I greatly enjoyed John Balentine’s recent “P’s” column. He’s right that “Hidin'” Biden could not compare to “the tireless and fearless President Trump” even before our pulchritudinous president was pumped full of psychosis promoting pharmaceuticals.
I first became aware of POTUS’ phenomenalness while living in New York in the ’70s. Multitudes were aware of his desire to fight the dreaded Viet Cong, or any other Asians, or even Africans for that matter. But painful, pitiless heel spurs prevented such an endeavor. He held his head high, though, the ersatz epitome of white American manhood, striding fearlessly through Studio 54. He may have had an upside-down Bible in one hand and a crotch in the other, but his heart was full of love for his brothers fighting the red and yellow (= orange) peril in the jungles of Asia. Oh, how he wishes he could have been with them! The war would have been much shorter if only he were there.
Discos may be gone, but Trump continues to enter arenas of danger surrounded by no one but a platoon of puppets, including kowtowing sawbones and boys who are proud. Commander Heelspur and the Proud Boys. It has a ring to it, sort of like a gay punk band.
I thank The Forecaster for continuing to offer a forum for John Balentine and our fearless, masculine, white supremacist point of view. As such a white man, I am happy to have him as an ally as I vigilantly look over my shoulder in dark alleys and under the bed for swarthy, sinister foreigners. Let me see, so far I’ve found only … my wife under the bed? Hey! What are you doing there?
Ken Weston
Bath
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