BG

By all accounts, Brittney Griner is a gentle soul. Quite a feat, considering the challenges being a six-foot nine-inch female who weighs two-hundred five pounds and is openly gay present. (Not to mention that unless your name is Giannis Antetokounmpo or Joel Embiid, she can probably kick your ass to the dark side of the moon in a game of basketball.)

As players in the WNBA often do, she had traveled to Europe to play a second season following her 2021 WNBA Finals appearance with the Phoenix Mercury. It is unknown if she had successfully smuggled cannabis into Russia previously, but this time her attempt was unsuccessful.

I don't pretend to know Russia's drug laws or precisely what is meant by “a small amount” of cannabis, but I'm guessing that even in Vladimir Putin's Russia, this is not the equivalent of a first-degree felony. And yet Griner has been treated nearly like a serial killer.

Detained in February and tried in August, she was sentenced to nine-years in prison. Her legal team filed for an appeal and were denied in October. Now comes word that she has been sent to a penal colony, an extraordinarily harsh punishment in light of her crime.

At first glance, it's hard not to wonder if she is being treated more severely owing to her status as a celebrity. After all, this is Putin-land, where cases like this proceed in whatever fashion will guarantee maximum exposure.

A commonly held belief is that Griner is a political pawn, kept in storage until such a point she can be used as a bargaining chip in the aftermath of the war in Ukraine. And if this is the case, does it make sense to let a valuable prisoner languish in such deprived conditions?

This is supposition, of course. For all I know, Putin lost a butt-load on the Mercury in the 2021 WNBA Finals and this is his preferred manner of extracting revenge. But given the dire reality of Putin's twisted autocracy, the probability remains that this woman has become a pawn in his latest political drama.

All that is left is for the U.S. and Russia to determine her worth before the inevitable negotiations begin.

Another chapter in the book of human cruelty.

The Self-Administered Muzzle

Sigh. We've gone and done it again. In our abject fear of defeat, we play not to lose. Which of course only ensures we will.

OK. WTF? you ask. Let me explain.

Last Saturday, President Biden uttered the strongest, most-decisive words of his presidency. Speaking in Poland, he said Vladimir Putin “cannot remain in power.”

Yay.

Vladimir Putin is a toxin. In the relatively giant world of 1900, his toxicity would have remained largely contained to Ukraine and environs. In the shrunken, interconnected world we inhabit in 2022, it overflows and contaminates vast swaths of it.

Like his orange-haired counterpart in the U.S., Putin has been given far too long a leash by a global community more intent on avoiding conflict and provocation than protecting sovereignty. We have collectively given Putin an inch, and spoiled child he is, he has taken a yard.

He is deserving of Biden's words. And so much more.

But then the Democrats fucked it up.

Fearful of letting such strong words stand, they scurried to walk it back. Spinmeisters rushed to the world's press and nervously clamored “No! What Joe meant to say was...” In doing so, they opened the door to the always fragrant opinions of Putin-bitch Dmitry Peskov, who saw the opportunity and ran with it like an NFL running back charging through a four-foot hole.

Dear DNC: Has it ever crossed your mind that to win a game, it might be highly-profitable to play to win, as opposed to playing not-to-lose? Has it ever occurred to you that instead of remaining fearful at incurring the opposition's wrath, it might just be enormously-profitable to energize and engage your base?

To stand tall and say “We are Democrats! We believe in inclusion! Democracy! Equality! Law! And order!” To stand tall and shout “Vladimir Putin is a shit! And it's okay to call a shit a shit!”

I mean, ever?

Granted, you did once. When you stood in direct opposition to the blatant racism and discrimination that prevailed in the United States. Remember?

Once and for all: Stop apologizing!

Let's fire up the meat-grinder (literal or metaphorical—either one works) and make Vladimir Putin victim number-one.

Let's be proud not only of who we are, but who we are not.

Truth

 

“Ukraine has no reason to exist.” —V. Putin

“Right back at ya, Vladimir.” —Ukraine

 

The Empty Soul of Donald Trump

I have always hated Donald Trump.

I hated him when he was a self-styled New York City businessman preening for any camera within sight. I hated him when he was a reality TV star, reveling in the sadism his mantle on The Apprentice afforded him.

And I hate him as President of the United States of America.

This is because the most contemptible example of humanity is the person who loves to dish out abuse but can't take it themselves. While they gleefully smear reputations, engage in rumor-mongering and relish the opportunity to pile-on, they erupt in self-righteous indignation whenever the snark and the humiliation is directed at them.

And while this dynamic has reached epidemic proportions in 2019 America, one figure towers above all in the wholeheartedness of his embrace: our president.

Even beyond the taxing demands of issuing a non-stop barrage of childish nicknames for anyone who doesn't worship at the altar of Donald, the Trump-whore is perpetually on guard for slights and insults; accusations that every word falling from his tiny, pursed mouth isn't necessarily the soul of truth.

Or suggestions that in the manifold obligations of his office, Donald might be, um, bereft.

When he isn't puffing out his chest and extolling his great and innumerable accomplishments, the Trump-whore is belittling and accusing. That's it. That's all he has. Two speeds. Two dimensions.

Which, I hasten to point out, is one less than you and I and just one removed from Scooby Doo.

After a recent sketch on Saturday Night Live (which, like all satire worthy of the name, contained more than a grain of truth), Donald again took to Twitter and issued another puerile attack, suggesting that anyone with the temerity to mock a giant like himself ought to be investigated.

He went on to suggest that the show's less-than-flattering portrayal of him was “one-sided” and that it was potentially illegal.

As a radicalized socialist, I'll admit it was one-sided. It was the complete opposite of Donald's appearance last night at CPAC, where he pleaded with the nation to take an objective look at our media and consume it responsibly.

Where he urged his base to move on from the manufactured scandal of Hillary Clinton's e-mails, put aside its knee-jerk hatred of immigrants and consider—if only for a moment—how a pending real estate deal in Moscow might have compromised his campaign's integrity.

But the night's high point occurred when the Trump-whore revealed previously-unknown depths of honesty. He fell to one knee and like a sinner prostrated before the cross, admitted it was possible more people may have attended Barack Obama's inauguration than his own.

Sniff.

Instead of sober reflection on his failed summit with political despot Kim Jong un or laying out a plan to consolidate the nation's strengths and how best to shore-up its weaknesses, the Trump-whore whined and complained about the same things he's been whining and complaining about for more than two years now.

A one-trick pony running the only course he knows.

It was a pitiable, one-hundred twenty-minute howl from the forlorn wilderness of Donald's empty soul. The lashing-out of a petulant bully who doesn't understand why everyone doesn't do what he tells us to do and believe what he tells us to believe.

Why can't we take him at face value, they way he does Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong-un? What is wrong with us? Why can't we see Donald the way he sees himself?

If there has been a sadder figure ever to occupy elected office, I'd like to see them. But even as a recipient of what is often termed the world's best health care, I don't think I'll live that long. 
 

The Wind That Blows in Three Directions at Once

I've always been the curious type. So it's only natural that I try to understand things. Even Republicans.

As I observe the brain-damaged example currently in the White House, I have to wonder what became of one of the core tenets of Republican ideology. You know, the one about personal responsibility.

I'm not talking about washing your hands after using the bathroom (although that's always a good idea). No, I'm talking about the one which implies “I never needed any help from anyone—ever. I got everything I have by myself without any help from anybody. So keep your taxes and your subsidies and social programs out of my paycheck.”

Fantasies are wonderful things. They're like a guest house situated on a remote corner of property. Or a man cave. They're private places where we can unwind, stretch out and exhale. Places where we can pretend. Places where we can forget about getting the kids to soccer practice and the recurring check engine light in the car.

But fantasies only go so far.

Take the governor of a state who adamantly refuses to expand Medicaid in accordance with the Affordable Care Act, and cites state sovereignty as one of the unassailable touchstones of democracy.

But then a natural disaster strikes. And all that resolute self-sufficiency evaporates like water on a Phoenix sidewalk. I'll leave it to your supple imagination to puzzle-out the governor who is first in line for a hand-out.

And then there is America's most-profound purveyor of personal responsibility—our President.

The son of a wealthy developer who had his career jump-started with a fourteen-million dollar loan from daddy (how's that for rugged self-sufficiency?), Donnie asks that we overlook this and instead see him as he sees himself: as an amazing man gifted with an unerring prescience for making quick and incisive decisions.

Donnie's willingness to shoulder the yoke of responsibility is best illuminated when it comes to owning up to his failures. He takes full responsibility only for assigning blame, sounding like the youngest sibling who squeals on his older brothers and sisters.

Donnie is waylaid by the media and its relentless barrage of fake-news. Donnie is waylaid by a cabal of Democrats and their witch hunts. Donnie is waylaid by disloyal advisors and cabinet members. And Donnie is waylaid by corrupt Federal agencies. 

All of them conspire to make Sir Whine-a-Lot look bad. It never ends. No wonder the hardest working component of Donnie's physiology is his index finger. 

Paragon of personal responsibility that he is, Donnie is responsible only for his successes—such as they are.

(To be fair, he has proved himself consistently capable of finding his way from the private living quarters on the second floor of the White House to his offices on the first. So there's that.)

But every bad decision, every fumbled response and every tactical error is someone else's fault.

To use our President's favorite expression, it's rigged.

Who would know better than the guy who enlisted Vladimir Putin's hackers to help tilt the election his way?

Who would know better than the guy who made his businesses the portal through which anyone seeking access to the White House must pass?

Who would know better than the guy who gave himself and his businesses and his most-ardent sponsors a big, fat bri—I mean tax break?

Who would know better than the guy who granted immunity to the two most-potentially damaging witnesses in the Mueller investigation?

And who would know better than the guy who nominated a lap cat to sit on the Supreme Court, thereby guaranteeing him a friendly judge and jury should the Mueller investigation become a little too threatening?

Yeah, Donnie. It's rigged.

And however unintentional it is, it's refreshing to hear you finally speak the truth.

Putin's Bitch

I am amazed. Astonished. And speechless.

Acting like a beaten and broken victim freshly released from a POW camp, Donald Trump was paraded in front of TV cameras today and meekly surrendered to Vladimir Putin. He did everything but declare “I am Vladimir's bitch.”

Of course, such a confirmation is entirely unnecessary. Those of us not in 'Make America Great Again' hats figured that out long ago.

So what does Vladimir have on our president? And how soon can the charges of treason be filed?

Is it not absolutely astounding that Donald Trump is exactly the man Republicans attempted to convince us Barrack Obama was? A man sworn to and acting in the interests of a country not his own?

I, for one, want to see the Trump-whore's birth certificate.

Dick-Swingin' Donald

After having gotten pantsed by Kim Jong-un in Singapore and smearing excrement all over our allies, our brain-damaged president is now off to Helsinki to meet with his mentor, Vladimir Putin, on how best to further undermine democracy.

Of course, dick-swingin' Donald isn't letting on as such, but the lack of a formal agenda and the exclusion of any media or observers points to only one thing.

Face it, folks. Donald admires Vladimir and considers him a role-model. He adores how Putin dispatches his enemies and—above all else—disobedient journalists. Putin is his business plan.

I am confident that when the definitive history of America is written, the Trump administration will be credited with being the beginning of the end.

Like the bumper sticker says, Fuck Trump. And fuck the people who voted for him.

Pathos on Ice

I am trying to measure pathos. The pathos involved in the president of a very large and very powerful nation hosting a birthday party slash hockey game with former NHL all-stars. One concocted to feature the five-foot-seven, sixty-three year-old birthday boy presumably fighting his way through more-talented (and much-younger) opposition to *cough* score seven goals. 

All on national TV, of course.

It's tough. I mean, do rulers come in extra large?

If Vladimir Putin riding a stallion shirtless through the Russian countryside wasn't sad enough, attempting to hoodwink us into believing he's a geriatric Wayne Gretzky is beyond the pale. I think we can all agree Putin is no Gretzky. 

Never mind Fabio.

What's next for Russia's most-famous case of small man syndrome? A figure-skating routine at the 2018 winter Olympics in Pyeongchang? A leading role in an upcoming Bolshoi production of Swan Lake?

If the Los Angeles Lakers haven't turned things around by then, could Putin take a turn at point guard next year? Would Jerry Jones step aside and allow Putin to be Dallas Cowboy GM for a day? Is center-fielder for the Yankees too far-fetched?

Using the late, great George Plimpton as a template, why doesn't one of Hollywood's production studios create a reality TV show based on the exploits of the ubiquitous Vladimir? Call it Vladimir Putin: Extreme Temp. Or Vladimir Putin Eats Your Job.

And if that's a hit, how about a movie based on Forrest Gump which inserts Putin into important events throughout time? We can watch Putin re-write history as he “inVlades” (copyright pending) nations the world over and bombs, bombs, bombs.

Anyone hear a hit single there? A profitable ring tone?

However fetching President Putin might look in a leotard and ballet flats, what I find truly fascinating is his bottomless need for adoration. 

What happens when he can't get enough?