President Obama and the “S” word
By
Bill O'Reilly
For the Love of Hersh
Bank Robbers
Rush Limbaugh recently mocked me because I do not call President Obama a socialist.
Although I asked Obama to explain his “socialistic tenets” in my last interview with him, I have not branded him with the “S” word, because the label does not exactly apply to his governance thus far.
As defined in the American Heritage Dictionary, socialism is a social organization in which the means of distributing and producing goods is owned collectively.
Last time I looked, my production of material was owned by my corporation; the government was not involved. Yes, the federal, state and local governments can tax me at will, and they do. But that's a constitutional mandate and part of our capitalistic system. So until Obama begins seizing condos, I cannot put the “S” word on his resume.
Of course, millions of Americans disagree with me, and I have plenty of e-mails to prove it. The basic theme is “we don't need no stinkin’ dictionary to tell us Obama is a socialist.” OK, fine. I admit the man wants a huge federal presence to control as much of the economy as possible. I will agree that he is a big income-redistribution guy. But as long as he isn't nationalizing industry or purloining private property, I don't think the socialist label is accurate.
But what I think doesn't matter. If socialism and Obama become linked in the minds of most voters, the president is done — and thus, the campaign to label him Hugo Chavez Lite. According to a recent Gallup poll, 36 percent of Americans view socialism positively, but 58 percent see it as a negative. No American president could win re-election if deemed a socialist.
There is only one socialist in Congress, Sen. Bernie Sanders of Vermont. Sanders is proud to state that he wants the government to call the economic shots and make sure there is “economic justice.” That means if your house is too big, the feds should be able to subdivide it. Sanders is a frightening guy. They love him on NBC News.
But let's get back to the president. If he does not begin tamping down the big government "nanny state" strategy, I believe the socialist label will get traction.
Even with all our problems, the United States remains the most successful economy in the world, offering the most opportunity to the most people. Just ask the 12 million illegal aliens currently in this country. Capitalism is not going anywhere, and socialism will not take root here. If Obama gets on the wrong side of this, he is a one-termer for sure.
But short of putting Sanders in handcuffs, there really isn't much the president can do to turn the “S” word situation around. Except maybe hang around with Donald Trump.
As defined in the American Heritage Dictionary, socialism is a social organization in which the means of distributing and producing goods is owned collectively.
Last time I looked, my production of material was owned by my corporation; the government was not involved. Yes, the federal, state and local governments can tax me at will, and they do. But that's a constitutional mandate and part of our capitalistic system. So until Obama begins seizing condos, I cannot put the “S” word on his resume.
Of course, millions of Americans disagree with me, and I have plenty of e-mails to prove it. The basic theme is “we don't need no stinkin’ dictionary to tell us Obama is a socialist.” OK, fine. I admit the man wants a huge federal presence to control as much of the economy as possible. I will agree that he is a big income-redistribution guy. But as long as he isn't nationalizing industry or purloining private property, I don't think the socialist label is accurate.
But what I think doesn't matter. If socialism and Obama become linked in the minds of most voters, the president is done — and thus, the campaign to label him Hugo Chavez Lite. According to a recent Gallup poll, 36 percent of Americans view socialism positively, but 58 percent see it as a negative. No American president could win re-election if deemed a socialist.
There is only one socialist in Congress, Sen. Bernie Sanders of Vermont. Sanders is proud to state that he wants the government to call the economic shots and make sure there is “economic justice.” That means if your house is too big, the feds should be able to subdivide it. Sanders is a frightening guy. They love him on NBC News.
But let's get back to the president. If he does not begin tamping down the big government "nanny state" strategy, I believe the socialist label will get traction.
Even with all our problems, the United States remains the most successful economy in the world, offering the most opportunity to the most people. Just ask the 12 million illegal aliens currently in this country. Capitalism is not going anywhere, and socialism will not take root here. If Obama gets on the wrong side of this, he is a one-termer for sure.
But short of putting Sanders in handcuffs, there really isn't much the president can do to turn the “S” word situation around. Except maybe hang around with Donald Trump.
For the Love of Hersh
By
Susan Estrich
When I was growing up, we never had a dog.
My mother told us we would be too sad when it died. She was not one for that “better to have loved and lost” business. Loss, to be spared at all cost, could at least be avoided on the pet front by not having one. Later, my brother got a cat, but when he and my mother moved into an apartment, the cat went to the farm.
So although I have buried my mother and father and lost close, close friends, I had never lost a dog, until we lost Hershey Kaplan. In loving Hershey, and in losing him, I understood one more time how wrong my mother was, and how much poorer her life, and ours, was because of it. When Hershey died, I cried for all of us.
Heaven, more than one person has said, is the place where you get to see all the dogs you've loved.
I wasn't there when my father died. I'd left the hospital a few hours before — I don't know why, probably to “get some sleep,” because that's what I did every night for the 10 days after my father had his heart attack. Some days he was better than others. Some days I had hope. The last day I didn't, but I went to get some sleep anyway.
Many years later, many years older, I flew to my mother's bedside, where she lay dying.
I arrived before dawn, sat with her as the sun came up, held her hand and sang familiar blessings as she took her last breath. My mother's death was calm, peaceful; it was not scary.
Thinking about it, as I had my father's death for so many years, was much scarier.
My mother prepared me to lose my first dog. Her death prepared me for his. How ironic and sad.
Hershey was a much-loved dog, and he loved us in the way only a dog can, despite everything, forgiving everything. He did not have it easy.
Our neighbor hit him with his car one Halloween night, his leg broken. He suffered from a cocker's bad ears, one infection after another, ending up deaf in both.
For years, he had bad kidneys and yearned for an old-fashioned biscuit or bone. But through it all, through the cyst on his head and the careless grooming that cut his leg, through separation and divorce and kids going back and forth, through sickness and health, we all loved him, and he loved us.
When I cry for Hershey, I also cry for my children, watching them grieve for their dog, understanding that someday, as it should be, they will grieve for me and for their father. I hope they will remember, someday, that the painful price of love is a small one to pay for its gifts.
It is a dog's last lesson to those he loved to teach them this, to show them that they can let go, and still hold on, that true love really does never die.
Rest in peace, Hershey Kaplan. A handsome chocolate cocker, he would have been 13 in April. May God bless you and keep you and grant you peace, my very good man.
My mother told us we would be too sad when it died. She was not one for that “better to have loved and lost” business. Loss, to be spared at all cost, could at least be avoided on the pet front by not having one. Later, my brother got a cat, but when he and my mother moved into an apartment, the cat went to the farm.
So although I have buried my mother and father and lost close, close friends, I had never lost a dog, until we lost Hershey Kaplan. In loving Hershey, and in losing him, I understood one more time how wrong my mother was, and how much poorer her life, and ours, was because of it. When Hershey died, I cried for all of us.
Heaven, more than one person has said, is the place where you get to see all the dogs you've loved.
I wasn't there when my father died. I'd left the hospital a few hours before — I don't know why, probably to “get some sleep,” because that's what I did every night for the 10 days after my father had his heart attack. Some days he was better than others. Some days I had hope. The last day I didn't, but I went to get some sleep anyway.
Many years later, many years older, I flew to my mother's bedside, where she lay dying.
I arrived before dawn, sat with her as the sun came up, held her hand and sang familiar blessings as she took her last breath. My mother's death was calm, peaceful; it was not scary.
Thinking about it, as I had my father's death for so many years, was much scarier.
My mother prepared me to lose my first dog. Her death prepared me for his. How ironic and sad.
Hershey was a much-loved dog, and he loved us in the way only a dog can, despite everything, forgiving everything. He did not have it easy.
Our neighbor hit him with his car one Halloween night, his leg broken. He suffered from a cocker's bad ears, one infection after another, ending up deaf in both.
For years, he had bad kidneys and yearned for an old-fashioned biscuit or bone. But through it all, through the cyst on his head and the careless grooming that cut his leg, through separation and divorce and kids going back and forth, through sickness and health, we all loved him, and he loved us.
When I cry for Hershey, I also cry for my children, watching them grieve for their dog, understanding that someday, as it should be, they will grieve for me and for their father. I hope they will remember, someday, that the painful price of love is a small one to pay for its gifts.
It is a dog's last lesson to those he loved to teach them this, to show them that they can let go, and still hold on, that true love really does never die.
Rest in peace, Hershey Kaplan. A handsome chocolate cocker, he would have been 13 in April. May God bless you and keep you and grant you peace, my very good man.
Bank Robbers
By
David D. Creekmore
When times get hard people start robbing everything. The latest seems to be banks. I suppose everyone is taking their advice from the notorious bank robber of the 1930s, Willie “the Actor” Sutton. When he was asked why he robbed so many banks he said “because that’s where they keep the money.”
The latest semi-professional bank robber was in Athens, Tenn., recently. He walked into the bank, gave the teller a note, she gave him the money, he came out and got on his bicycle. He proceeded to try to escape across four lanes of traffic and was immediately hit by a car. The bank security guard took him into custody. He had to go to the hospital. Then, he left to go to jail for a long time.
My favorite group of bank robbers was from back in the 1960s. I was working evenings, and they brought in two fellows who were dressed in hospital gowns.
When we issued their jail clothes it looked like they had the measles. They had shot marks all over them. Their story was that there used to be a little bank between New Tazewell and the state line. It had been there since 1925. When Roosevelt ordered the banks closed in 1933, they did not get the word so they did not close.
They were probably the only bank in the nation that was still open and still solvent.
However, two men (I hesitate to call them gentlemen) from Ohio were on their way to Florida. They were taking the back roads to get there. They saw the bank and decided they would rob it.
They pulled into the parking lot, put on Halloween masks and walked in with pistols. They told the teller, “this is a robbery, give us the money.” She looked at them and said “No.”
Now, you have to remember that banks used to be constructed so they were almost impossible to rob. They had marble counters and brass rods that ran all the way up to the ceiling. The tellers had to be let in and out by a bank official.
The teller, who had worked there since the 1930s, simply ducked down behind the marble counter, and there was no way they could get to her.
They couldn’t jump over the brass rods, they couldn’t shoot her because she was under the marble counter, so they stood there for a few minutes and decided that maybe they had made a mistake.
They had made a bigger mistake than they thought. The teller had pushed the alarm button, which sounded in the sheriff’s office in Tazewell, and it also sounded in the hardware store down the street.
Unfortunately, this was the first day of dove season. As these two “bank robbers” came out of the bank they were faced with 15 fellows armed with shotguns who told them “drop it.”
One of them was not smart enough to do this so the local dove hunters opened up on them.
They probably fired 50 rounds of dove shot, which effectively put them out of action.
When the sheriff got there they demanded to be taken to a hospital, which was done. They were taken to U.T. Hospital where the doctor spent several hours picking shot out of their hide and then they were taken to jail. As far as I can tell, that’s the dumbest bank robbery I have ever heard of, but this one in Athens comes really close.
The FBI has one fellow they say has robbed 19 banks, and they have gone to the expense of putting up billboards in four states to try to apprehend him. So far, no luck. They call him the “Grandfather Bank Robber” because that is what he looks like. He seems to be very successful at his line of work.
My Uncle Warren worked for Ford Motor Company. He was the chief of quality control.
On his office wall was a picture of Bonnie and Clyde, the bank robbers from the 1930s and underneath it was a letter they had written, which said “Dear Mr. Ford, if it wasn’t for your excellent V-8 cars, we wouldn’t be as successful in our line of work as we have been. Sincerely, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow.”
It’ s not a good idea to taunt the opposition, but they did. And ultimately they paid the price. I suppose the “Grandfather Bank Robber” will be caught and pay the price.
The latest semi-professional bank robber was in Athens, Tenn., recently. He walked into the bank, gave the teller a note, she gave him the money, he came out and got on his bicycle. He proceeded to try to escape across four lanes of traffic and was immediately hit by a car. The bank security guard took him into custody. He had to go to the hospital. Then, he left to go to jail for a long time.
My favorite group of bank robbers was from back in the 1960s. I was working evenings, and they brought in two fellows who were dressed in hospital gowns.
When we issued their jail clothes it looked like they had the measles. They had shot marks all over them. Their story was that there used to be a little bank between New Tazewell and the state line. It had been there since 1925. When Roosevelt ordered the banks closed in 1933, they did not get the word so they did not close.
They were probably the only bank in the nation that was still open and still solvent.
However, two men (I hesitate to call them gentlemen) from Ohio were on their way to Florida. They were taking the back roads to get there. They saw the bank and decided they would rob it.
They pulled into the parking lot, put on Halloween masks and walked in with pistols. They told the teller, “this is a robbery, give us the money.” She looked at them and said “No.”
Now, you have to remember that banks used to be constructed so they were almost impossible to rob. They had marble counters and brass rods that ran all the way up to the ceiling. The tellers had to be let in and out by a bank official.
The teller, who had worked there since the 1930s, simply ducked down behind the marble counter, and there was no way they could get to her.
They couldn’t jump over the brass rods, they couldn’t shoot her because she was under the marble counter, so they stood there for a few minutes and decided that maybe they had made a mistake.
They had made a bigger mistake than they thought. The teller had pushed the alarm button, which sounded in the sheriff’s office in Tazewell, and it also sounded in the hardware store down the street.
Unfortunately, this was the first day of dove season. As these two “bank robbers” came out of the bank they were faced with 15 fellows armed with shotguns who told them “drop it.”
One of them was not smart enough to do this so the local dove hunters opened up on them.
They probably fired 50 rounds of dove shot, which effectively put them out of action.
When the sheriff got there they demanded to be taken to a hospital, which was done. They were taken to U.T. Hospital where the doctor spent several hours picking shot out of their hide and then they were taken to jail. As far as I can tell, that’s the dumbest bank robbery I have ever heard of, but this one in Athens comes really close.
The FBI has one fellow they say has robbed 19 banks, and they have gone to the expense of putting up billboards in four states to try to apprehend him. So far, no luck. They call him the “Grandfather Bank Robber” because that is what he looks like. He seems to be very successful at his line of work.
My Uncle Warren worked for Ford Motor Company. He was the chief of quality control.
On his office wall was a picture of Bonnie and Clyde, the bank robbers from the 1930s and underneath it was a letter they had written, which said “Dear Mr. Ford, if it wasn’t for your excellent V-8 cars, we wouldn’t be as successful in our line of work as we have been. Sincerely, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow.”
It’ s not a good idea to taunt the opposition, but they did. And ultimately they paid the price. I suppose the “Grandfather Bank Robber” will be caught and pay the price.
