Okay. We get it.

It really shouldn’t come down to voting for the candidate we despise the least.

Every time the man walks up to a podium, I cringe, dreading what manner of vitriol he’s going to spew forth.  Usually, it’s something along the lines of what I used to hear fourth and fifth graders hollering at each other out on the playground.  I’m kind of surprised that I haven’t heard him playing the dozens during the debates, as in, “Cruz?  Cruz’s mama is so fat, she has to …”

I hope that neither he nor any of the worthless sycophants who are advising him read this—the man doesn’t need any more bad ideas.

Chris FarleyWe get it, Mr. Trump.  You’re an “outsider”.  You’re not a member of “the establishment”.  You don’t have to “pander” and “suck up” to anybody because you’re “rich”.  You want to make America “great” again.  You don’t have to be “politically correct” or “polite” because you’re a “maverick”.

You know, Donald, you’re right.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.  You’ve no one to answer to.

Whether you like him or not, though, it appears that Trump is about to cross the Rubicon into uncharted land—for him, at least.  And though he may be a skilled tactician in the boardroom, he is shaping up to be many things as the Republican frontrunner for the candidacy of President of the United States, and not all of those things are good.

TrumpvsDisabledReporterHe’s a bully.  He’s rude.  He bloviates.  He hates.  He calls people names.  He makes fun of others for attributes they possess over which they have no control.  Frankly, he’s an asshole.  Worst of all, he offers simple solutions to complex problems (“Just build a wall!”), which resonates with Americans who are fed up with the status quo but have no clue as to how dangerous a man like Trump can become.

I’ve avoided this comparison so far; however, as much as I hate to admit to myself, the man is beginning to remind me of a certain dictator who also offered simple solutions to complex problems.  I say, “beginning” because so far, Trump has not blamed the entire population of any one ethnic group for the nation’s ills; nor has he called for the expansion of American ‘lebensraum’.  Not yet, anyway.

I pray that the remaining stability of our Republic would be enough to stop him or anyone from committing all out genocide.

Mr. Trump, if you are planning on seeing this journey through to the end, it’s time to stop acting like a snot-nosed spoiled brat and start acting like a statesman.  It’s time to man up—you’re better than this.  Because in a race between you and Hillary Clinton, it really shouldn’t come down to voting for the candidate we despise the least.

Cut the crap.  You’ve made your point.  Now it’s time to be presidential.

 

 

 

Mother of the Year

I couldn’t get out of my mind the picture of her son crying out for help without thinking, why wasn’t she there?

Wife and mother Helena Richards Colby resides in a tony suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio.   Helena lives a life that most of us dream of—she’s wealthy and reasonably attractive, with a well-appointed home that includes plenty of space for entertaining, a large back yard with a pool, and a gorgeous lake view.  But what Helena wants most is the envy and adulation of her peers, and to a greater degree (though she would never admit it) she wishes to climb the proverbial social ladder to become a select member of Cincinnati’s privileged elite.

Helena stepped on the first rung of that ladder in January 2012, when she talked her husband Will into nominating her for the title of Greater Cincinnati’s Mother of the Year, the promotional brainchild of Cincinnati City magazine.  Nominees (who pay a ridiculous fee just for the faux honor of being nominated) are fêted for an entire year at various magazine-sponsored functions throughout the city in an effort to promote themselves as the quintessential mother, giving Cincinnati’s well-heeled a chance to vote for their ultimate Madonna.  Helena never missed an event.

In September, 2012, Helena and Will were scheduled to attend an event at Cincinnati’s Contemporary Art Center (once home to the infamous Robert Maplethorpe exhibit, but I digress).  It was a Tuesday night, and Helena’s regular sitter, her 16-year-old daughter Hailey, was unfortunately unable to watch the couple’s seven-year-old son, Christopher.  Hailey had a party to attend.  On a Tuesday night.

Never one to say no to her daughter, Helena figured that Christopher would be fine by himself at home.  Hailey would have her cell turned on, of course, and Helena and Will would each have their respective cells on vibrate but within “feeling” proximity.  Hailey assured her parents that she would be no fewer than five minutes from their house, and though Helena and Will would be downtown, Helena was certain that Christopher would be fine for the few short hours that he would be alone.  After all, isn’t teaching children the virtue of self-reliance a hallmark of a Mother of the Year?

Christopher wasn’t so sure.  He didn’t like it when Mommy and Daddy were gone at night, even when Hailey was there with him in the house (she never really was in the same room with him, but at least she was there).  He still slept with his light on in his room most nights, and he didn’t like this time of year when the leaves were starting to fall off the trees outside his bedroom window because they made scrape-y noises that were scary to him.  Christopher didn’t say much at dinner; Mommy and Daddy didn’t notice, and Hailey was busy playing on her phone.

Always in a nervous flurry before these types of events, Helena rushed through dinner and began barking orders to Will in an attempt to get him to hurry.  She didn’t notice that Hailey had already left the house and that Christopher was sulking on the sofa watching a rerun of South Park.  The couple left the house after Helena hastily scrawled hers, Will’s, and Hailey’s phone numbers in big Sesame Street-sized numbers on a piece of loose leaf paper she found in Hailey’s backpack because, well, that’s what good mothers do.  She trusted that Christopher would call one of them if there was an emergency.

Once Helena and Will arrived at the venue, all thoughts of her children were blissfully erased from her consciousness because it was here that she would be introduced to Cincinnati’s preeminent citizens.  Not for her were the hoi polloi that she ordinarily ran into at Kroger or while waiting in the carpool lane at her son’s school.  No, it was among these majestic faces she was meant to rub elbows, to mingle and chat, to exchange dinner invitations.  Helena was in her element.  So transfixed was she that she never felt the phone vibrate in her small reticule clutched in her left hand.  Will’s phone buzzed, too, but after several trips to the bar, so did he.

It wasn’t until she had excused herself to go into the restroom to check on her lipstick that she felt the phone in her purse vibrate.  It was Hailey.  She told her mother that she had had several calls from Christopher who said that he was scared and that he was hearing noises.  Although Hailey offered to go home and check on him, Helena reminded her that Christopher often made up stories about hearing strange noises, and that a good mother would teach him a lesson about crying wolf.  Besides, Helena had it on good authority that the party Hailey was attending was at the home of a board member of one of the city’s most sought after charitable foundations, and she couldn’t wait to hear from Hailey about what the inside of the house looked like.  After all, isn’t encouraging your daughter to develop relationships with influential people part of being a good mother?

Though it doesn’t really matter at this point who arrived home at the Colby residence first, it happened to be Hailey, who would, for the rest of her life, have seared into her brain the image of her little brother’s body as it lay broken, bloodied, and beaten on the cold, bare floor of the empty garage.  At this point in the story, I lack the vocabulary to describe what actually happened at the Colby home that September night—Google it for yourselves if you like.  Suffice it to say that after four armed intruders broke into the home, burgled it, and murdered seven-year-old Christopher Richards Colby in one of the most brutal attacks ever investigated by the first responders and homicide detectives on the scene, Greater Cincinnati’s candidate for Mother of the Year was down one child.

Oh, there was quite an investigation.  The family was questioned repeatedly about the events surrounding the break in and Christopher’s murder.  The day after the murder, the local television affiliate interviewed a tearful Helena who blamed the tragedy on a violent video game she had read about online and suggested that it was this that was the impetus for the killers’ vicious actions and the eventual death of her son. Days, weeks went by with the entire community both mourning alongside the Colby family and expressing outrage at the killers’ murderous rampage.  Ultimately, the killers were caught, and the community and the family could rest a little easier.  But there was nothing that would bring Christopher back.

Even in her grief, though, Helena found a way to turn this heartbreak into a triumph.  After all, she was still in the running for Greater Cincinnati’s Mother of the Year, and with a senseless tragedy to add to her repertoire of virtuous deeds, influential friendships earned, and exposure among the city’s most celebrated citizens, there was no reason to abandon her quest for social acceptance and virtual aristocracy.

The tragedy was too much for her husband, though—he put a gun to his head a month after his son’s murder.  Well, that’s how it was reported anyway.

After a socially acceptable period of quiet mourning, Helena began making the circuit of local and national talk shows, sharing her grief over the murder of her son and the loss of her husband, and used her platform to promote her new raison d’être as the new voice for all mothers out there who have lost a child.  Not surprisingly, after her well-crafted and heavily articulated year-long campaign, in January 2013, Helena Richards Colby was named Greater Cincinnati’s Mother of the Year.  She had endeared herself to nearly everyone.

But not to me.  I couldn’t get out of my mind the picture of her son crying out for help without thinking, why wasn’t she there?  Why did she leave him home alone, helpless and frightened?  Even when her daughter had expressed concern over her brother’s pleas for help, this mother was more concerned with her own social position and that of her daughter’s than she was about the safety of her son.

I am outraged that anyone lacking the fundamental judgement of a parent would deign to promote herself as the arbiter of parenthood.  After she all but fed her son to the killers who ended his life, how can she even consider herself worthy of any praise or accolades, let alone the title of Mother of the Year?  I am outraged that more people, not only in the Cincinnati area but throughout the country, are not as sickened by this situation as I am.  Some are even going so far as to defend her actions and feel that those of us who dare question her motives are engaging in a 17th century witch hunt.   But I don’t care about that.  I’m more concerned about the starry-eyed boot-licking sycophants who are looking at Helena Richards Colby as the gold standard of motherhood.

Any cold-hearted excuse for a human being who can demonstrate this much arrogance, negligence, and lack of judgment and still manage to become the Democratic nominee for President of the United States Greater Cincinnati’s Mother of the Year will stoop to the lowest level imaginable in order to further her self-serving agenda.

Ben Carson should never be president

Ben Carson should never be president

Is it because he’s a political infant? Never held a public office?  Ignorant of the delicate chess game of foreign policy?  No skill at interpreting the geo-political landscape?  Lack of business experience?

Not necessarily.

Ben Carson should never be president because he is too good.  He is elegant and eloquent.  He is stunningly articulate in the sense that he doesn’t point at you with just his thumb like every other politician since Bill Clinton (when he was lying to us about Monica Lewinsky) and tell the American people—in carefully scripted sound bites designed to be repeated, replayed, and rehashed—just why his …um …ideas are bigger and better than the next guy’s.

In short, he does not engage in a political pissing contest.

Instead, he tells you of his love for this country, his hopes for its healing, and the promises of its future just as if he were sitting across from you at the dinner table.  During his brief but powerful turn at Thursday night’s debate, I half expected him to ask someone to pass the butter. His rhetoric was poetic, not political.  Common sense never sounded so lyrical yet so, well … common.

He is a gentleman.  A gentle man.

Ben Carson should never be president because of what the media would do to him.  In case you haven’t been paying attention, the media have this curious knack for taking something that is good and pure and honest and turning it into a twisted circus of lies and suppositions, ignoring the good stuff about a person and instead finding any small rent in the fabric and ripping it to shreds.  No longer is the media about presenting opposing viewpoints; there’s no bank for them in that.  Instead, they only look for the ugly, calling it “good journalism”.  I call it muckraking.

No, Ben Carson should never be president.

Even though Ben Carson is what our country needs to bridge the massive divide between right and left, between those who want to perpetuate this country’s dependence upon our bulging and bloated behemoth of a government and those who would like nothing more than to line up the Washington elite in front of a firing squad, he should never be president.  Even though Ben Carson could heal the wounds of those who live on the fringes of society by drawing out of them the goodness that runs through their souls and the potential that lies within them, he should never be president.  Ben Carson would not bloviate like a lunatic, nor wring his hands in desperation about border security; neither would he look the other way nor look at who to blame or blame a YouTube video for the fact that Isis has come to town.  Instead, he would attack, with surgical precision, the crisis at our borders and eviscerate like a cancer the terrorism at our doorsteps, dealing with it like a man.  In matters of life and death, Ben Carson doesn’t concern himself with who he might offend by calling a spade a spade.

Even though Ben Carson is what we need he would never last long enough to make our country work again before the media would destroy him.

Maybe now is not his time.  If that’s the case, I’ll try to be patient and just pray that while we wait that we don’t end up like a fallen tree on the bank of a great river, its roots fighting to remain tethered to the earth—still living, still bearing fruit, and still able to reach its potential, but instead becoming unmoored from its tenuous anchor and floating out to sea only to become a mere shadow of its former majesty.

And now for something completely controversial…

The Supreme Court is hearing arguments this week that may transform the status of gay marriage in this country.  Not only is Proposition 8, California’s ban on gay marriage, being challenged, but so is the 1996 Defense of Marriage Act, which bars the federal government from recognizing same-sex marriages even in states that allow them.  Let the games begin.

Let me be clear:  I am not in favor of gay marriage.  Marriage was designed and ordained by God as a union between a man and a woman for the purposes of creating more little men and women. I’m not stupid enough to argue with God.  For my part, I have proudly fulfilled God’s commandment times three (kids not marriages).

And now here’s the part where everyone is going to roll their eyes at my apparent wishy-washiness:  Though I do not believe in gay marriage, I feel even more strongly that the  government has no right to tell two men or two women that they cannot be joined in a union.  I wouldn’t call it a marriage, since you can’t have it both ways, and that would negate my previous assertion about marriage being between a chick and a dude.  But certainly, with all of the great minds in this country, we must be able to come up with a legal means that affords gay couples the opportunity to be officially joined.  Call it a union, call it a merger, an alliance, call it a knot-tying ceremony, a partnership, call it whatever you like, but I can’t for the life of me understand why the SCOTUS needs to hear these arguments because the two arguments in question should never have come about in the first place.

When the government gets involved in people’s private lives, I have a problem.  I have a problem when the government funds Planned Parenthood which performs the majority of abortions in this country (more about abortion later…no wishy-washiness there).  I have a problem when Planned Parenthood gives out free birth control to middle school girls.  I have a problem when the government tells restaurant and bar owners that their patrons can’t light up a stogie after dinner.  I have a problem when the government attempts to tell New Yorkers they can’t get their caffeine and sugar high by slurping down a Big Gulp.  And I have a problem when the government tells grown men and women who want to legitimize their relationship that they cannot.

“But Kelly,” you’re saying, “that’s just the thing!  The government has no right to tell a woman what she can do with her body!”  Oh, that’s where you’re clearly a victim of incorrect thinking.  ‘Her body’, when pregnant, holds within it a tiny baby who has no rights.  Women make the “choice”, for the most part, when they “choose” to get jiggity with a man (that’s how most pregnancies begin—let’s not get into the rape and incest arguments here).  That little baby that was created has to be protected somehow.  Grownups can generally take care of themselves.

But I digress.  Let’s get back to my gay and lesbian friends.  The ones I know in committed relationships, with or without children, demonstrate far more responsibility and right-mindedness than most of the idiots legally “married” to one another in Hollywood.  So Kim Kardashian’s short-lived, pathetic, E!xcuse of a marriage to Kris Humphries was “okay”, but Cam and Mitch tying the knot is wrong?

I must also say, though, that if you are a person who does not think that two men joined in unity or two women officially proclaiming their everlasting faithfulness and fidelity is the best thing for the greater good, your views and opinions should also be met with tolerance and understanding, as long as you’re not hating.  Once the hatin’ begins, you weaken your position.  That goes for both sides.

When I started this blog, I told you I was going to remark upon things that would make most people turn tail and run.  If you disagree with my position, fine!  If you agree with me, fine!  If you thought I took the coward’s way out and tried to have it both ways, fine!  But the right of people to live their lives in freedom and equality is an issue that I take quite seriously, and it would have been cowardly of me not to have stated my piece, especially in light of this week’s pending decisions. For what it’s worth, I think it’s going to be gay marriage for the win.