by Randy Reynolds

The furniture man was idling at the credit desk in the middle of his store. Sherry, the radio station sales representative, said, “Hey, Mr. Bruce. Sorry I’m late.”

 “Not the words a man ever wants to hear,” said Bruce, leering.

The woman at the credit desk giggled.

Sherry frowned, determined not to give him the satisfaction of acting like she’d caught his meaning. “What did I say?”

“Never mind.  Just wait for me in my office.”

 “Let’s just run the same thing as last month, Mr. Bruce.”

 “Wait for me. I’ve got something to discuss with you.”

She knew what he wanted to discuss; same as always—anything that made her blush. 

“I don’t have time today," she said. "Can we just take the details from your newspaper ad and write a commercial from that?”

 “My office,” he said.  “I’m in the middle of something here.”

She went into his private office and settled into the chair farthest from the door, the best place to avoid having him caress her hair or shoulder when he walked by.

She watched Bruce stroll to the doorway with his armed draped over a guy wearing a work shirt with a name-tag on it.

“Take ‘em the six inch foundation on this one.”

“But they bought the nine inch …”

“Don’t argue. Just do it.”

“Ok, boss.”

Bruce stepped into the small office, closed the door and pulled the shade. 

“Can’t we just run what’s in your newspaper ad?” she asked.

He smoothed his blonde mustache with a thumb and forefinger, slid onto the desktop, as close to her as possible and allowed his foot to touch her leg.  She repositioned herself to break contact.

 “How bad do you need a sale today, Sherry?”

“Not bad enough for what you have in mind, Mr. Bruce.”

“How do you know what I have in mind?”

“It’s the same thing you always have in mind,” she said.  “And the answer’s the same as always.”

“You and I could make beautiful music together,” he said.

“Oh, God, Mr. Bruce, is that the best line you’ve got?”

He chuckled.  “I’ve got a few more.  How about I spend my whole ad budget with you?  How grateful would you be?”

“Not as grateful as you might like,” she said.   “Now, come on, I’m in a hurry.  I don’t have half an hour to spar with you today…”

“Why don’t I lock this door and you sit up here on this desk?”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the door swung open and a middle-aged woman with big hair poked her head in and said, “Are you gonna be long, honey?”

He snapped to attention and said, “Johnette, this is Sherry, from the radio station.”

“Hi, Sherry,” said the woman in the doorway.

“Sherry, this is my wife, Johnette,” he said in a strained voice.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sherry.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” said the wife.   “How long are you going to be, sweetie?”

His face was flushed.  “Oh, we were just finishing up.”

Sherry said, “I’ll have one of the guys cut a spot using your specials from the newspaper ad. He’ll call you for approval.  And we’ll double the schedule you ran last month. Right?”

“Oh, uh, right,” he said, edging away from her.

Sherry gathered up her things and smiled at the wife.  “It was so nice to meet you at last, Mrs. Corstairs.  He talks about you all the time.”

She smiled sweetly and said, “Really?”

Sherry looked over her shoulder at Bruce who was watching them like a hawk.

“See you next month,” she said.

He responded with a nod.  

Ba-yam! she thought as she walked away.  I love it when the wifey comes in! 


by Randy Reynolds

All sorts of bad things were said about Donald Trump in last year's election and they usually (if not always) turned out to be true.  As advertised, he is a compulsive liar, has a short attention span, is temperamentally unfit to be president, has a history of saying and doing racist and misogynistic things, knows little or nothing about America, doesn't read books, believes lies and conspiracy theories that he picked up from tabloids and talk shows, is an unbridled narcissist, cheats many people who deal with him, from charities to carpet layers to big banks to the government, paid no taxes over two decades, and is only one degree of separation (or less) from Russian mobsters, spies, and the cybercriminals who helped tilt the election in his direction. 

All sorts of bad things were said about Hillary Clinton, too.  The difference is, most of them were not true, or were not crimes.  

Sadly, the media covered false accusations about her with as much concern (and airtime) as the true accusations against Trump, so we had an election in which voters disliked both candidates, the lying, cheating, crooked one, as well as Hillary. 

It would take a book as thick as the Bible to debunk every lie told about Hillary in the run-up to the 2016 campaign, during the campaign itself, and during Trump's chaotic reign in the White House, so I'm not going to tackle them all; but there is one—a what-about-ism— that deserves attention because Trump and Fox have resurrected it:  “Forget me and Russia—what about Hillary selling 20% of America’s uranium to Russia in return for donations to the Clinton Foundation?!”

The uranium story originated early in the campaign with the publication of Clinton Cash, a hit-job written by serial misinformer Peter Schweizer and published by Rupert Murdoch-owned HarperCollins.

Schweizer took an actual event and created a conclusion not supported by the facts. The facts were:

1.  The owners of Uranium One, a Canadian mining company, wanted to sell a controlling stake in their company to Rosatom, the Russian Atomic Agency.

2. Uranium One controlled some mines in the U.S., therefore the sale had to be approved by the Committee on Foreign Investment In the United States (CFIUS.)

3. CFIUS consisted of 9 agencies in the Executive Branch and was headed by Jose Hernandez of the State Department.  If a majority of the 9 agencies disapproved the sale of the mining company to Russia, that recommendation would have gone to the president and he would likely have stopped it.  He was the only one with authority to do so. No agency voted against the deal, so the sale went through in 2010.

4. A number of investors in Uranium One gave donations to the Clinton Foundation between 2008 and 2010. The sale took place in 2010.  Aha!  Bill Clinton also gave a speech to a Russian bank in 2010 for $500,000. Double-Aha!  Were those quid pro quos?  Bribes?   Du-uh:  not if Secretary Clinton had no power to stop the deal.

Chris Wallace of Fox asked the Clinton Cash author what evidence he had that Hillary Clinton took any action at all in this deal and he said, “Well, here's what's important to keep in mind: it [the State Department] was one of nine agencies, but any one of those agencies had veto power. So, she could have stopped the deal.”

Wrong.  None of the agencies had the power to stop it. Only the president could do that.

As Paul Waldman summed it up in the Washington Post, “So the alleged wrongdoing isn't that Clinton helped the people who gave donations to the foundation, it's that she failed to oppose them, something that the secretaries of Defense, Treasury, and all the other agencies also failed to do, with or 
without donations to foundations controlled by members of their families.” 

Not only was Hillary Clinton not responsible for the deal and powerless to affect it but the quid pro quo in the Trump allegation did not take place, according to Snopes.

There are people who will go to their graves believing that Hillary Clinton gave 20% of America’s uranium to Russia because they heard it so often from Fox News, from Trump and his surrogates, on hate-radio talk shows and conspiracy-fueled websites, heard it from officials at the White House podium, heard it from Republican Congressmen, and heard or read it even from otherwise-reputable news sources practicing "he said/she said" journalism; that is, trying to present both sides of one-sided issues, and using fake allegations against Hillary to balance their reporting of true accusations about Trump. 


"Of the $145 million allegedly contributed to the Clinton Foundation by Uranium One investors, the lion’s share — $131.3 million — came from a single donor, Frank Giustra, the company’s founder. But Giustra sold off his entire stake in the company in 2007, three years before the Russia deal and at least 18 months before Clinton became secretary of state. "

"The Russian-owned company does not have a license to export the uranium, and the actual mining process is not sensitive at all...It’s just a mine. There’s no technology that’s special. There’s no shortage of uranium around the world."

"The U.S. produces very little uranium—about 2 million pounds in 2015, a year nuclear power plants imported 57 million pounds of the element. The vast majority of the uranium comes from Kazakhstan and Australia."


by Randy Reynolds
According to General John Kelly, “When I was a kid growing up… Women were sacred and looked upon with great honor.” (10/19/17)

Bullshit, General. They were looked upon as pin-cushions. Legally, they were chattel; second-class citizens. I recommend you watch “Mad Men” to refresh your memory. Or spend time with an arrested development male such as Donald Trump or Howard Stern whose views of women harken back to that time.

Or read the books by and about JFK’s mistresses and playmates;  or the Church Committee findings.

1961-63, "JJ" (JFK’s name for his penis) was one of the hardest-working occupants of the White House.  (Yes, he had a name for his penis, as do most men—73%, according to surveys.)

Testimony before the Church Committee and the House Committee on Assassinations (1976-78) proved that reporters knew of but never wrote about the succession of young women who were brought into the White House to provide sexual favors for President Kennedy and who accompanied him at almost all times on Air Force One, at Hyannis Port and Palm Beach, and on trips to Las Vegas, Berlin, Vienna, and Paris.

Any good looking young woman could walk in off the street without being challenged by the Secret Service. Agents would whisper into their microphones, "Fresh pussy coming up" and the visitor would be waived through security. The Secret Service granted promotions based on who could provide the President with the most "fresh stuff." Agents who did not frequently provide young women for Kennedy soon found themselves reassigned away from the Presidential detail.

One of his conquests was reporter Mary McGrory. Another was the wife of Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee. There were nude parties in the White House pool when Jackie was out of town. The President’s affair with Marilyn Monroe turned sour and he passed her on to his brother, the attorney-general. Jackie once told a visitor, "This is my press secretary. She’s my husband’s mistress, you know." And she once, in front of friends, handed Jack a pair of black panties she had found under her pillow and said, "Give these back to whoever left them. They’re not my size."

JFK also carried on a long-running affair with Judith Exner, who was the mistress of a mob boss. She lived with Chicago gangster Sam Giancana, who was simultaneously involved in a plot to help the Kennedys assassinate Fidel Castro. Giancana thought he could get his Havana casinos back if he carried out the plot for the President and Attorney-General Bobby Kennedy. Judith Exner carried messages back and forth between the gangster and the President. Official White House logs show that she and the president talked almost daily for the 1,000 days of the Kennedy Presidency.

There was no air support during the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba because the President was not available to give the order. He was having a threesome with Frick and Frack—the code names for two of his secretaries—and had left word that he couldn’t be disturbed, a decision that left 3,000 Cuban exiles and CIA operatives on the beach to be killed or captured by Castro.

Various members of the press knew some or all of this, but considered Kennedy’s personal peccadilloes off-limits and didn’t report on it at the time.

So John Kelly, an Irish kid in Boston, may not have known much about women’s roles back then, but he’s had plenty of opportunity to find out since and shouldn’t be lecturing us now about how respected and honored women were back in the day.

Yeah, I remember when "Women were looked upon … with great honor."  It was in the era of Obama—an era of women’s victories that General Kelly and his boss are trying to unravel.


By Randy Reynolds

I grabbed an energy drink from the cooler and got in line behind a man holding a fifty pound sack of Ol’ Roy on his shoulder.

He turned toward me and said, “This may take a while. She’s got two baskets piled high and you and me are paying for it.”  With a nod of his head he indicated the overweight elderly woman in front of him wearing workout pants, baggy sweatshirt, and bedroom slippers.  She had two buggies piled high with groceries.

“I bet you anything she’ll try to pay with food stamps,” he said.  “People like that get my goat.”

He looked at me intently, as if expecting an answer, but I don’t talk food stamps with white guys in line at a Walmart in the South. Like the coward that I was, I shrugged and said, “I know what you mean.”

Not even trying to keep his voice down, he said, “Laying around in bed all day, too lazy to work, sponging off the government, living large on my tax money.”

The old woman, still unloading her second buggy, looked up and said, “They’re not called food stamps anymore. It’s SNAP—the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.”

“Well, it’s food stamps to me,” said the man with the dog food. “And you’re paying for it with my tax money.”

I wanted to look away, but the rheumy eyes of the old woman held my attention.

“It’s not your business, sir, but just so you know, we’re not getting rich on food stamps.  I have eight kids and two adults besides me under my roof and we get four dollars a day per person.  That’s a dollar thirty-three per meal per person.”   She pointed to his bag of dog food.  “You can’t hardly even feed a dog for that.”

“Well, there’s plenty of jobs out there.  You should go get one, and try working for a living for a change.” 

“I have a job, sir.  I work at a nursing home, Lexington House.  I worked eleven to seven last night and I’ll be there again tonight.”

“What about the other adults in your house?  Why don’t they have jobs?”

“Because one of ‘em has A.L.S., Lou Gehrig’s disease, and barely gets around any more and the other is nine months pregnant.  Not that it’s any of your business.”

The dog food man turned to me and rolled his eyes.

I said, “What kind’a dog you got?”

“Black lab.”

“Labs have a sweet disposition,” I said.

“Oh, yes.  Smart, too.”  He dropped the dog food onto the conveyer.

Ahead of us, the cashier gave the old woman a receipt and helped place bags of food in the two buggies. I heard the old woman say, “M’am, will you watch this basket while I take the other one to the car?”

The cashier said, “Sure.”

“Just get it out of my way,” said the dog food man, pushing the closest buggy forward with his foot.

The buggy hit the old woman in the thigh.  “I intend to, sir, just give me a moment.”

“This is ridiculous!” said the man.  “Can’t we get this line going?”

“I don’t want this drink anyway,” I said, setting the energy drink on the conveyer belt behind the dog food.  “Excuse me, sir.”  I squeezed past him and said, “Ma’m, I’ll take one of those baskets for you.”

The old woman said, “God bless you, sir. I hate to be such a nuisance, but…”

“No problem,” I said.  “We all need a little help now and then.”

As I placed her groceries into a van with a wheelchair rack on back, she tried to give me a dollar. “No, ma’m, that’s not necessary. Put it away.”

“Well, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No thanks necessary.”

“What did you say your name was?”


“Well, Randy, I’m Jeanelle,” she said.  “I hope God will bless you for helping out an old woman.”

I smiled. “I’m sure He will,  ma'm.”

The man with the bag of Ol’ Roy came down our lane in the parking lot. I half-expected him to stop and inspect Miz Jeannelle’s grocery bags to make sure that her purchases were in line with what he thought a SNAP recipient should eat.  I nodded and gave a little half-wave to acknowledge him, the kind of thing Southerners do even if they’ve only met a person once, casually, in the check-out line at Walmart. But he looked right through me, scowling, and walked on by.