No doubt you are aware of the difficult holiday season which has just transpired for the airline industry. Hundreds of thousands of flights cancelled, enormous queues, people camping out at the airports, baggage delivered abroad by domestic carriers. (There’s more than one Panama City, genius, and they’re not all in Panama!)
Cry havoc and unleash the dogs of corporate dysfunction!
But enough about me.
Flying passengers is more than just a new paint job and an updated corporate logo. Let me just say on behalf of everyone at Up Air, and in utmost sincerity, that now is not the time for the faint of heart. Major decisions require backbone.
No doubt you have also read in the past week about the corporate reshuffling among some major carriers.
2023 is going to be way different when it comes to Up Air, the airline that truly cares about its passengers.
Did you know that we have over 100 planes on back order from major manufacturers in unspecified Third World countries? Globalists, we say, why shouldn’t they get a slice of the aviation pie in, for example, Kuala Lumpur? We all live on the same planet.
Our existing fleet is due for a meaningful upgrade with a price tag in the millions of dollars, featuring major improvements to our accommodations. You won’t believe some of the customer-facing technologies on the drawing board: Cushions on every seat, enough overhead room for every cranium, toothy sandwiches for sale on the lunch cart and fast, safe access to the toilets. Ear plugs. There are even plans to retrofit wider seats in parts of the plane previously dedicated to baggage.
Looking at a map of the world, we can name over 40 different cities worldwide to which we would like to fly non-stop.
Do you have a ticket from Up Air that is gathering dust on the hall table? Do I have news for you!
In order to minimize cancellations, frustration and stress, avoid those endless lines, lessen overcrowding, reduce security issues to zero and get people out of the airports, we at Up Air have decided, at long last, to go out of business!
My mother Rosa Feingold passed away in October 2022. She was 81. Born six months before Pearl Harbor, she grew up a child of World War Two. Who knew the Japanese would attack on December 7, 1941 and America would go to war?
We lost 34 cousins to the Holocaust, the entire Polish-Russian side of the family. That cast a shadow over Rosa’s life.
R. I. P.
In our collective grief, Clive and Mutte in Swedish rap band realPfft have composed an ode to my mom.
Entitled “Morsan,” Swedish for “Mom,” the song views Rosa’s untimely demise from a Swedish perspective. Passing from this mortal coil is a universal experience. Everybody dies eventually and with very few exceptions, most people die right here on Earth. Still, a Swedish composition, the song does have its Swedish quirks.
Ho ho ho, ‘tis the Season to be Jolly and what could make me Jollier than receiving a gift of hard cash from you, a contributor to our Annual Season Forgiving at the Oxburg Historical Hysterical Commemorative Something or Other Entrepreneurial Foundation Collection Fund Drive?
Nothing.
Nothing could make me happier.
YOUR NAME— that’s right— through the wonders of data science, YOUR NAME will be exhibited in the space below. In caps if you want it. Or bold. Or both, caps and bold text,
holy mackerel you can’t beat that!!! For a measly contribution of $50.
For $100, I personally will get down on my knees and say a prayer or two in your honor.
Oxburg, Beloved Oxburg, named for our Founding Father John Ox, a Calvinist who settled in Catholic Maryland during the Colonial Period.
Your gift will help maintain and preserve the memory of our historical past: Oxburg Courthouse as depicted in memory and photographic image— alas, not audio— torn down in 2006 to build the Royal Guardian Apartments. Or Haley’s Crossroad, scene of the Haley Country Store and Gas Pump, a scene of nostalgic yarn and Oxburgian humor. Where Old Cyrus Haley held the Annual Turkey Shoot in preparation for Thanksgiving in what today is Natalie Woods. Falling down drunk. Demolished in 1964 to build the Annex to the Town Hospital. The store, not Cyrus.
In these difficult times— unrest in the Middle East, war in Ukraine, I stubbed my left big toe— may a blessing be upon you for pulling out that old plastic card and contributing. Contributing ‘till it hurts. Contributing more than ‘till it hurts.
The story of Oxburg is the story of America. Our country wouldn’t be what it is today— MAGA hats and angry mobs, armed militiamen in tactical gear hovering over election day drop boxes, multi-billionaires screwing up on social media, Chinese apps and Italian sausage— if not for the hard sweat and aching backs of our Founding Fathers who tilled the fields and husked the corn and baked the bread that sustained many a pilgrim through a hard, cold winter, snow knee-deep against the walls of rustic cabins, the smell of spruce wafting through the night air from the brick chimneys of our forebears.
I live in Oxburg, Maryland in the USA. The town is named after Calvinist John Ox who settled in Catholic Maryland during Colonial times and owned vast tracts of land in this part of the state.
“Why doesn’t he write?” You may well ask. “Värför skriver han inte?” in Swedish. “Pourquoi est-ce qu’il n’écrit pas?” in French.
My mama Rosa Feingold, 81 years old, has passed on to a better place. She had been losing weight, got a staph infection, ended up in the hospital and died. When my phone rang at 10:10 pm on a rainy Thursday night, an orderly told me in hushed tones that Rosa was gone. I grabbed a Hebrew prayer book and drove to the hospital, where the nurses had laid mom out in a respectful position and turned down the lights. They left me alone with her. I said the prayers for the dead right there at bedside and spoke to her in English, Yiddish, French and Swedish. All her known languages.
The burial got a little complicated because the family plot is north of New York City and, unlike with my dad 25 years ago, I didn’t have the energy to jump in the car and drive four and a half hours to attend to mom’s funeral. Instead, I buried her long-distance.
The local funeral home was terrific. They knew and followed the Jewish burial rites, wrapping the body in a white shroud and placing it in a plain wood coffin with a Star of David on the lid. They got a little flummoxed when the Jewish cemetery in New York was closed for both Shabbat and the following Monday for a Jewish holiday. Jim, the local funeral director, wanted to know how much the cemetery charges to receive the body, open the grave, inter the coffin and close the grave. He had visions— based on bad experiences, no doubt— of the driver arriving in New York with the coffin, being told “We gotta be paid, otherwise, no burial” and driving the coffin back to Maryland. Not fun.
That meant postponing the burial still another day, which was super stressful for me, since we are supposed to get the body into the ground as soon as possible. It was a relief when interment took place six days after she died. Like, hooray! Bye, momsaleh! Rest in peace.
A wreck, I sat shiva five days. The neighbors brought me food, also a Jewish tradition. Jag sörjde, I mourned.
That’s where I’ve been.
Taking care of my mom these last few months took up virtually all my time, a fact which only becomes apparent in hindsight. I loved her. The dutiful son, I lived with her and took care of her.
My younger brother Tim— the loving son— parachuted in whenever his schedule allowed, but he’s in training for a promotion and, as the crisis arose, he couldn’t provide the 24-7 backup which he and I had originally envisioned. Instead, we conferenced every night by phone. Tremendously helpful, this was not the same as a physical presence. He felt terrible about it, but hey, I want him to get the promotion. Mom wanted him to get the promotion!
Reality rarely fulfills the dream.
The midterm elections are soon upon us (November 8th, a Tuesday) and whatever I say, it can and will be held against me. As Google tells us, “all 435 seats in the House of Representatives and 35 of the 100 seats in the Senate will be contested.” You gotta laugh! As if the country doesn’t have enough problems. The economy is tanking. We have a clueless old fogey as president who means well but can’t deliver. Trump’s supporters are toting guns. The Republicans have a handful of crazies running for office and the Democratic slate ain’t exactly any damn good, including stutterers, gun-shy officials up for re-election and blacks running in lily white states.
Not too cool.
I’m writing to let you know that I am still around. As new days dawn, you will be hearing more from me. Coming attractions: Mutte Fjutt in Uppsala, Sweden and Clive have composed a song entitled “Morsan,” mother in Swedish, but I haven’t had the juice to involve myself in releasing it. I’m still knee-deep in paperwork and recuperating.
Something to look forward to.
Take care, be well and keep your mask on, there’s a new variant out there and it’s a baddie.
Hi! This is a notification that, yes, I am alive and continue to struggle, if not thrive.
As you know, I wallow in political satire. It would be cruel and mucho unfair to make fun of the war in Ukraine while people are dying and the country is being raped. That’s what my long silence and personal depression are about.
I have plenty to say, but I haven’t spoken publicly, since whatever I say will get taken wrong.
On the upside, I can share some gen on our former president.
Donald Trump is definitely running in 2024.
Once he grabs a hold of Twitter by the short hairs, Elon Musk will welcome in Donald J. Trump. We’ll see a repeat of 2016, with Trump scorching his opponents on Twitter day in and day out. It will get ugly.
Donald Trump will never be found criminally liable, which would disqualify him to run for president. Why? His supporters have guns. Everyone in Washington, DC is scared shirtless of them gun-totin’ Trump supporters. With good reason. Finding Trump guilty of a crime would cause a civil war, and no official wants to be responsible for that.
Donald Trump will get the Republican nomination and we’re back in 2016 all over again. He has his pick of running mate among the right-wing firebrands mouthing off and making mischief. You know who you are, dudes and ladies. Enjoy the moment!
A study of the Weimar Republic and the rise of the Third Reich will help you see more clearly that, yes, Virginia, history does repeat itself.
Trump’s second four years will not be the bloodbath some liberals envision, but we will see a constant erosion of democratic principles. We can kiss goodbye to the America we currently have.
Who in their wildest dreams would classify the Swedish rap duo realPfft among the Bad Boys of the political universe? For four years, Clive Flatenbad and Mutte Fjutt in Uppsala, Sweden have cranked out political satire, with only occasional complaints regarding their lude cover art. Never their lyrics. Squeaky clean Swedes, they avoid gangsta rap. They don’t do divisiveness or profanity. How did they end up with a breakout song, God Bless America, that has explicit lyrics???
“Speak softly and carry a big stick,” said Teddy Roosevelt, the 26th President of the United States. So Clive wrote the lyric “Speak loudly and unzip a big stick.”
What’s with the unzip, Clive? What were you thinking?
“I meant unzipping a sports bag and pulling out a baseball bat,” the boy mansplains.
Now he tells us!
“We used ‘fuh’ instead of the four-letter original,” bleats Clive, as if avoiding one sin will cancel out the other.
Once you start looking for foul language and smutty innuendo, the lyrics take on a very questionable pallor, at best.
God Bless America
Rude, crude, what’s up, dude?
It’s a celebration of one great nation
Grievance, complaint, we know… what you ain’t
Gas light, firelight, buckle up and join the fight
Ain’t no stubble, trouble in the bubble
Woken, broken, life’s a subway token
Eatin’ potato fries under leaden skies
When the air turns mean, wipe the plate… clean
Where o’ where? Trump’s supporters be out there
Waitin’, hatin’, anticipatin’
Try as you will, try as you might, we can’t make it right
Speak loudly and unzip a big stick
Gettin’ up on tippy toes, Biden can’t see beyond his own nose
79-year-old Joe, that’s what makes it so dope
Stumble in da White House, we ain’t goin’ t’ war over… no… Ukraine
Putin and Xi, dey smell blood in da water
Whassup? Who gives a fuh? Momma’s got a brand new bag
When did Chinese checkers and Russian roultette become Olympic sports?
Corona, Delta, Omicron… the pandemic is systemic
Mask mandates, while anti-vaxxers give the finger to the CDC
What d’ya mean, Fao Chi is secretly Chinese?
Get real! Don’t sneeze, don’t cough, freeze yer butt off
No worries, our band be big… in Hercegovina
What d’ we know? Hookers and blow
Don’t blow yer brains out, blow yer nose
Sucking acidophilus
Eatin’ gluten free. Peace & love sounds good t’ me
Who do you think you are, Elephant boy?
Preaching to the choir, you bitch to the sky
You claim you’re a victim of a Deep State conspiracy
Voter fraud and foreign manipulation
Self-righteous indignation and phony baloney
Sore loser and spoilsport, thy name be… Grump
Grump’s as real as a three-dollar bill
Shady deals and never-ending promises
A Nude Yorker, if you like his shtick, I have a great
Bridge to Brooklyn that I can sell you
Cryptocurrencies and crypto fascists
Grump wants to pardon the insurrectionists
Well, pardon me! Watch my butt glow in da dark
Conspiracy theories… liars… in a fictional world
Hear that? Trum trum, trum trum… that’s Trump!
Tearing up paper & givin’ folks the hairy eyeball
Where you gonna go, Hugo, when Trump gets re-elected?
Grand Master Frump, he ’s mad, too bad, he insists he got robbed
He writes nasty comments in his photo album coffee book
Calling the free press “the enemy of the people” is one underhanded slur
Republicans, who can do no wrong. Mixed-up Democrats
Demonstrating how NOT to run a government
Hark! Let’s consider all that’s wrong in America
Daylight Savings Time, the border with Canada
Income tax, the federal census, gerrymandering
Renaming the Washington Monument and Jefferson Memorial, as they both owned slaves
Tic tac toe, sugary soft drinks, Charlie horses and statewide nerds
A new Olympic record: the fastest sea level rise in 3,000 years
Indoor plumbing, surveillance cameras and surveillance drones
Worker bees and office managers. Error notices and thumb drives
Internal combustion engines. Global warming and weather reports
Rightwing retorts. Hot flashes, panic attacks and man-made lint
Trampa i klaveret. Step in dog poo. Trying to follow in the footsteps of Vanilla Ice, realPfft has ended up instead in the ghetto of bad language, explicit lyrics and parental advisories. Scandalous! Have foot, will shoot self in same. Tighten up, boys! Oops, there we go again with the shady innuendo.
In a celebration of small-town life, Swedish rap duo realPfft sings the praises of Swedish hot-rodders and their beloved wheels. Here’s an English translation:
Hot-rodders
Turtleback Volvo… hot rod… leather-clad steering wheel
See you at the hot dog stand
Hot rod babe in wooden shoes
Moped… small-town life
Classic Chevy
Payin’ at the pump
I’ll be broke by Thursday
Fighting in town
Hot-rodders
Making out in the backseat of a muscle car
The jukebox plays golden oldies
Cops come patrolling in a black and white
Moonshine! Clunk, clunk, clunk
Transistor radio on a beach blanket at 3 o’clock in the afternoon
Rap artists, Mutte and Clive have accumulated a catalog of 91 songs. Every fifth track is a rap song. On A.C.R.O.N.Y.M., Clive raps, Mutte raps and the voice simulator raps.
You choose. You can stymie the Biden administration, defeat the Build Back Better Act and see that the Democrats get nothing passed in the Senate in 2022. But if you do, Donald Trump will get elected president in 2024.
Believe me, it’s going to happen and you heard it here first.
You are so busy thumbing your nose at Biden, you may not realize that the alternative is El Trumpo.
Short of suffering a stroke, Trump is definitely running. His media empire has amassed a $100 million war chest to see that he wins. Being Trump, he’ll pussyfoot around right up until the last minute, but let’s not fool ourselves, the man is running at the head of the Republican ticket. The Republicans love Trump.
His running mate? I predict Josh Hawley. He and The Donald are cut from the same cloth, share the same pragmatic style and they both are very tall. American presidents are very tall, it has become a requirement in order to get elected.
It’s a dichotomy. Either you let the current administration have a bit of success or you re-elect a rule-breaking, authoritarian narcissist three years from now. At which point, you can kiss American democracy, in its current form, goodbye. You choose. There is no longer some magical middle road where you can both beat up the Bidens and avoid the Trumps.
“The Democrats are eunuchs! They get nothing done!” the Republican candidates will shout this November, with justification. And they will get elected, taking over both houses of Congress.
Joseph Biden has backed himself into a corner. An old-style politician, he seems unaware of politics in the age of the Internet. Rather than keep his mouth shut and get Congress to pass hundreds of line items in small bits of legislation, President Biden has unfurled a grandiose $1.4 trillion plan (down from an original $3.5 trillion) with a dumb title that plays on his name: B as in Biden. B as in Build Back Better. Talk about painting a bull’s eye on your back! Well, okay, FDR had his New Deal, Truman had his Marshall Plan, Kennedy had his New Frontier, LBJ had his Great Society.
Biden is competing with ghosts.
The Democrats ran on a lie in 2020, and I don’t mean any mythological conspiracy theories about voter fraud. The Democrats promised the voters that if the Democrats just won the White House and a majority in both houses of Congress, this country would finally get back to the basic business of governing, instead of building walls and spouting happy talk about hydroxychloroquine.
America came through: Joseph Biden was elected president. The House maintained a Democratic majority. The state of Georgia elected two Democratic Senators, Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock, creating a 50-50 Senate with Vice President Harris supplying the tie-breaking vote.
Bravo!
It’s a year later and despite all the big plans during the campaign, the Biden people now blame their abject failure on the filibuster.
The filibuster! Stop the presses, it’s the filibuster!
So what is it, this lumbering monster, this fire-breathing Godzilla of the legislature? Originally, a filibuster was Cicero-style oratory carried out on the floor of the Senate, for hours at a time, to block a bill from ever reaching a vote. Nowadays, they don’t even bother making the speeches. Mitch McConnell merely threatens to filibuster and all non-budgetary legislation stops dead. As minority leader, Mitch McConnell rules the Senate. This is not the way it is supposed to be, but the majority leader, Chuck Schumer, does not lead. Reactive instead of proactive, Schumer gets a sour look on his face and makes pointed remarks. This is not leadership.
How do you beat the filibuster? It turns out all non-budgetary legislation requires a supermajority of 60 senators to get passed. This is called cloture and it shuts down a filibuster. However, when can you get 60 senators to agree on anything? I mean, now they tell us! Why didn’t the Democrats inform the American people about the filibuster and the supermajority during the 2020 campaign? Were they afraid the voters would throw in the towel and stay home?
The Senate filibuster was created in the 1800’s. It is not part of the Constitution. A simple “yea” vote of 50 senators plus Vice President Harris would send the filibuster to the scrap heap of history. Yet, like fretting Hamlets, the Democrats cannot bring themselves to forego their lamentations and actually take action, by dumping the filibuster once and for all.
There are a thousand reasons for maintaining the filibuster. There are only three reasons to dump it: Governance. Passing legislation. Accomplishing something.
The Republicans, meanwhile, are busy lining up behind their Great Leader and kowtowing to the angriest rightwing elements of the electorate.
It’s not that the Republicans are so strong, it’s that the Democrats are so weak and divided.
Incredibly, at the moment, Democratic Senators Joe Manchin III of West Virginia and Kyrsten Sinema of Arizona are blocking passage of the Build Back Better Act. Way to go, team! Now that’s what I call solidarity. Not.
You choose, America. According to a Washington Post – University of Maryland poll, a third of the populace believes that violence against the federal government is justifiable. Never mind democracy or majority rule, fair play or good sportsmanship, Christian charity or the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
One out of three Americans don’t care about all that. They want to see their champion return to the White House. Even if it takes a putsch to do it. They are hell-bent on defending their freedom. Their freedom.
You choose, America. You can play politics, give the federal government the bird, spit on the Bidens and elect Trump in 2024. Or you can stake out a path of your own and surprise the world by abandoning fanciful conspiracy theories, acting like adults and voting for the Democrats.
Not because the Democrats are any damn good, but because they are the lesser of two evils.
With pride and excitement, the Swedish rap duo realPfft presents “Fettuccine Western,” their take on Sergio Leone’s glorious spaghetti westerns. Although it may sound like they recorded the vocal off a dvd, that’s actually Clive Flatenbad channeling Clint Eastwood. “Hang him by his bootstraps! Lazy varmint!” When it comes to theatrics, there’s no shutting up Clive.
yustyoking 
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