Back at the Falstaff Room, piece by piece, once again they unloaded the truck and stored their supplies. Jimmy showed Bill how he put things but told Bill to feel free to set up the way he wanted. He told Bill that he alone was going to be the broiler cook, so wherever and however he wanted things placed would be up to him.
Bill immediately had his own ideas, ideas he thought would simplify things for them both, but he consciously decided he would not change anything until he saw how the service went at least a few times.
By four-fifteen, now two hours and fifteen minutes into his first day’s work, they were all set up. Bill noted that at the last minute Jimmy cut a lemon and squeezed half of its juice into the Hollandaise sauce. He also put some salt and a touch of pepper into it. He stirred it once with the ladle and left it there away from the heat.
Caesar.
Mikhail Caesar was his name. He was Hungarian, in his ancestry like Bill actually, except Caesar, as he insisted upon being called, was born in Hungary and was fortunate enough to immigrate to the United States.
Caesar was the room’s maître d’hotel. As such, he was prominent. He stood tall, straight, some six feet. He was clean shaved with a tapered moustache, very black. He waltzed right up to the kitchen’s entrance, stepped in as if he owned it, looked at certain things, stirred one of the sauces in the bain marie.
Bill would have said something. He would have said something not nice if this were not his first day. Jimmy, however, intervened.
“Ya,” he said, “yasou Caesar.”
“Good afternoon,” Caesar said. “The sauce looks thin.”
Before Bill could say anything, Jimmy told him the other Jimmy had made it. Caesar quickly turned his attention to Bill.
“And who are you?” he barked more than said.
“Who are you?” Bill asked.
“Excuse me?” Caesar said.
“This is Bill,” Jimmy said. “He’s the new broiler cook.”
Caesar looked Bill up and down. “You’ve done this before?”
“Bill Wynn,” Bill said. He reached out his hand to shake.
Caesar ignored Bill’s action and words. “I asked if you’ve ever cooked before,” Caesar said.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Bill said to Jimmy. “Want to show me where it is?”
“Ya,” Jimmy said.
“Excuse me,” Bill said. He stepped past Caesar, brushing him slightly. “And please don’t touch any of my things while I’m gone.”
Bill stepped through the double doors before Caesar could say anything, Jimmy walking behind him. Jimmy said something to Kalista in Greek as they passed her by.
“Ya,” Jimmy said, leading the way now. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“He was rude. And he shouldn’t have touched anything in the kitchen.”
“Yes, but he runs the room.”
“He’s just a maître d’ and I don’t work for him.”
Jimmy led Bill to the nearest bathrooms. He told him there were many and Bill would learn where they all were. He also told him not to mess with Caesar.
“I found this job,” Bill said. “I’ll find another one if I have to.”
Jimmy smiled. “I like attitude,” he said, “but don’t say I don’t warn you.”
Bill didn’t really have to pee but he peed anyway. Then he asked Jimmy where he could get a drink and Jimmy told him out by where Kalista was there were soda fountains and cold water.
Bill didn’t want to go straight back to the little Falstaff Room kitchen. He wanted to have a little break, was hoping that Caesar would be out of the kitchen by the time they got back.
Well, he was out of the kitchen when they returned. But the executive chef, the man who had hired Bill, was there. Caesar was standing not far from the entrance, clearly interested in watching what was going to happen.
By Peter Weiss
I must be getting old. The older I get and the more I see about what’s happening in this society and where we seem to be going…
I could say as the ending to that: the less I understand or the less I know. Or I could say: Geez, they’re crazy. Then I’d have to define “they.” The young? No. The young are just young. They’re young, impressionable and do and say and act just as they are taught.
The left? The Despicable Democrats? Calling them that in and of itself tells you where I stand. But that would be too easy because I don’t stand anywhere per se. I don’t see issues as black or white or all or nothing. It’s not one side or the other. It wasn’t meant to be, wasn’t designed to be. It was designed for all sides to be reasonable, to debate and discuss and come up with solutions.
So what happened? How did we get here?
Honestly, many things are in play and of course there’s no one answer which would explain how we’ve gotten to where we are politically. But in a nutshell several explanations come to mind. And even then, although it may seem so, we have to remember that not all things are political.
Instant gratification isn’t meant to be political. In fact, instant gratification is a relatively modern notion as in the notion that it must take place in the right here and now. I feel x and so everyone has to gratify my feeling. We can’t all be winners so in order to immediately gratify everyone we do away with winners and losers. I feel like a whatever today and so you must refer to me as a whatever.
Somewhere along the way we’ve lost sight of the fact that up until now all along the way many regular people have worked really hard to get what they have. In fact, most regular hard-working people, not just here in America but everywhere, have done just this.
So when most of us were kids, not from today’s generation of course, if we wanted a pair sneakers and couldn’t afford them, we worked for them and waited to get them. If it were our parents who couldn’t afford them, either we settled for what they could afford or we waited until they had saved the money to buy us what we wanted.
I’d really like a Lotus. In just a few hundred thousand dollars short. Well, I could go steal one from a car dealership or from somewhere. I probably wouldn’t find one on the street to be able to steal so it would probably have to be from a car dealership. But in reality, I’m never going to have a Lotus.
Somewhere along the way, our society has lost its way. This is the statement that explains, much more than gun control does, why we have so many mass shootings. I lost my job and I feel like crap so I’ll go shoot everybody in the office to feel better. Immediate gratification, because that’s what they’re teaching me now, that I am entitled to immediate gratification for any and every crazy whimsical thought that comes into my mind.
The liberals call this entitlement. The liberal thought police say we’re guilty of crimes just for thinking them.
Those of us who worked all our lives and were brought up by parents that still had a grip on things understand that entitlement is something that has to be earned and is earned by hard work, dedication and patience, or patiently waiting for the rewards that come along with the hard work.
That telephone, those texts I can send, those likes on Facebook, immediate posting of any old crazy stuff I see, real or unreal, fact or not, anything and everything immediate to satisfy my little personal ego, that’s what we are taught now is okay.
It’s not okay.
And so it goes.
By Peter Weiss
Back in the main kitchen, over at the big steam tank, the big bain marie, Jimmy told Bill there was one more thing they needed to do. It was to make Hollandaise Sauce. He showed Bill that there was already a bain marie with melted butter in it.
“If there’s no butter here when you first come in,” Jimmy said, “you need to put two pounds in to melt.”
Then they went on the next odyssey. Jimmy led Bill to a big walk-in where they got a flat of eggs and a couple of lemons. Next he led him to a completely different part of the labyrinthine whole-floor kitchen, a separate room of sorts where was the largest supply of anything you might need in an institutional grand ballroom banquet kitchen. From huge stock pots to tiny bain maries, everything was there in multitudes. Everything. Anything. Everything and anything in every size imaginable.
They took a clean small bain marie. They took a stainless steel mixing bowl, a whip (a whisk), a small ladle and an extra set of ladles to bring out to their room. While they were there, Jimmy left their things and led Bill into a room beyond this room. Here was a line of sinks and counters. “Where they defrost vegetables,” Jimmy said. “Sometimes for thousands of people. You’ll see.”
Then he led Bill to another room, a whole department in and of itself, the dish department. Here people were busy at work, a whole slew of them. Huge dishwasher machines, two of them, were working, each machine manned with people doing their jobs. There was a separate pot washer room too with multiple sinks and two pot washers working.
It was gargantuan. It was impressive. It was fascinating and overwhelming.
The last thing Jimmy showed Bill was the line of stock pots. These were huge, self-tilting floor models with tilt wheels to turn them for pouring their contents. There were four of them, only two of which were in use. In one was veal stock. In the other was chicken stock.
“Forty gallons each,” Jimmy said. He laughed. “Wait, you’ll see everything.”
Next they went back to pick up their truck. They went over to the big steam tank where Jimmy proceeded to crack the eggs and separate whites from yolks. He did this over a garbage can, in his bare hands without having washed them, not something Bill would have done, and he cavalierly threw away the egg whites, also something Bill would never have done. Mary P had taught him first to be clean and second, waste not, want not.
Jimmy dropped the yolks into the mixing bowl. He did a dozen eggs and threw in three for good luck. Bill would learn later in his cooking career that Jimmy needed the luck because he was doing it all wrong.
That done, he placed the bowl in the steam tank and slowly ladled in clarified butter while mixing/whisking it into the eggs. (Bill would later learn that you had to cook the eggs first, not cook them with the hot butter, praying all the while it came together.)
When it was done, Jimmy put the sauce on their truck. Then they went on another odyssey with the truck to a walk-in where the meats were. Here, off to one side, was a section labeled for the Falstaff Room. In this section were separate pans with: filet mignon, NY strips, T-Bones, filet of sole, salmon steaks, lobster tails and frogs legs (which were still thawing out).
Together, they stacked the pans on the truck.
“Ya,” Jimmy said. “That’s it. That’s everything we need and how we’ll do it every day, except after the first few times we can split up and do it faster.”
Bill looked at Jimmy as if he were crazy. “This is a big place,” he said.
“You learn everything first few days. No worry, Jimmy said.
Pick up a copy of all my works here: By Peter Weiss
Well, if you do any research into how these people operate, I mean any real research, research not prepared by them or the by the state or Federal governments, you’ll find out what’s really going on, what this whole thing is about. It’s certainly not about kids. It’s all about money and jobs.
Think about it. In my state, the DCF budget is pretty close to 1.2 billion dollars. That’s just for DCF as an agency. It doesn’t talk to anything coming from the Feds or any of the other agencies and contract people they utilize.
That’s a whole game unto itself. And that’s another story.
So apart from the agency, DCF and its workers, there’s all the government lawyers involved, the judges and juvenile courts and all their people, which range from court clerks to police. There’s the police and district attorneys and probation department people, and on and on.
Then there’s the doctors, social work agencies, dentists, specialists, psychological people and their agencies, and their experts, and on and on.
Then there’s the drivers and transportation agencies and all their workers and people, and on and on.
And on and on and on.
That’s how it works if you really look into it. DCF sits atop this big, multi-billion dollar empire like a god. DCF determines who gets contracts, which very often means who stays in business and who doesn’t. It can make or break agencies, even whole networks of agencies depending upon whether or not the people they utilize cooperate with what they want.
Cross them and you’re screwed. That’s how it is.
They can determine things you might never think of. For example, maybe some cops don’t like what they’re doing. Well then they find the cops who will do what they want for money. They can promise a cop a certain amount of overtime a month simply by choosing when to make a removal, what time of day. So twenty minutes before the shift ends, they call for the cops and make the removal so the cop assisting gets the overtime.
It’s a game to them. It’s a Darwin thing, you know, survival of them as an agency. And that’s how they play it. First and foremost is their survival as an agency and keeping their budget, ever expanding it, and their power, which of course is their budget.
That their priority is supposed to be helping kids who need help and families who need help and support, well… f—that.
Think I’m kidding? I’m not kidding at all. Think I’m crazy? That’s exactly what they want you to think. They want you to think I’m a bad parent, that I’ve done something wrong, that I’ve abused my kids.
Well I didn’t do anything wrong. In my whole life I’ve never hurt a fly let alone a person, especially and particularly my children who I so adore and for whom I’m spending my whole life’s everything to get them back. I’ve never done anything but give them the best of everything including the best of me. I’ve never hit them, hurt them, abused them or neglected them.
DCF doesn’t give a shit.
DCF just wants the money. Each of my children is worth about six thousand dollars a month to them. Their total payout for my kids is only about a thousand each, maybe a little less. That’s ten grand a month they’re making on my kids alone.
Here’s the facts. Less than one in four kids actually needs to be removed from a home. Less than one in four kids they remove are in actual physical danger or are being sexually or emotionally abused. More than three in four kids are removed just because DCF needs kids for the money. And the basis for the removals is an arbitrary standard they call neglect, a big blanket thing no one can actually see, feel or define.
Pick up a copy of all my works here: By Peter Weiss
link to article as posted here
By Richard Wexler
Suppose, hypothetically, you could gather in one room 333 former foster children. Now, suppose you asked how many of them had been abused while in foster care. Does anyone seriously believe that only one of those 333 former foster children would raise her or his hand?
Both common sense and an overwhelming mass of evidence says: Of course not.
But, apparently, Wendy Rickman wants us to believe it. That’s frightening, because Rickman is a high-ranking official in a state child welfare agency. She runs the division of adult, children and family services for the Iowa Department of Human Services (DHS).
In an exercise in alternative facts worthy of Kellyanne Conway, Rickman told state legislators in June: “For the kids that reside in foster care in the state of Iowa, 99.7 percent of the time are free from any kind of maltreatment — 99.7 percent.”
That’s one out of 333.
Rickman had plenty of reason to be on the defensive. At the time she made her claim there had been three horrific cases of child abuse, two of them fatal, in less than a year. All of them involved foster parents who adopted the children they allegedly abused. In the brief time since Rickman spoke there’s been a fourth case, again involving an adoptive parent.
Had the alleged abusers in even one of these horror-story cases been birth parents there would have been a wave of attacks on efforts to keep families together. Politicians would be railing about the state supposedly putting family preservation ahead of child safety — and there would be a foster care panic, a huge spike in needless removals of children.
But even after four cases involving foster care, no one is asking whether Iowa should re-examine its take-the-child-and-run approach to child welfare — the state removes children at one of the highest rates in the country.
To help ensure that no one takes a close look at wrongful removal and how it endangers children, Rickman offers up her alternative facts.
She didn’t make up the 99.7 percent figure out of whole cloth — not exactly. Rather these are the official results when DHS investigates allegations of abuse in foster care — in other words, when DHS investigates itself. Other states get similar results when their child welfare agencies investigate themselves — and their child welfare officials make similar claims.
To see the extent to which DHS buries its head in the sand about abuse in foster and adoptive homes, consider the most recent case: There were 68 reports; an older sibling even posted video of the abuse on Facebook and gave it to authorities. But no one responded until the older sibling gave the videos to a newspaper.
That might help explain the 99.7 percent figure.
But compare those figures to studies done by independent researchers. In some cases, they went back and pored over case records. In other cases they really did ask former foster children what happened to them.
Here’s what they found:
- A study of foster children in Oregon and Washington state found that nearly one third reported being abused by a foster parent or another adult in a foster home. That study didn’t even include cases of foster children abusing each other.
- In a study of investigations of alleged abuse in New Jersey foster homes, the researchers found a lack of “anything approaching reasonable professional judgment” and concluded that “no assurances can be given” that any New Jersey foster child is safe.
- A study of cases in metropolitan Atlanta found that among children whose case goal was adoption, 34 percent had experienced abuse, neglect or other harmful conditions. For those children who had recently entered the system, 15 percent had experienced abuse, neglect or other harmful conditions in just one year.
So is it any wonder that even Marcia Lowry, former executive director of the group that calls itself Children’s Rights and no friend of family preservation, says:
“I’ve been doing this work for a long time and represented thousands and thousands of foster children, both in class-action lawsuits and individually, and I have almost never seen a child, boy or girl, who has been in foster care for any length of time who has not been sexually abused in some way, whether it is child-on-child or not.”
This does not mean that all, or even many, foster parents are abusive. The majority do the best they can for the children in their care — like the overwhelming majority of parents, period. But the abusive minority is large enough to cause serious concern — or at least it should.
When the Arizona Republic found that its own reporting was turning up far more abuse in foster care than the state was letting on, they took a closer look. They found:
“Both in Arizona and nationally, there is a huge disconnect. In 2014, of 46 states that reported data to the Federal Children’s Bureau, all claimed that fewer than 2 percent of children in foster care had been harmed in the prior year. Arizona said that barely a tenth of 1 percent of children in care were verifiably harmed.
“But in surveys going back for decades, from 25 percent to as high as 40 percent of former foster children report having been abused or neglected in care.”
If anything, the problem is likely to be worse in Iowa because the state’s high rate of removal overloads the foster care system, increasing the pressure to ignore warning signs about abuse.
Instead of facing up to this mess, Rickman rubs rhetorical salt in the wounds of all those abused foster children by telling lawmakers the harm done to them never happened.
If Wendy Rickman seriously believes what she told legislators she should be fired for willful ignorance.
If she doesn’t really believe it, she should be fired for misleading lawmakers.
Pick up a copy of all my works here: By Peter Weiss
So they’ve been talking about climate control and the environment for about fifty years now, give or take. They’ve been making prediction after prediction of the catastrophic things that will occur, none of which have materialized or even come close to materializing.
It wasn’t crazy back then to consider our planet and the effects we are having on our planet and it isn’t crazy to consider the effects we’re having on the planet now. In fact, it’s smart, realistic and even forward thinking.
But…
It was crazy to make the global warming predictions. It was crazy to keep making them and think that they might materialize. It was crazy to scare us all about what turns out to be nothing.
In 1967 a dire famine by 1975 was forecast. This was an attempt at population control. The famine didn’t materialize.
In 1969 it was predicted we’d all disappear in a cloud of blue gas by 1989 due to pollution. Not!
In 1970 we were told we would have a new Ice Age by 2000. We were also told we’d have water rationing by 1974 and food rationing by 1980.
The Ice Age bit was reiterated anew in 1972 and 1974. The 1972 reiteration said the new Ice Age would come by 2070. In 1974 one reiteration claimed that space satellites showed the new ice age was coming fast.
In 1980, it was acid rain and repeated warnings that no end was seen to global cooling. But in 1988 cooling switched to long, hot summers, or global warming and rising sea levels which would completely cover certain islands, even some nations.
In 1989 we were told that the West Side Highway would be underwater by 2019, and in 2007 we were told that our kids would not even know what snow is, that snowfall is a thing of the past, that snow will decline.
Of course it goes on and on with more craziness.
In 2004 we were told that Great Britain would be Siberia-like by 2020, and then in 2008 we were told by NASA scientists that we were going to be “toast,” that the Arctic would be free of ice in the summertime. This one was a major one articulated by Al Gore, Mr. Conservation himself, you know, the guy who uses more electricity in a month than the whole rest of his community combined, the guy who has made a fortune selling us global warming. What an inconvenient truth!
And on and on.
None of these dire predictions have come true or turned out to be even close to coming true. Yet now, lo and behold, we are told by the proponents of the Green New Deal that we have but twelve years to fix ourselves, that Miami will disappear, that we must spend more money than we have as a country over the next 20, 30, 50 years to solve the problem, and the solution to the problem includes destroying our economy as we know it, our transportation system as we know it and our buildings as we’ve built them. “Tear down that wall” takes on a new meaning.
Those Despicable Democrats talk about the Green New Deal as if it is the new normal, as if climate change as they see it is an absolute fact of legitimate science. Nothing could be further from the truth.
If any of us were as wrong in our predictions and as ridiculous in our proposals as they are and have been, why we’d lose our jobs in an instant.
When crazy becomes normal, like what we’re seeing from the left, from those socialist Despicable Democrats who are the American Politburo and their Pravda USA shills, the mainstream media/social media Consortium, all of them aided and abetted by the Hollywood elite, those residents of the gated city, the Emerald City, if you will, we are in deep, deep doggy do.
link to these and more failed predictions
Pick up a copy of all my works here: By Peter Weiss
The only other things they needed to get were some sauces and some supplies. The supplies were nothing more than butter, oil, heavy cream and some condiments like candied apples in a can and capers in a jar.
The sauces were in a big, square bain marie, a tank big enough to take a swim in if it were deep enough, which of course it wasn’t. The sauces were a simple brown sauce, fond de veau, au jus, and a rosemary lamb sauce which was the same fond de veau finished with rosemary, mint jelly and white wine vinegar. Three small steam table inserts, about a half-gallon of each.
Jimmy happily danced his way through the whole of the kitchen rounds. His cousin Jimmy accompanied them and when the cart was loaded, they made a time to meet later. Bill was soon to discover that Jimmy G, his partner, really was lazy and that he would disappear for hours at a time once he was sure that Bill could handle things on his own. Mostly, Jimmy G, his partner, would go spend time with Jimmy G, the banquet chef, both of them doing nothing when there were no banquets or parties and nothing to do.
The cart loaded with everything they needed, Jimmy G and Bill took it back to the Falstaff Room. By this time it was later in the afternoon. Bill had been working nearly ninety minutes. He started at two and his working hours were from two to eleven. But like in any restaurant and any restaurant outlet in a hotel, the cooks and waitresses worked until the work was complete. So many evenings, Bill would discover, he would be working later than eleven. On weekends the room closed later, so he would be working sometimes until one A.M.
They parked the “truck” close to the double doors. Jimmy, kind of laughing because he was feeling silly about it, told Bill they should have fired up the kitchen before they’d gone to the main kitchen for supplies. So before they carried anything in off the “truck” they went into the little line-kitchen and lit things up.
This was simple and easy too. They filled the steam table and set it up with the inserts that had been left there. Jimmy told Bill that once they were set up he would show Bill where to get all the kitchen equipment such as steam table inserts, kitchen spoons, utensils and of course knives if any were needed. As he spoke, he opened a kitchen drawer and showed Bill where he kept the knives. He told Bill that sometimes they magically disappeared but the hotel had plenty and so they could always get and have what they needed.
Bill checked out the knives. Since it was an easy operation, all he actually needed was a chef’s knife and a carving knife. But there were boning knives and bread knives in the drawer too, and of course the much need sharpening steel.
Jimmy showed Bill where to start up the exhaust fans, a switch on the wall just outside the entry. When he threw the switch, the fans hummed, a similar rattle then hum to that at Suburban only much less. He showed Bill where all the light switches were too.
Then it was all things Bill knew. They unloaded the cart, put everything that needed putting away, away. They set up the steam table and placed the sauces inside. Jimmy put away the cold items he would use in his little reach-in, and he and Bill set the prime rib in place and put the baked potatoes into the steam table place for them.
Everything done, Jimmy checking out everything to make sure everything was done, they took the cart, the “truck,” and headed back to the main kitchen.
Pick up a copy of all my works here: By Peter Weiss
Bill stood by the open doorway and finished his espresso. He did not see any bus box anywhere around, so he walked through the double doors, careful to go through the right-side door. Seeing him, Kalista did not say anything. She simply pointed to a tray stand on top of which was a bus box. Bill walked over and put his cup and saucer inside.
Going back through the entrance doors, again using the right-side door, he entered the kitchen for real. Jimmy was still talking to Jo Ann.
Bill examined everything, opened every reach-in box, looked at the things on every shelf including the shelf under the steam table, a long, long shelf that ran almost the whole length of the line. He looked at the Garland, opened the Dutch oven and looked inside there too. First thing he would do, he decided, was clean that bad boy. He would have to do it before lighting up the broiler.
Last thing he did was open and walk into the walk-in box. Inside there, a small walk-in box, were some steaks, part of a prime rib, some other leftovers. Nothing much more. So it was clear to Bill that they did not keep supplies here, which meant they had to get them from the main kitchen somewhere.
The line was simple: one stove, two deep fryers, a Garland with a Dutch oven. The Garland was very similar to the ones he’d worked at Suburban, just a little older and a touch smaller.
Ho hum, Bill thought. Nothing exciting, nothing that looked too difficult.
Opposite the cooking equipment was a long counter into which was set a small steam table, big enough to hold a pan of baked potatoes, vegetables and two sauces. There was a flat platform for the prime rib and a place to carve right before it. The steam table finished off with a small sink after which was a full counter to the wall with a large cutting board on it. That was where Jimmy, or whoever was not not doing the broiler, worked.
Underneath the counter were two reach-in boxes, one for cold stuff for Jimmy, like butter and cream, etc., and one for the meats, the steaks Bill would be cooking.
The menu was simple enough. Steaks, chops, prime rib, lobster tails and sautéed frog legs. Then there were two broiled fish entrees, filet of sole and a thick cut salmon. Those, Bill knew, were cooked in the Dutch oven.
When Jimmy was finished with Jo Ann and had come back, he told Bill they had to go out and through the main kitchen to pick up their supplies. That’s how it was done.
They walked together past Kalista and back through the long corridor to the main kitchen. There, Jimmy picked up the truck, a four-wheel two-tiered kitchen cart really, and they started their rounds. First, they picked up a pan of vegetables. At least for today, Bill could see, it was simple mixed vegetables. He could also see that they were frozen, not fresh.
Second stop was at the big rotisserie oven. Jimmy showed Bill which buttons to push to stop the oven and explained that most days when they didn’t have any banquets they would get the things they were about to get from one of the regular stoves. Meanwhile, because they had a party today, the rotisserie was working.
Jimmy showed Bill how to open the door, how to rotate the shelves until he got to the things he needed and was taking. On one shelf, set next to each other, was a prime rib, a pan of scalloped potatoes and a pan of baked potatoes.
They had just put these things onto the cart when a very short young man wearing a very tall chef’s hat came over to them.
“This is Jimmy,” Jimmy said. “Jimmy G, just like me. He’s my cousin.”
“Bill Wynn,” Bill said reaching out his hand to shake hands with the second Jimmy.
“I’m the banquet chef,” the second Jimmy said.
Pick up a copy of all my works here: By Peter Weiss
Elizabeth Warren talking about corruption and cleaning up all the corruption — what a hoot!
It’s all a hoot really, and it would be funny if it weren’t so serious. It would be funny if the future and future directions of the United States didn’t depend upon it
But they do.
Clearly, this latest attack on Brett Kavanaugh serves as a good example and is even metaphoric for the Democratic approach to America.
Power at all costs!
No matter who gets hurt or who gets destroyed or why, if it doesn’t fit in with the agenda…
Everything be damned. Either we rule America or we’ll destroy it.
And so it goes.
The one who used false pretenses to get ahead in the world and then still goes on to lie about it, pretend about it, who took a DNA test based upon her lie which showed that she has less of the heritage she claimed she had than most Americans: this is the one talking about corruption and cleaning up corruption. This is the one, even today, after having apologized for what she did countless times, who still professes that she has not benefited from her lie, from her false pretenses, and that she is the one who is capable of cleaning up Washington.
What a joke.
Why, that’s like listening to Al Sharpton tell us what’s right or wrong.
That’s like believing Obama when he said he had no scandals. Like believing him when he said if you like your doctor you can keep your doctor.
That’s like believing the Democrats really care about racism when Virginia’s governor and Attorney General, 2nd in succession, admitted to wearing black face. Well, one admitted it and the other, despite pictures, still denies it, sometimes.
That’s like believing those Democrats actually care about women and women’s rights when they haven’t done anything about the third in line in Virginia, the Lieutenant Governor, you know the one whose accusers have stepped forward and actually documented their claims.
Why that’s kind of like the antithesis of all that feign concern in the Kavanaugh situation, you know, where no one can document anything and all the witnesses, even the chief witness named by the accuser, her friend, says either they don’t recall it ever happening or don’t believe the accuser. After seven FBI investigations, the Democrats now say there was no real investigation.
Yup! We can sure believe Elizabeth Warren, about as much as you can believe Bill Clinton, or Hillary Clinton, or Comey, McCabe, Struck, Clapper or Brennan.
They are all, everyone mentioned here are, bastions of morality poised to be believed and to lecture the American people on what is right and wrong.
So this is what we’ve come to, what our society has come to. It is where they, those Despicable Democrats, any one of them who would be elected, will lead us, down that yellow brick road into the fantasy land of socialism and socialistic policies.
Why look at how great Venezuela is. How great Cuba is. How great any of the socialist governments are. Look at their success rates.
Better yet, don’t look any further than any of the Democrat-run cities in America, like San Francisco, LA, NY, Baltimore, Detroit…
That’s where Elizabeth Warren will take all of us under the guise (don’t choke) of cleaning up the corruption.
What a hoot!
