September 28, 2019 All Hail the Great Nechemie!

September 28, 2019

All Hail the Great Nechemie!

Specifically, Al Nechemie, CPA to the stars and me, one of my wine rabbis, the only man about whom I could and did use the word elegant, frequent travel companion – New Mexico and London – plus a man who proudly and publicly proclaimed his vote for Henry Wallace in 1948, and one of the very few people who could chastise me, if ever so gently and in a not quite Christian manner

He was a dear friend. I will miss him forever.

He was also the man who explained fully what the Bag Test was.

Simply put, if you think something may be a bit rank, a bit past its expiration date but does not make your toe nails curl backwards or your nose hair become all ingrown, you put it in a bag. You close the bag tightly, perhaps putting some Gorilla Glue on it, and you put it in the back of a faraway closet. Cover it with some drop cloths and close the door. Do nothing for 2 days. Then tear open the door, fetch the bag and rip it open. Thrust your nose into it as deeply as possible. The answer, as Orwell, still the bane of modern American Liberals and their European cousins, will be at the end of their noses.

All of which brings us to the “eclectically indignant” matter of Hunter Biden, son of former Vice President Slow Joe Biden.

Curly, as his Auchmere Academy – a posh all male Catholic prep school, kind of like the one that the notorious DC Prep school predator Bret Kavanaugh went to – Auk classmates, called him, had another nick name: Cheese Dick, a name which he got the old-fashioned way, by earning it, didn’t think his kid Orion getting $50,000 a month, each and every month, while he was – a – Vice President and – B – specifically charged with being the point man negotiations with said Ukrainians, was no big deal well then we can turn to Dickens who had Scrooge say, “I’ll retire to Bedlam.”

I remember when Vice President Alpha Gump, having got his dick caught in some ethically challenged wringer, intoned in that astonishingly offensive voice, the one that he used to announce that he invented the Internet with and that he just got a group of discalced mendicant Buddhist nuns to donate $300,000 to the Clinton perpetual hummer fund, the one that provided, inter alia, cab fare, chewed cigars, and credits to get their soiled frocks cleaned, to zoftig interns who specialize in osculatory gratification under the desk, said, despite a smoking gun that no “controlling legal authority” had said he cut down any cherry tree.

Along came Slow Joe Biden who said as the night watchman shows him pictures of his kid trying to hijack the 10-foot-tall elephant, a la Jimmy Durante, out of the circus tent, “Elephant? What elephant?”

Bag test? What bag test?

Save the bag; save a tree.

All the perfumes of Arabia could not do away with such redolence. It could neutralize the Hell fires of Gehenna and turn 40 acres of Wordsworth daffodils into baking soda.

Anyway, as this began as a paean to Nechemie let me ask a simple question. What was Bernie the Bombastic Bomb-Throwing Bolshie doing on the UAW picket line?

Since 1945, American unions, in ever decreasing numbers – skip the civil servant unions, the ones that FDR opposed – have argued for better benefits, particularly health care. Bernie says he will take them away and replace them with health care run by the Post Office, the DMV, and the IRS. Only he didn’t say that yesterday.

The first sign that a modern American Liberal is lying is when he is talking. An alternative sign is when he isn’t. Yesterday, Bernie was shoveling Homeric amounts of union bullshit, stuff such as Joe Hill and Mother Jones, that he fogged up the cameras. Potemkin villages were next, all of which were filled with legendary coal miners.

The “Blue Eagle” will be seen circling the picket lines, shitting on the boobs below. The NRA “Blue Eagle”, not the one with the guns.

Stop the Presses!

Sunday 6:30ish

I used to use Birmingham Sheriff “Bull” Connor’s first name as a tie-breaker in NYC saloon trivia contests. 2 things: #1 – My minimum bet at crunch time was a Benjamin. For those who didn’t go to an all-boys, all Catholic prep school that’s $100 and #2 – I never lost.

A personal badge of honor, one that I show as often as possible, is me being banned from 2 saloons for never losing. One, in NYC, was Keene’s on 36^th Street, diagonally opposite Macy’s. The other was Danny Chichester’s Sly Fox, just off A1A in Fort Lauderdale.

I watched this AM as mainland Chinkos – Would Congresswoman Rootie Kazootie Talib [D-MN] call them “motherfuckers”, as she called Trump? – fire hosed, beat with bats, and Maced and Tased Hong Kong demonstrators. 

Did Bull Connor have access to Mace and Tasers? Had privilege White scientists even invented them by 1964?

Did he ever go to the Democratic Convention in Atlantic City in 1964? That was the one that accepted the low bid for the DC Vietnam Wall. That was the one where he had been elected to go to as a delegate. That was the one where he wanted to hook up with Fannie Lou Hamer of Mississippi for a horizontal tango to cement inter-racial, interpersonal relations.

Anyway, his first name was Theophilus. It sure as Hell beat Beauregard.

You’ll have to find out the name of the 3^rd bar in Casablanca yourself.

I told you I never lost.

Plus, 

“Modesty is an overrated virtue. I want nothing to do with it.”

Back to local color.

In addition to deep-sixing the Sunday Times it may time to shit can Channel 10. I just heard that space smells like fried food. Honest to God, but that’s what the non-White, male, tightly suited anchor said. “The smell comes from the stars.” The nearest star, Alpha Centauri, is almost 5 light years away. At 186,000 miles per second we are talking ne Hellacious distance. Even I, with a reputation for flatulence and eructations unknown to normal bi-peds, would be hard pressed to keep a SBD going that far and that long. Further proof that there are more horses’ asses than horses’ heads. But let’s look at the sunny side of things. Boob new readers need not be White. Fucking moron.

In addition to ending my 3 week return from Elba in re the Sunday NYT – 16 years’ worth – it’s time to end my return to the New Yorker. I started to read it when it was a quarter. I sought out the Algonquin. Nobody put words in print like John McPhee. 

There is a marvelous scene in one of David Niven’s bios. It is either “The Moon’s a Balloon” or “Bring on the empty Horses”. 

Niven was having a backyard birthday party for one of his children, His good friend, Noel Coward, was there. 2 dogs began humping in plain sight of the young guests. It fell to Uncle Noel to explain things. “The first dog has been struck blind. The second dog is guiding her to Saint Dunston’s Home for Blind Canines.” Thus, was the situation explained, defused, and the party returned to pre-pubescent hilarity. 

This week’s New Yorker has an explanation of how Slow Joe Biden’s son Hunter, a crack head, disgraced, cashiered out US Navy officer who was banging his dead brother’s widow on the way back from the cemetery got $50,000  a month from a gas company in the Ukraine – I’ll stop saying the Ukraine as soon as people stop saying the Bronx – because he was a member of the Lucky Sperm Club. 

Anyway, the author, a toad named Antous, took a page from Niven. If Hunter Biden had been photographed humping a sheep in the White House Rose Garden, Noel Coward and the home for Homeric sheep would have bene updated, such was the treacliousness of both author and tale. 

I am pretty sure that Eustace Twilley never said, “Don’t piss on my back and tell me it’s rain.” Pity.

Kevin Smith

WARRIORBARDIT@BELLSOUTH.NET

PS – 3 non-Presidents appear on US currency. That’s folding money for the uniniated, No smart phones, please. Name them. 

And since I have read my last Sunday times for at least the next 16 and ½ years let me highlight today’s last edition.

#1 – The social section reports that Father Eugene Squeo witnessed a wedding in Manhattan. It did not disclose that he is also an attorney.  He is a classmate/teammate from Marist High School, Class of 1961. It was once an all-boys Catholic Prep School. Shades of Justice Kavanaugh! He also witnessed my daughter Courtenay’s wedding with fellow classmate Monsignor Robert Wister. He also said the Mass at Amy’s funeral.

#2 – The Yang/Warren tax plan biopsied. Somewhat akin to who killed more, Hitler or Stalin? Hitler killed more per year and kept better records but Stalin had better gross numbers and then Mao came along. Pol Pot and Idi Amin were odd lotters

#3 – The book review poses the unanswerable question: Why, if everybody knew that Trump is making the oceans rise out of sheer spite and mean spiritedness,  didn’t someone – call it the benevolent exhibition of White Privilege – tell the Obamas not to spend $15,000,000 on a house on an island that will shortly be a rehab place for injured hake, halibut, and haddock? And, by the way, if it is so bad what in the name of Captain Ponzi is the United States government literally buying littoral mortgages and then insuring the properties? If Miami Beach goes back to the Bermuda Triangle why stick the good people of Kansas with the bill?

The New Yorker has a new cartoon policy. “Trump sucks and must not only be destroyed but obliterated.” Funny, like “I said Rich Doctor, not Witch Doctor” or “This be the coon of Kuhn, Loeb”, no longer fits the confines of the constantly shrinking envelope of acceptable humor, particularly to modern American Liberals afflicted with terminal “non-malodorous fecal matter syndrome”.

Signing off on both.