Biden Going Down Down Down

Yeah, I got a problem with Bruce Springsteen. Not his fame and fortune. He’s welcome to the moral, consumerist rot it’s brought him. He has a gigantic mansion in Rumsen, and he’s all working man. Do tell. Fuck him. He writes about bikes and muscle cars. Pussy. He’s never done the XKE Flip, four wheel drifts on Frog Ocean Road, or 130 mph races from the Malaga Tavern to wherever the fuck you wind up ahead or dead. Doubt if he’s ever achieved the hardest motorcycle start on earth — kicking an 850 Norton Commando into life. It takes a Jersey boy to do that. And he doesn’t know shit about Jersey Girls he didn’t plagiarize from Tom Waits. But this one time, appropriately, his lyric fits. 

Joe. Is. Going. Down. Vital even you concretized Democrat brains wake up and see that he’s a goner and dying fast.

Joe almost exactly one year ago.

Joe last night. Shades because Why?

Not the same guy. You have to be able to see that. Astonishing deterioration in a single year and Democrats still act like nothing’s wrong. Wow. Mind, he was never a good guy. He was a glib guy, a stone liar, an opportunist who never worked a day out of politics in his life. He was a plagiarist in college, a plagiarist in the Senate, and he has been a Delaware racist all his life. I actually know something about that. Only three counties in the tiny Diamond State. Newcastle County, owned and run by the DuPont family. The two southern counties, Sussex and Kent, are, amazingly enough, Deep South, all kinds of drawls and Confederate bullshit. I know this because there were Lairds in Delaware, affiliated and intermarried with Duponts. My dad, whose sister was Mary Schober Laird, had a counterpart somewhere in E. I. duPont de Nemours & Company named Laird Schober Laird. The latter would on rare occasions call my dad and say, “Laird, this is Laird.” They had lunch. But we weren’t mixed up with the duPonts socially because we were so busy with the Hines and Seabrooks. Is that White Privilege enough for you? The Bidens we knew of only by reputation. (Though I’ve written many times about Joe, a pet peeve of mine for 30 years). Once I was condemned to sit on the Metroliner with a great southern Confederate Dame named Marian Doom, with an accent only Vivian Leigh could mimic, and she had noticed that a used-car salesman son named Biden had gotten himself elected to the Senate. “How can you be a Senatuh if you nevuh had a job?” she asked. “And he’s bald. So unfortunate for a young widowah.” In case you’re wondering, I didn’t make her up. She looked exactly like Margaret Rutherford.

She’s dead now. So is the Joe who connived and lied his way into Congress on a fluke and stayed there because he lied about how his wife and daughter died for 30 years. Not killed by a drunk driver, as he averred again and again and again, until the victim of the crash caused by Biden’s wife died after a ruined life.

You see, I’m not asking you to see Joe for who he was. Just for who he is in relation to the glib little creep who crawled his way up the political ladder while everyone in both parties turned their heads away from slime.

Lies, lies, Lies

So, when you look at his performance last night, he said essentially nothing, but everything he said was a lie. Just not as cleverly as he used to be able to do it. Now he’s just an old old old liar who slurs his S’s and T’s and can’t spin any story but the one written for him on the TelePrompter. Even that guy has to be throwing up in his mouth. Did you see him totter away like an old woman, bent and frail, from his stirring speech? No? Go back and watch the end again. Then remember his threat to take Trump out back behind the barn.

This last is a shot out of the blue. The speech written in whole and delivered by General Douglas MacArthur, famously dismissed by haberdasher Democrat Harry Truman, as a moron. (In point of fact, no one has ever surpassed either MacArthur’s academic record at West Point or his victories in the field. Democrat Truman almost got into law school at one point.)

Douglas MacArthur Accepting the Thayer Award – “Duty, Honor, Country” 3:00 min. Delivered by the General of the Army to the Corps of Cadets at West Point 2 years before his death.

...Duty, Honor, Country: Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying points: to build courage when courage seems to fail; to regain faith when there seems to be little cause for faith; to create hope when hope becomes forlorn.

They give you a temperate will, a quality of imagination, a vigor of the emotions, a temperament of courage over timidity, an appetite for adventure over love of ease. They create in your heart the sense of wonder, the unfailing hope of what next, and the joy and inspiration of life. They teach you in this way to be an officer and a gentleman.

...Your mission remains fixed, determined, unchanging. It is to win our wars. Everything else in your professional career is but a corollary to this vital dedication. All other public purpose, all other public projects, all other public needs, great or small, will find others for their accomplishments; but you are the ones who are trained to fight.

Yours is the profession of arms, the will to win, the sure knowledge that in war there is no substitute for victory, that if you lose, the Nation will be destroyed, that the very obsession of your public service must be Duty, Honor, Country.

...You are the leaven which binds together the entire fabric of our national system of defense. From your ranks come the great captains who hold the Nation's destiny in their hands the moment the call to war sounds.

The long gray line has never failed us. Were you to do so, a million ghosts in olive drab, in brown khaki, in blue and gray, would rise from their white crosses, thundering those magic words: Duty, Honor, Country.

This does not mean that you are warmongers. On the contrary, the soldier above all other people prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war. But always in our ears ring the ominous words of Plato, that wisest of all philosophers: "Only the dead have seen the end of war."

The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished - tone and tints. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen then, but with thirsty ear, for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll.

In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country.

Today marks my final roll call with you. But I want you to know that when I cross the river, my last conscious thoughts will be of the Corps, and the Corps, and the Corps.

I bid you farewell.