The Democrats Are Not Good Losers, but They Are Fine and Dandy Winners

I am sitting in my office at Gleason's Gym on Saturday morning about 8:00.  I am waiting for my student, the Judge.  That's not just a nickname.  He is a judge.  I have been teaching him boxing for fifteen years.

The last few days he has been sending me e-mails thanking me for my help on the campaign for the re-election of Obama.  He is joking.  He knows I hate Obama.  He loves him.  He wouldn't want to admit he loves him because he wouldn't want to seem gay.  He's not...unlike Chris Matthews, who seemed to cross that border with his "leg chills" remark.

The Judge comes in and hands me another letter thanking me for my help with the Democratic campaign.  We crack up.  The air has cleared since the election.  There is less thud in the punches in the three boxing rings.  The Democrats are no longer so paranoid that their weakling president is going to get knocked out of his position.  He won.  They won.  They are not good losers, but they are fine and dandy winners.

There is no longer tension in the air.  The Judge doesn't feel that it is against his principles to like me.  I am no longer a threat.  I am just that benighted friend who mistakenly backed the Republicans.  He secretly thinks the Republicans are dogs.  He once threw me a bone and told me that, for a Republican, I was a nice guy.  A boxing coach once told me that, for a Jew, I was a good fighter. 

I help the Judge put on his gloves and bring him up to the ring to spar with Jo Ellen.  She doesn't say anything to me about the election.  She is trying to be gracious in victory.  If Obama had lost, she would have been nasty.  She won.  No skin off her nose to embrace me.

They spar for a while.  They are good friends and hardly hit each other.  It is mostly foot work.  Most guys don't belt girls.  I do.  I like to show them some respect; they like getting hit as long as you don't mess up their faces.  I tell the Judge to lighten up on his jab and use it rhythmically  to get more speed on right.  Punches should flow into each other.  I've told him all of it before.  After all these years I can't teach him anything new.  He keeps training with me just because we are good friends and it's a way of hanging out.                

I once told the Judge that Republicans give more to charities than Democrats.  He smirked -- "They give to churches."  He wouldn't admit that churches give most of what they get to charities.

I get a two-hour break waiting for Jesse.  He is in his twenties and is getting married in a few weeks.  He shows up looking all happy.  He is a friend of my previous student Hope.  Hope died last year at twenty-three of a drug overdose.  It was prescription drugs.  It might have been a suicide; it might have been an accident.  Who knows?  I had taught her three days before and she had seemed fine.  I don't understand people -- neither their politics nor their deaths.

Jesse and I don't discuss politics because he has been with me a few months, and Democrats tend to react with superiority and animosity toward Republicans, and I don't really want to hear it.  He's a nice kid.  I don't want to be hated by him for my conservative views.  I wouldn't want him to dump me for being a Republican.

Brooklyn reeks of Democrats.  It's in their blood like a disease. They have no moderation.  They are chronically ill with distorted, naïve love for their own party.  They rationalize their vote for Obama while they move us toward his narcissistic dictatorship.  They pave the highway to hell with Obama encomiums.  They are short-term hedonists who want immediate pleasure rather than long-term, fundamental gratification.

Jenny comes next.  We definitely don't discuss the election.  She is twenty-three years old, Jewish, and dedicated to non-profit organizations.  She also was friendly with my dead girl, Hope.  Hope is everywhere.  I feel good for her that she lives in my boxing coterie.  Her father, a well-known Brooklyn judge, died a year after she did, from pancreatic cancer.  I am helping to save her memory and the memory of her family.   I must be a nice guy even though I am a despised Republican.  I don't promote the socialistic fair share.  There is no fair share.  Look at how unfairly Hope's family was treated.

Jenny is strongly opinionated, and her feelings are certainly not pro-Republican.  To be Republican you have to be mature.  You have to be able to see that results are not intentions and that ideology is not visceral understanding. 

You have to be able to admit that gays jerk the emotional valence of heterosexual love into broken ideas and unaesthetic perversions.  Marc Antony didn't set sail for a bearded man.  He set sail for Cleopatra.  Gays are afraid of differences, people they can't understand, women.  It is a kind of sexual xenophobia.

Gay marriage as an oxymoron for dull minds.  And voting for Obama, a person who ruined our economy and ratified gay marriage, is shortsighted based on a political crush on him rather than a concern about values and the future.

Adam shows up.  We never even approach politics.  He's a pretty successful businessman in his late thirties.  I taught his son, too, and his brother.  I sense that he is a Democrat.  He wants to feel good about himself and pretend that he is concerned about others.  Democrats give to others and give to themselves by congratulating themselves on their apocryphal goodness.

Ever since Obama won, things are a lot more peaceful around Gleason's.  The Democrats see no reason to pick on us.  We are no longer a threat.  The Republicans have clammed up into themselves and retreated from the fight that they lost.

I'm happy that Adam is my last student.  I want to head home to see my wife.  I'm tired of the whole election scene.  But I know that Obama's the worst threat to our country.  I'll have to keep writing even though he bores me.  He is a dull tool with a frisky mouth.  His rhetoric gets dummies to dance.  He is convincing if you are a movie fan or a rap follower.  Idiots follow him like he is the Pied Piper fluting at their adolescence.  Only the Pied Piper has morphed into an ex-drug dealer, a Jay-Z.

I am sitting in my office at Gleason's Gym on Saturday morning about 8:00.  I am waiting for my student, the Judge.  That's not just a nickname.  He is a judge.  I have been teaching him boxing for fifteen years.

The last few days he has been sending me e-mails thanking me for my help on the campaign for the re-election of Obama.  He is joking.  He knows I hate Obama.  He loves him.  He wouldn't want to admit he loves him because he wouldn't want to seem gay.  He's not...unlike Chris Matthews, who seemed to cross that border with his "leg chills" remark.

The Judge comes in and hands me another letter thanking me for my help with the Democratic campaign.  We crack up.  The air has cleared since the election.  There is less thud in the punches in the three boxing rings.  The Democrats are no longer so paranoid that their weakling president is going to get knocked out of his position.  He won.  They won.  They are not good losers, but they are fine and dandy winners.

There is no longer tension in the air.  The Judge doesn't feel that it is against his principles to like me.  I am no longer a threat.  I am just that benighted friend who mistakenly backed the Republicans.  He secretly thinks the Republicans are dogs.  He once threw me a bone and told me that, for a Republican, I was a nice guy.  A boxing coach once told me that, for a Jew, I was a good fighter. 

I help the Judge put on his gloves and bring him up to the ring to spar with Jo Ellen.  She doesn't say anything to me about the election.  She is trying to be gracious in victory.  If Obama had lost, she would have been nasty.  She won.  No skin off her nose to embrace me.

They spar for a while.  They are good friends and hardly hit each other.  It is mostly foot work.  Most guys don't belt girls.  I do.  I like to show them some respect; they like getting hit as long as you don't mess up their faces.  I tell the Judge to lighten up on his jab and use it rhythmically  to get more speed on right.  Punches should flow into each other.  I've told him all of it before.  After all these years I can't teach him anything new.  He keeps training with me just because we are good friends and it's a way of hanging out.                

I once told the Judge that Republicans give more to charities than Democrats.  He smirked -- "They give to churches."  He wouldn't admit that churches give most of what they get to charities.

I get a two-hour break waiting for Jesse.  He is in his twenties and is getting married in a few weeks.  He shows up looking all happy.  He is a friend of my previous student Hope.  Hope died last year at twenty-three of a drug overdose.  It was prescription drugs.  It might have been a suicide; it might have been an accident.  Who knows?  I had taught her three days before and she had seemed fine.  I don't understand people -- neither their politics nor their deaths.

Jesse and I don't discuss politics because he has been with me a few months, and Democrats tend to react with superiority and animosity toward Republicans, and I don't really want to hear it.  He's a nice kid.  I don't want to be hated by him for my conservative views.  I wouldn't want him to dump me for being a Republican.

Brooklyn reeks of Democrats.  It's in their blood like a disease. They have no moderation.  They are chronically ill with distorted, naïve love for their own party.  They rationalize their vote for Obama while they move us toward his narcissistic dictatorship.  They pave the highway to hell with Obama encomiums.  They are short-term hedonists who want immediate pleasure rather than long-term, fundamental gratification.

Jenny comes next.  We definitely don't discuss the election.  She is twenty-three years old, Jewish, and dedicated to non-profit organizations.  She also was friendly with my dead girl, Hope.  Hope is everywhere.  I feel good for her that she lives in my boxing coterie.  Her father, a well-known Brooklyn judge, died a year after she did, from pancreatic cancer.  I am helping to save her memory and the memory of her family.   I must be a nice guy even though I am a despised Republican.  I don't promote the socialistic fair share.  There is no fair share.  Look at how unfairly Hope's family was treated.

Jenny is strongly opinionated, and her feelings are certainly not pro-Republican.  To be Republican you have to be mature.  You have to be able to see that results are not intentions and that ideology is not visceral understanding. 

You have to be able to admit that gays jerk the emotional valence of heterosexual love into broken ideas and unaesthetic perversions.  Marc Antony didn't set sail for a bearded man.  He set sail for Cleopatra.  Gays are afraid of differences, people they can't understand, women.  It is a kind of sexual xenophobia.

Gay marriage as an oxymoron for dull minds.  And voting for Obama, a person who ruined our economy and ratified gay marriage, is shortsighted based on a political crush on him rather than a concern about values and the future.

Adam shows up.  We never even approach politics.  He's a pretty successful businessman in his late thirties.  I taught his son, too, and his brother.  I sense that he is a Democrat.  He wants to feel good about himself and pretend that he is concerned about others.  Democrats give to others and give to themselves by congratulating themselves on their apocryphal goodness.

Ever since Obama won, things are a lot more peaceful around Gleason's.  The Democrats see no reason to pick on us.  We are no longer a threat.  The Republicans have clammed up into themselves and retreated from the fight that they lost.

I'm happy that Adam is my last student.  I want to head home to see my wife.  I'm tired of the whole election scene.  But I know that Obama's the worst threat to our country.  I'll have to keep writing even though he bores me.  He is a dull tool with a frisky mouth.  His rhetoric gets dummies to dance.  He is convincing if you are a movie fan or a rap follower.  Idiots follow him like he is the Pied Piper fluting at their adolescence.  Only the Pied Piper has morphed into an ex-drug dealer, a Jay-Z.

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