Every picture tells a story, don’t it?

Every picture tells a story, don’t it?

Mr. Roderick David, “Rod,” Stewart, of North London, England, was a brilliant showman from, now long years ago, who sang for us this song:


I am unfamiliar with Mr. Stewart’s sensibilities as to guns regulation for the Americans.  I can say that Rod very likely would be today considered, what is the peculiar term employed by the foggy-minded ones??—oh, yes, that’s it–politically incorrect, as, in his song here for us today he makes reference to a romance on ship with an Asian girl thusly: “I fell in love with a slit-eyed lady, by the light of an eastern moon.”  Roderick’s just so RACIST!!  Far more damming, Rod goes on to sing that “Shanghai Lil didn’t use no pill—she claimed that it just ain’t natural.”  Horrors!!  Rod!!!  Bad, Roderick—naughty boy!!!  I am very sure that the school marms who today patrol all speech in America and the West would have some much-arched editing to do to Rod’s poem.

Like all subjects in the public market, the subject of guns regulation for the Americans is remarkably simple, but for the Children’s Party and its desperate fixation with getting guns away from the Americans—by any means possible.

Children, infants, cannot appreciate grown-up concepts.  So, let’s just say that if you don’t understand the idiocy of the notion that disarming the Americans will prevent guns mishap and mismanagement, you occupy that peculiar territory of Disneyworld dreamland in which mature ideas are strictly forbidden.

Which means this: There is nothing to discuss with the Children.  Off to bed, now!!

What I can re-count here is the history—going back to the killing of Jack Kennedy in my personal knowledge—of the annoying tantrums of the Children that if guns were only banned, Jack’s and many subsequent fatalities would have been avoided.

I was, perhaps inordinately, fond of Jack.  I have written you about him extensively, most recently during what were called, most sarcastically,  the very, very important elections of 2012, by the gentlemen of estate fourth, here for instance:


The Americans, in a singular sense, are addicted to vast troves of conspiracy theories–hopelessly so–and of every conceivable type imaginable.  The most enduring of this genre—in truth, more of an industry in my life the past 50 years, is, sorry school marms, “who wacked Jack?”  The theories amount to a massive commercial enterprise and virtually no one, except young Oswald, is spared the searing light of inquest.

I was of tender years when Jack fell in Dallas, but I am of course a current person of interest because, quite frankly, everybody drawing breath in November, 1963, is as well.  I say here to you on God’s Book “I simply didn’t do it.”  But pay me no mind.  The theorists of conspiracy will show no quarter in their search for the real murderer.  So, I stand accused, notwithstanding that I hadn’t means or motive and, much more so, that I was roundly and publicly very fond of Jack, which did not sit well with members of my family at all—most of which were, and now yet remain, far more deservedly so, also persons of interest in the long running Dallas melodrama.

So convoluted did the conspiracy theories respecting Jack’s death become that likely the only question about which all Americans of a certain age can agree is that there is a far shorter list of those who did not kill Jack than is the list of who did kill him. Likewise, that young Oswald is not guilty to be sure and the Justice Warren Commission, charged with finding out the real and complete story was, of course, deeply in on Jack’s November mishap–up to their eyeballs so–as well.  Jack’s murder was, and is, quite evidently a nationwide, nay, worldwide, plot without foreseeable end.

I do not recall the Children’s Party getting into high froth and lather and baying at the moon about the gun, or guns—you choose from the vast menu of offerings on that subject–used in Dallas, but maybe I was too small then to notice if the Children had yet sounded that particular alarm or no in 1963.

I can say here, with full alacrity, that by the time, 5 years after, when Jack’s kid brother, Bobby, of whom I was far, far, less fond, got popped in Los Angeles, the guns control now!!  to save as all from full wreak and ruin crusade!!  was in gear fifth campaign mode.  Here, again, I remain a person of interest and here again; I am innocent as new driven snow drift. Had guns not been permitted the populace, the Palestinian boy who bumped Bobby would not have had any chance to succeed, so the kiddies’ litany goes.

Fast forward to the present and I am likewise sanguine that the Children are so feverish about outlawing guns for the Americans that they simply have to covertly, it is whispered perhaps–in quarters of dark, nether reaches, in Disneyworld dreamland–overtly, enjoy mass murders of young kids so that they can get their rag-tag band back into the streets to play that old, tired, song loud, long and repeatedly.  The Children did not even bother to wait until the tiny bodies were buried before trying to make political hay as the sun set on the murders.  This, craven, political use of such tragedy is fully beyond reprehensible.  Shame on ya, Children!!   Back to bed with ya!!

For the slow learners, the Children today inform us, ceaselessly, that gunmen themselves are mere passive bystanders—it is a thing, not a man, who shoots the babies—it is the evil guns themselves.  The murderer and the babies just happened to be there, that’s all.  What do military men call such passive participants??  Oh, yes—collateral damage.

And the band plays on.

And the pictures tell the stories, don’t they?


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