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And the clear and historic winner in New Hampshire primary is… Donald J. Trump

by Vanderleun on February 12, 2020

Trump more than doubles Obama’s old numbers in off-the-charts New Hampshire primary!

Meanwhile… in other campaigns, the numbers tell the neverending story of chaos, confusion, and stealth communism.

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Comments on this entry are closed.

Casey Klahn February 12, 2020, 5:02 PM

Wow! A blowout!

It’ll be interesting to see BootyJudge if he gets nominated. His vote count nationwide will be tepid. No one, in spite of vocal virtue-signaling to the contrary, really wants to imagine gay sex in the White House. I mean, there’s equality and all, but FFS. It’s disgusting if you’re truly honest about it. And not to mention sinful.

Tepid voting for the dem nom would assure Trump of an absolute slaughter in the voting. A bloodbath.

I am only reporting the state of our culture. BootyJ packs shit. You realize that, right?

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John the River February 13, 2020, 7:34 AM

Buttigieg as the Democrat Nominee?

Putin is salivating.

We want a president with balls up front, not bouncing off his bum.

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Welcome to the New American Digest: 2003-2020

My Back Pages

Van der Leun: The Normblog Bio of Your Host

“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”

A Wicker Basket

Comes the time when it’s later
and onto your table the headwaiter
puts the bill, and very soon after
rings out the sound of lively laughter—

Picking up change, hands like a walrus,
and a face like a barndoor’s,
and a head without any apparent size,
nothing but two eyes—

So that’s you, man,
or me. I make it as I can,
I pick up, I go
faster than they know—

Out the door, the street like a night,
any night, and no one in sight,
but then, well, there she is,
old friend Liz—

And she opens the door of her cadillac,
I step in back,
and we’re gone.
She turns me on—

There are very huge stars, man, in the sky,
and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie,
with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it,
and I eat it—

Slowly. And while certainly
they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket
of these cats not making it, I make it

in my wicker basket.

— BY ROBERT CREELEY