[img]1|left|||no_popup[/img]I am intrigued by willfully duped black Congressmen who make annual pilgrimages to Cuba where they extend their dropping hands and bend their knees in humble, eye-fluttering homage because they are gushingly fascinated by the Brothers Castro and their little island prison.
What is it about dictators who enslave their own pathetic dark-skinned peasants that black Congressmen find irresistible?
It is counter-intuitive.
They are my candidates for the seven craziest blacks in America.
Are they in favor of enslavement for certain blacks but not for themselves?
This is an astounding psychological gaffe.
The equivalent for me would be to visit the oppressed Jews of Iran or Syria. Afterward, I would stand before a battery of microphones and cameras to declare, with a straight face, what fine, tragically misunderstood chaps the lovely Muslim dictators of Syria and Iran are.
Guess Who Has a Crush?
But take comfort, dear reader. President Appeasement says Muslims are new our BFFs.
Do these unrelenting boobs, who place the accent mark over their blackness whenever they travel to this workers’ paradise, think that most Cubans are conservatives, and therefore deserve to be treated as badly or worse than American slaves ever were, deserve to be treated like mangy 3-legged dogs?
Seven members of the Congressional Black Caucus traveled to Cuba, led by the most embarrassing woman in Washington, Barbara Lee, the designated harmonica-shlepper, who blew a note, raised her arm as the acting choir director, and led the Silly Seven in a chorus of “Halleluyah, halleluyah, Fidel has come out of the sea to save us. Praise the Lord.”
(She couldn’t add “”and pass the ammunition” because she opposes gun ownership.)
What could Ms. Lee, who keeps getting re-elected to Congress by the ubiquitous criminal element that plagues Oakland, have been thinking?
Tuesday night, the simply glowing Ms. Lee said that she and two fellow black factotums just had spent two wonderful hours drinking in wisdom from the overflowing cup of that charismatic Cuban moonshiner, Brother Fidel.
So he has murdered a few people. Doesn’t everyone have defects? she wondered.
Isn’t He So Darned Handsome?
Driven to the sidelines three years ago by his equally screwy sibling, rapacious Raul, Ms. Lee said she found Brother Fidel “very healthy, very energetic,” which, I presume, crowns your Easter as lavishly as it makes my Passover.
While her kinky caucus chorus — the phrase has a nifty ring, doesn’t it? — hummed in the background, Ms. Lee went on to say that Brother Fidel asked the visiting undignified dignitaries what they could do to help end America’s 47-year-old trade embargo?
“We believe it is time to open dialogue and discussion with Cuba,” said the breathtakingly duped Ms. Lee. “Cubans do want dialogue. They do want talks. They do want normal relations.”
The old girl fairly rhapsodized about the killer. Sitting with Brother Fidel, she swooned, “was quite a moment to behold.” Maybe they will get married.
This is analagous to a prisoner whistling to his jailer that, after serving 20 hard years, he finally is ready to negotiate his release.
It does not require richly complex thinking to see how deftly Brother Fidel has picked up each of the seven boobs by his or her ankles, turned them upside down and shaken them violently — until everything loose has fallen out of their pockets and their heads.
Is This a Brain Cramp?
While he was swinging upside down, Chicago Congressman Bobby Rush reliably lived up to his screwball image. Shmoozing with Brother Fidel, he gurgled, “was almost like listening to an old friend. In my household, I told Castro he is known as the ultimate survivor.”
Any day trip from the asylum has to include one of my favorite boobs, U.S. Rep. Laura Richardson, the doyen of Long Beach, the notorious and lying homebuying scammer.
Laura Baby, we hear, cleverly sleeps in a different house every night. That way she doesn’t have to make a house payment at the end of the month, which she was not going to make anyway. This just saves us the paperwork.
Returning from her favorite island in the whole world, where she didn’t even try to buy a fourth home, Laura Baby cooed: “He listened. He said the exact same thing” about turning the page “as President Obama said.”
She said Brother Fidel knew her name and her Long Beach district. “He looked right into my eyes and he said, 'How can we help? How can we help President Obama?'”
What a charmer.
Haven’t serious Americans been gallantly fighting to throw off the chains of slavery for the last 160 years?
Occasionally, a boobish white liberal politician paddles over to Cuba.
He slobberingly kisses whichever Castro is handy at the moment on each ear, drives through downtown Havana in an open-air convertible, observing scrawny, starving people crawling along the littered pavement, fighting each other for scraps of garbage, then flies home in a luxury jet and praises the Brothers Castro for munificently providing all living and some dead Cubans with the best healthcare plan in the Western Hemisphere.
Now that’s livin’, pal.
Thank goodness we only elect left-wingers about once a generation.
Otherwise, West Los Angeles might resemble that slightly tarnished paradise that twinkles like costume jewelry in the gleaming Caribbean sunlight.
