Whad'ya Know?

Shahlom y’all–Michael asked me to keep up with the content until he’s back in 2 days in 3 hours after being raided by the Federal Bureau of Twitter (another Musk innovation) so here it is–still getting used to just saying anything when something pops up whether you know or care about it but Michael tells me you get used to it–Shalom, which also means Bye y’all (and Peace y’all!)–

Rabbi Twitski Content

The FBI was actually looking for a Melania for illegal entry both her and her parents

Surprised the GOP is coming to Milwaukee after Teddy Roosevelt’s experience here

flying those F-35s over Madison just to soften us up on election day

Don’t see many screw off top beer bottles since  I bought an empty six pack that one time

noticed no Kim Jong-un love letter fragments in Trumps toilet

a little alarming Maggie Haberman had access to Trump’s toilet

Discovered fragments of the Constitution in Trump’s toilet

voting now open: what should DT pull over his head on his perp walk?

raided MTG’s double-wide seized all her drums of testosterone

FBI raided Rachel Madoff’s house and they’re still listening to her lengthy examination of the events that led up to it

Trump swastika flags at half-staff

They raided Nancy Pelosi’s house and seized her Bracelets of Victory

They raided Tucker Carlson’s house and found him shitting himself

FBI raided giuliani’s house found him hanging from the ceiling by his feet wings still folded

FBI raided Kid Rock’s house and found no evidence of rock and roll

FBI raided my house and left after fluffing the pillows

nude pictures of Lara Trump with “others” is what I heard

The center of the GOP coalition believes Jewish lizard people are going to make us all trans antifa socialist vegans or some such nonsense. -well, yes, that is true of the lizard Jews but there’s only a few of them left

Aaron Rodgers Talks Gratitude, Reconciliation and Bullshit

Gigantic Crowds Clamor to Get Aboard NASA’s Mega Rocket

Humanized Yeast: Scientists Create Yeast With Important Human Genes-

-eh I don’t feel like rising-

anxious to see the Alex Jones sometimes I hate myself texts

Supreme’s Greatest Hits, Clarence Thomas, conducting, and All the News That Isn’t

                                            On Feldman Pond:

                                          or  The Life Pondemic

                                    

           

“I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time.

To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating.

I love to be alone.

I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”

‘Tis a backyard, still, having no pond as of yet (“we’re not zoned

 transcendental,” Feldman quips) as we come upon Feldman Pond very much in

 ‘needs a lot of TLC’ mode,’ as does our solitary vagabond,  perhaps lacking

 Thoreau’s handyman skills needed to sustain meditative life twixt house and

 garage.

          Would Henry David Thoreau, himself, have had difficulty adjusting to

the life solitary without the food, clothing, shelter and fuel supplied by the Ralph

Waldo Emerson’s upon whose Concord lawn he decamped?

          Skills with axe, sledge and knife aside, what of the transcendental skills,

the cognition and recognition?   Should our Feldman be no Henry David Thoreau,

seeking ‘not to die having not lived,’  might he be the Jiminy Cricket of “the still,

 small voice that people don’t listen to”?

         

          Feldman Pond, in “pondemic times:” all around cocooned, traffic

unnaturally calmed, little commerce save the occasional barking dog and the pedal

to metal screech of Toyota Supra MK 4’s.    

          We come upon Feldman hunkered down in ill-advised and ill-fitting surplus

desert camo, nose to breeze, smelling, perhaps, what it means to be human in this

backyard Forest Primeval, this not-so Primordial Ooze, this Parallel Universe, this

Madison, the small still voice within saying what the heck was I thinking, answered only by the Beag-a-

Poo Bella’s subtle turns of head towards the house she longs to get back into.

         

Here, the simple, yet profound, child’s wading pool water-element in lieu of pond ; there, a scraggly

hackberry run amuck ‘twixt clothes-pole and garage leaning a good 20 degrees towards Some Truth–

now a motion-light warns of passersby passing by, unseen, uninvited, uninterested, while our Feldman,

lost in thoughtlessness, aware yet oblivious, squats prayer-like and tags the outline of his left hand, like

cave dweller of old, onto the vinyl siding of his former life, abandoned for this habit, this Good Earth of a Guy’s Own.

          Here Pond is the metaphor and, simultaneously, simile.

          Verily, few things teem with the Metaphorical like Pond;

          Thoreau dipped brush in Pond and painted aphorisms while Pond did the writing,

for Pond teems with is , like, as , with non causa pro causas, unexpected turns of phrase,

mood, coloration, surface tension, dappling, waves if there’s any

kind of wind, bubbles coming from who knows what or where, the methane of Poseidon?

          Pond, friend, ally and enemy, its depths your depths, its shallows

 your shallows,  concentric circles of stones skipped towards infinity, towards the divinity of Nature.

          Boy, this place needs a pond.

For now Feldman must cast his bread upon a wading pool, dangling his line in

the aphoristic, awaiting the Homily kicking with insect legs like a Jesus Bug across

its liquid dramatic tension.

So far, this catch in his creel:

“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to borrow.”

“We say time is short, yet time, by definition, is always on time.”

“Beware of all enterprises that require enterprise, and all sentences that begin with

 Beware.”

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because of his

 short stride.”

“I should not talk so much about myself were there anybody else around.”

“I would rather sit on a pumpkin than squash.”

“Ignore the still, small voice telling you to kill coming from your dog.”

“It’s not what you look at in life that matters, it’s what looks back.”

“Our life is frittered away with fritters.”

“The price of anything is the amount of money you pay for it.”  

“We must walk consciously to our goal and skedaddle the heck back before dark.”

 “In human intercourse tragedy begins not with misunderstanding about

 words, but with misunderstanding about intercourse.”

“What is once well done is done until it needs well-doing again.”

and “The Solitary Life could use a few Bells and Whistles.”

          For now Feldman blows out the butane torch used for both light and heat,

 curls up in refrigerator box filled with packing nuts, and, pulling the tarp over self and pup,

 dreams of what will fill his notebooks once Pond fills in.

Profile in Courage (2)

          In his defense, although he wanted to, President Trump did not march down and break into the Capitol with them, he merely kept an eye on justice being served with burgers and Cokes on the giant flat screen where Washington crossing the Delaware used to be.

Now in a place of honor in the Mar-a-Lago lobby.

Anyway, there’s not a Trump judge anywhere who would convict him on that.

The Trump defense in a nutsell: Inaction is not Action.

You can not commit an inaction. Try it. See?

True, he didn’t lift a finger to stop it but, hey, he was jockeying his attention between the peaceful and patriotic capitol march and the Sentry PGA Tournament at the Plantation Course on Maui, which should’ve been at Bedminster, his course in New Jersey.

That’s what the so called missing phone calls were all about– the slight to Bedminster and to New Jersey–he was still on the phone for a week after Jan 6 until his ears was hot–and he was on speaker dealing with that miscarriage of justice.

Nothing has been more misinterpreted than “Be there, will be wild,” is just something very Trump Presidential he told all Americans (of a certain persuasion) about this upcoming watershed moment in American history.

Had Nixon said “be there, will be wild” about Woodstock the crowds would have been even larger and his legacy would’ve been assured.

Trump was spot on when he told the huge crowd, twice the crowd MLK had  around the reflecting pool,  “Republicans are always fighting like a boxer with his hands tied behind his back.”  Ok, should’ve been like boxer(s) but the fact is that’s true–that’s why the seats had been empty at Republican boxing matches before Trump–who wants to see a no punches thrown boxing match?

Sonny Liston was a Republican fighter. Went down in the first.

Nobody, nobody, ever, ever, mentions that it was President Trump who said “we want to be so respectful of everybody, including bad people.”

Surpasses anything Martin Luther King said, who never, ever, said to be respectful of bad people. Au contraire.

Respectuful of everybody including bad people is the title of President Trump’s campaign book for 2024, Profiles in Carnage, er, Courage 2 which author Ted Cruz says will be out by the November elections–and remember, Ted Cruz’s mother was close to JFK. Very.

Furthermore, it’s just common sense to know you can’t take bake anything that’s been taking from you with weakness.

That’s way there’s nothing remotely inciting, exciting yes, about President Trump’s profound “You’ll never take back our country with weakness.”

It means be strong in your faith of doing what’s only right, it doesn’t mean shit on Pelosi’s desk, perhaps, or hang Mike Pence.

I mean who hasn’t wanted to hang Mike Pence–it’s pretty much of everybody’s

reaction to Pence. I mean he calls his wife Mother. Don’t want to know why.

Doesn’t mean you’ll actually lynch him. I mean that noose they kept on showing on a flimsy 2 by 4 (quote) gallows (unquote) would never hold him. Let along Mother.

Not to put too fine a point on it, I mean even with Mussolini–a much heavier guy than Pence–they had to hang him from a gas station sign (upside down–Sicilian thing I guess) and those signs are built to last.

You still see standing Cities Service and Sinclair signs around–love that Dinosaur one.

Never mentioned, ever, by Trump-haters, is all the overarching kindness and caring the beautiful and historic throng showed one another–the helping through smashed windows, the defensive use of bear spray to free fallen comrades, the reusing of found materials for self -defense protection against armed federales.

This was, truly, Woodstock for Patriots.

What’s the so-called worst thing that the president said to his minions? —

Speaking of the brave senators and congressmen and women–note–

 “. . . maybe we will not be cheering on some of them“–but why would you cheer anybody on, anywhere, for not being brave?

Yes, in one of his many phone calls to Mike Pence inveighing him to “do the right thing”–which we’ve all been inveighed to do — he told him, just to make it easier for Mike to do the right thing  “Mike, that doesn’t take courage. What takes courage is to do nothing. That takes courage.”

Just the courage, I might add although the president, himself, would never, that profile in courage that number 45 and 47 , our President Almighty, Donald J Trump showed the nation in Doing Nothing.Thank you–and God Bless the United States of Trump

          While it may have been an unintended consequence of the Spartan yet over-reaching state budget of defunded mandates and vestigial unions, Wisconsissippi’s transition to a Southern state of mind begins to appear, Bless Betsy, about as natural as nature intended. I don’t just mean the slower pace on the street despite wind chills likely to freeze your boiled peanuts, or even the lingering doorway goodbyes that have all but replaced the abrupt “later’s” once common to these parts, but the very notion that maybe we had been saving at the spigot and letting it run out the bunghole, something a body cannot abide. 

          The very countryside is changing in America’s Beulahland, from the stately pole-barn manor home on a soybean plantation in Brule, to a once troubled dairy farm in Richland Center, now in cotton, to the sounds of barge totin’ and bale liftin’ from the banks of the mighty Kinnikinnick. The corn that used to go into feed (we still keep a few cows, for ornamental purposes, along the highway) go straight into hominy. It’s no small point of pride that pretty near every dollar saved on teacher and public worker benefits have gone into stocking the catfish farms, which are going pretty good, even if the fish tend to dice when you blow ’em up to the silo. The magnolias may be struggling but the kudzu has pushed all the way up to the UP.  

          Folks are changing as well, having adopted Southern mannerisms, such as ancestor worship, so that we now tailgate in the graveyard in Ashwaubenon before Packer games, and we hold onto all of our last names on both sides: the Des Peres phone book is filled with John Peterson Hanson Johnson’s and all the permutations. “Wixie” is played at every  game and Nascar event, although we’re not supposed to sing the words due to sensibilities. Priorities have been readjusted in education: at our crown jewel university, Ole Wis, the mission today is less sifting and winnowing and more blocking and tackling.

          The benefits have been mutual, we’d like to think, now that our progenitor, the Great State of Mississippi, no longer axiomatically comes in 50th in education, health care and social services. Since the rise of Wisconsissippi, the ejaculation “Thank God for Alabama!” we’re told, has just about disappeared from casual discourse at Bumper’s Drive-In in Yazoo City. For us, of course, the hope is to share in the promised bounty, the day when our workers paradise will attract a Hyundai, or a Kia, or a Ginsu Knife. To date, there’s just the  Payday America and a couple of Waffle Houses (for us, taking your grits the hard way). We firmly believe in the principle “deconstruct it and they will come,” and don’t, for a moment, miss the entitlements of the “Forward” days of thinly-veiled Scandinavian socialism–it’s like Big Daddy says, “Forward depends on which way you’re facing.” And we’re heading South.          

                                                                                                                     Michael Feldman

With apologies to the great Nat King Cole

If Olive Oyl Were Reinstated as President