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A Mostly Center-Right Place For Those With Irritable Obama Syndrome and Diversity Fatigue

If You’re Black and Tired…You’re FIRED November 23, 2010

Finding an African American who will criticize President Barack Obama and take him to task for what he promised to do and did not while playing golf…is like finding someone who hates oxygen. ..Okay well there is me, Afrocity and Alan West, Michael Steel.

Okay, Okay let me correct my statement.

Finding an African American who VOTED for Obama and now will openly criticize his job performance is like finding a tax cut in a Congressional law proposed by a Democrat.


Seriously, after listening to many black acquaintances saying things like “Those white boyz are out to get President Obama” and “White people are setting ‘our boy’ up to fail so we won’t never have another black president”,  I am beginning to think that black liberals do not think critically about political issues beyond race and ethnicity. The legacy of African Americans and the Democratic Party is a nearly 50 years long one. Previous to that, most blacks in America were Republicans.  Presently with the unwavering black allegiance to Party of  Ass,  it makes one wonder what sort of pact with the devil did the liberals make to get one entire race to become so politically myopic?

If we thought blacks were against diversity of opinion when it comes to politics then- believe me, the problem was further exacerbated when “first African American”  Barack Obama took the throne in 2009.

Who cares that the man who would be president is spinning fairy donkey tales on Kool Aid Mountain?

Who cares that this man has a questionable background, a record of voting present, a string of sullied associates?

Who cares that the man’s only true accomplishment is campaigning, being elected and before he can finish the job in one office, he runs for another?

You cannot do that with the Presidency of the United States.

“World King” is fortunately not a job that currently exists.   But if it did, you can bet that Barack Obama would campaign and run for it.

What Barry does not understand is that somewhere over the hope and change rainbow, after the campaigning, adulation and applause, lies a little reality called winning the election and being expected to  “work”.   W-O-R-K . Not campaigning some more, going to play golf, flying in Air Force One, partying with Jay-Z and Beyonce, whining that everything is Bush’s fault and the Republicans are out to get you…but work.

African Americans elected 95% for Barack Obama and despite his mediocre performance and lack of ability to turn the economy around, he is still their man.

Except for one brave woman who stood up against Obama in a townhall meeting, you would be challenged to find an Obama supporter who dared to utter anything but undying praise for the first black president.

Thank you Velma Hart for possessing the courage to say what I wish many African Americans would say to Barack Obama.

Of course to many liberals, Velma Hart could not exist.  Someone missed their dose of Kool Aid better call the “hope medics”.  She had to be a conservative plant.

Sorry Dr. Hill, Velma Hart was not a plant but you may be happy to hear that she was FIRED from her job this week.

From this story at Fox News:

Woman ‘Exhausted’ Defending Obama Loses Job

November 23, 2010

Associated Press

WASHINGTON — The woman who told President Barack Obama that she was “exhausted” from defending him and his economic policies and waiting for the change she expected after voting for him has another reason to be put out: She’s lost her job.

Velma Hart, the chief financial officer
for Am Vets, a veteran services organization based in Maryland, said Monday in an interview with CNBC that she was laid off as part of the nonprofit’s effort to cut expenses.

“I want to focus on the positive and be optimistic,” said Hart, who lives in Upper Marlboro, Md. “And assume that somehow things will work out, that there’s an opportunity out there with Velma’s name on it that’s right around the corner.”

Am Vets executive director Jim King told The Washington Post that the nonprofit was looking for ways to survive financially.

“It’s not anything she did,” King told the Post for a story that appeared online Monday. “She got bit by the same snake that has bit a lot of people. It was a move to cut our bottom line.”

“…She got bit by the same snake…”???

Or perhaps you omitted the likely truth?  That Velma Hart got bit by the snake she asked for a refund after he sold oil to her that did not do what it claimed to do?

Velma Hart, Juan Williams and the list of African Americans who speak out against liberal policies and lose their jobs will grow.

I thought the end of slavery meant freedom of ideas?

How can anyone say that there is an achievement gap between blacks an whites when it is self imposed primarily because we are aligning ourselves with a party that places a footprint in our butts whenever we speak out against it?

That is not freedom.

Allen West (R-FL) was just elected to congress on November 2nd.  Allen West is black.  Now Allen West is being branded as “wingnut” by mainstream media.

Here is another video about West. Notice the title of the video. West preaches hate.

“Wingnut” will soon get downgraded to “Uncle Tom”.   This is how the left treats anyone of color- especially blacks -that deviate from the liberal agenda.   Choice equates freedom.  This is why I am actually a Republican but also pro-choice.  I also believe that political choice equates freedom.

More African Americans should continue to speak out against the liberal agenda and how our schools are still failing, our kids are still dying and how the Democrats have not stopped it one bit.  It is not a question of what a political party can do for us.  It is a question of realizing that our destiny remains entirely up to us and if we want to be taken seriously, we have to stop blindly supporting a party that takes our vote for granted.

Unfortunately, we punish anyone within our race that asks “Why are we jumping off this mountain just because a Democrat told us to?”

And that my friends is slavery. It does not matter what color our president is.

From The British Library

Autographed Letter Signed,



Thursday Stitch N’ Bitch: White Go Go Boots, Prop 8, Hell and a Handbasket May 28, 2009

Basket weaver girlGood morning ALS readers. I want to apologize for neglecting you over the last couple of days. It is not easy maintaining a blog solo. Creating Autographed Letter Signed, is the best thing that has happened to me since I have come out of the closet as a conservative. For the past several days, I have been extremely angry, which translates into blogger’s  block. Afraid that  will write something that will offend readers, I let my feelings marinate for a bit before taking to my keyboard. Unfortunately my method did not work this time and I am still pissed off but here  am at my keyboard with so many awful feelings still leftover from current events.  But that is what Thursday Stitch N’ Bitch is for right?

Today we are not stitching anything so put your needles away. Registration has just opened for basket weaving 101. There is even an underwater version of the class being offered. Hurry! Seats fill up fast.

When it became clear to me that Obama would win the presidency,  I hoped that my fears about him being an inexperienced puppet for the left would be disproven. I was wrong. Very wrong. It is far more worse than I have ever imagined. Is it just me or is our country increasingly becoming unrecognizable?  First let’s talk for a bit about Sotomayor. I don’t give a damn about her and Republican’s should not either. However, I do think there s something to this “new racism” that is quite unsettling. Funny how when it is a liberal in question, it suddenly becomes PC to exploit ones underprivileged or racially diverse background as a skill set, yet if someone from the right utters one word about their cultural journey like RNC chairman Michael Steele, or Sarah Palin (yes diversity goes beyond race), Condeleeza Rice or  Joe the Plumber, the left goes bonkers and attempts to prove that they are a demon from outer space.

This is my new PUMA image. Afrocity is going to hell in a handbasket in style.

This is my new PUMA image. Afrocity is going to hell in a handbasket in style.

Several weeks ago, I had a conversation with an Obamabot friend.  I was trying not to bring up politics but you know that never works and there we were discussing prop 8 and abortion. She was surprised that I was pro-choice and had hopes that I was “coming back around” to the Democrats. Don’t choke on your goat cheese panini, that boat has sailed my dear. The more I am around the multitudes of Democrats in this city, the more I feel like a fool for having ever supported them. The smug sanctimonious “my way of life is better than yours and the government must help every body bullshit”  makes me dry heave. This talk of taxing potato chips and soda pop, panting rooftops white to save us from global warming. American obesity is all so fucking paramount too since ya know North Korea is like testing Nooclear weapons and we can all eat lots more with that gaping hole in our stomachs. I am angry that the feds are buying General Motors. We are looking more and more like the former Soviet Union every damn day.

I was recently regaled with a tale from a former black drug addict about the drive he participated in during the 1960’s to get African Americans to switch from the Republican Party to the Democrats. How is that working for us?  He then continued by saying that he hopes Obama gives his family some money. Ha! Fat Chance. The Obama will save us mantra is so  tongue n’ cheek for the black community now. Sticking a bony hand into that mailbox hoping to grab a pony must be old by now.  This brings me back to my liberal friend and Prop 8 and the disturbing questions surrounding blacks and their hatred for gays.

Look, it is not a race thing. You guys know that I have an entire database of mom stories. I say this will all honesty. There has never once been a time that my family has ever said that they disapproved of homosexuality due to the fact that most homosexuals and lesbians were white.  Don’t misunderstand, the disapproval was still there and something I have had to battle against in my own psyche.  Mother told me my first homophobia story when I was six years old. That winter brought the UGGs of my time…Tiny white snow boots. I was obsessed with having a pair but mom resisted my pleas. While walking down State Street, I would plant myself in front of Baker’s Shoes, just staring at the boots. They would look so cute with my parochial uniform and I would be just like the other girls in class. It all came to a head one day when I pitched a fit and mother had to drag me away from Baker’s into Woolworths. She was looking for a bra and Woolworth five n’ dime bras as cheap as it may sound, were a luxury for her.  She proposed that I go into the basement section to look at the toys she would never buy me. Nope, I sat there on the floor under a rack of girdles. She was gonna watch those tears dry on my face.  I had half expected to get pulled into a public bathroom for an impromptu spanking when she took my hand and sat me at the red leather bar stool in the luncheonette. Woolworth’s cheeseburgers were my favorite. Not fair. I smiled as mother rolled her eyes at me. I would continue to stage my own sit in for the boots. It was my civil right to have a pair but nothing said I could not eat a tasty meal while staging my non-violent protest.  Gleefully, I ordered my cheeseburger with extra pickles with fries and a rootbeer float. Mother got a bowl of cottage cheese on top of lime jello (she was always dieting).  The counter waitress was slicing a pizza for another customer as I began to twirl round and round on my barstool, kicking my feet. How lovely I would look in those white snow boots.

sit in

“I would never order pizza here.” Mother said with a look of disdain.  She was a Chicago pizza snob.  I ignored her thinking about my imaginary white boots. Around and around attempting to balance myself without having to grab onto to counter and feel all that old bubble gum that was stuck underneath. Someone called my mother’s name. It was a man’s voice , I turned to look but I was dizzy from all of the barstool twirling and fell on the floor into a pair of long brown legs wrapped in white go go boots.

“Oh my lord!”  The man said to my mother. “Child, I haven’t seen you since the riots.”

My mother didn’t notice me on the floor she seemed embarrassed. “Jackie where have you been?”

Jackie was “happy” and flapping his arms about hugging me my who just stood there stiffly.

“Who are you?”  I asked the man wearing a dress and the white boots I wanted to own.  Mother realized I existed and introduced me to Jackie. “Jackie is my best friend from the old neighborhood before you were born.”

“We were thick as thieves”  Jackie said loudly.  Standing there like dummies I jumped back on the stool, my cheeseburger was there. Jackie took the stool next to me with the waitress staring at him. His coat dress was a pretty white fur with camel fleece trim at the bottom. He sat his orange suede bag next to me.  “I will have a slice of sausage pizza and a Tab.”   Jackie said.  I looked at my mother to say the Woolworth’s pizza was nasty but she had picked up a pepper shaker and was putting way to much on her cottage cheese.  I said it for her. “Woolworth’s pizza is in-fear-ri-or.”  Inferior was my big word of the week. This was a game mom had invented for me.  Jackie looked at me. His hair was what we called “chemically processed” . Very wavy and had a hairnet over it.  He looked a bit like Prince during his “Little Red Corvette” days You know that album with Prince naked riding a unicorn?  That was Jackie.

70's style“Your momma never liked the pizza here. We have been coming to this Woolworth’s since the 40’s. That is a long ass time your momma and I been knowing each other.” Jackie stared at mother. “I helped you out a lot. Got you out of plenty of messes. I even spoke to you when you was carrying your son and gave you a place to stay when your daddy kicked you out of his house for being pregnant. Why you go an’ lose me like that?”  Jackie looked hurt. The waitress was taking too long just standing there with the slice of greasy pizza on a plate.

Mother would not look at Jackie, just the green jello and curdles of cheese. “You lost yourself when I saw you kissing a man in the back of a car on Pulaski. My daughter is here so I won’t say much about what it is that you are but you if sew the wind and you reap the whirlwind .”

Jackie shook his head “mm, mmm,mm. Now you found God but your kids don’t have a daddy still,” he said getting up.

“You don’t want this pizza no more?” The waitress asked . “I still have to charge you for it because I put it on a plate.”

Jackie threw down a 10 dollar bill which was enough to pay for all of us. He pushed the pizza towards me and mother reached across me real fast and pushed it away. “She does not like it either.”

Jackie started humming a song loudly and switched away from white boots and all. I would never see him again.  As for my mother, she was silent until she said ” You will never wear any white boots okay?”

I could only nod. That was just as well since Christmas was almost upon us anyway and I would want other things.

“White boots and dime store pizza is for sissies and loose women. You don’t want to look like a whore and go to hell in a handbasket do you?”

“No, momma.”

Jackie was a “sissy” I thought as I finished off my fries.  Sissies are men who wear women’s clothing. Flip Wilson wears women’s clothes when he plays Geraldine on his comedy show. Therefore he is a sissy. All sissies and whores go to hell just like the Beatles for playing rock music and wearing pants that are too tight.

Got it mom.

How easily the seeds of hatred are planted. And we were Democrats too. My mother was right there when the Chicago Eight raised hell in Grant Park. She felt most at home being a liberal but somehow it never translated to her forgiving Jackie for kissing a man. Jackie was African American but he could have been Caucasian and her reaction would have been just the same. There is no mental debate here. 80% of blacks voting for Prop 8 is not an issue of racism for them.

For Dummy 2

My mother mad Jackie lose heart over her strong religious belief that homosexuality was morally wrong. She did not care that he was black like her. He was not equal because he was not moral. This was the flaw in her liberal character. Bayard Rustin was a pivotal figure in the civil rights movement. How many of you have heard of Baryard Rustin? Bayard was African American. Bayard Rustin was Martin Luther King Jr.’s chief adviser. Bayard Rustin orchestrated King’s epic “March on Washington”. Bayard Rustin was also gay.  Bayard Rustin’s memory suffers from amnesia- the collective kind. African American’s have done very little to remedy this situation. Bayard Rustin is was a black man so let’s stop it with the accusations of racism. It is not helping matters.

My date and I at senior prom. 1988.

My date and I at senior prom. 1988.

Dirt cheap entertainment but thrilling is my Ipod. I have a tendency to listen to one song over and over again, depending on what mood I am in. Lately that song has been “Miss You” by the Rolling Stones. The song is appropriate to the American situation, this down spiral nook we have gotten ourselves into. I miss my mother,I miss my grandmother. I miss Martin Luther King and I didn’t know the guy. I wish he was here to wake my fellow African Americans up from this Kool Aid comma. I miss everything that was before this election, something has turned us all into racists. Eventually, I got past the things my mother taught me. My best friend in high school was gay. Tall, dark and strikingly handsome, he was a lot like “Jackie” helping me when mom and I got evicted from our apartment in 1987. I never told mother that he was gay but I think she knew and did not want to complicate the matter and chase away the only friend I had. He was my prom date and she seemed excited as she gathered the train from my fluffy dress snapping pictures. I miss the days of bubble gum pink prom dresses, nasty greasy Woolworth’s pizza and white go-go boots. My handbasket is fireproofed with memories of better times, independent will and the remembrance that we were once allowed the freedom to say what we wanted to say without being called racists.

Autographed Letter Signed,