaged-for-debate opinions are blasted into our homes before we can hit the remote.
For the most part, it’s all been weak conjecture; brainless simpering, punctuated by emotional outbursts—followed by a word from their sponsors.
It’s good television, say the producers, because it moves–and good television means profits for our shareholders—which is paramount. Good, accurate reporting in the US went the way of the dinosaur in 1987, when Ronald Reagan repealed The Fairness Doctrine.
It is rarely mentioned that ABC refused to clarify grainy video, or that CNN misquoted the 911 recording, or that NBC purposely altered the tape. It is also rarely mentioned that they admitted it.
Clearly, the media’s effort is to keep Americans pointing their fingers at each other—to keep everyone too nervous and off-balance to notice the real criminals on Wall Street and throughout Washington as they busily destroy the US Constitution and fill offshore bank accounts with billions.
With less than a dozen media conglomerates globally, more and more people are coming to grips with the harsh reality that they can get more precise information at their neighborhood bar than they can through the US media.
A 70 year-old alcoholic with one eye and bad breath can more accurately regurgitate anything Brian Williams can pretend to believe, and he doesn’t have to have his eyebrows plucked.
The brand new very old perpetuation of racial bias in America will never end because there is too much money to be made from it. Although it may be fashionable to report “black-on-black” crime, there is more “white-on-white” crime, almost two to one across the board.
Instead of recognizing that fact, CNN is currently carrying an interview they did when they were able to locate Rodney King since he has completed serving time for his no less than eight arrests since 1991.
“It’s a death scream that I know very well and I have no doubt in my mind that it came from Trayvon Martin,” said King, of a 911 recording.
It was not revealed which version of the 911 tape he heard—the real one or the altered ones.
It was also not revealed how Rodney King could tell it was a “death scream,” when 300 million other Americans are still arguing about it.
Trayvon Martin’s mother believes it is her son’s voice—and that Zimmerman meant to kill Trayvon because on the 911 call, Zimmerman muttered, “they always get away.”
There will be many more arguments, especially now that the shooter, George Zimmerman has stopped his bizarre habit of disappearing, not returning phone calls from his attorneys, setting up a donation web site and chatting off the record with Sean Hannity. He is currently spending his second night in jail.
An hour ago, it was reported that Zimmerman entered a plea of not guilty. His arraignment is April 29, but until then, no one will really have a clue what will happen.
But all of the mainstream media outlets continue to present their half-wit “experts,” who will put forth their best efforts to make this story more about themselves than a deceased teenager and a “white Hispanic,” who did not have the sense to follow the orders of the dispatcher when told to back off.