When I was in high school, my Psychology teacher….Mrs. Yearwood, painted our class bulletin board bright red. She never explained it, she would just paint a little each evening after school and the next day, more of the surface would be painted red. The point was, to illustrate that people notice changes. It worked…each day I would check out her painting progress……after a week or so, it became just another bulletin board. Our class basically ignored it, like we did other bulletin boards. BUT…as you can see here, I remembered the incident. I also remember Woodstock….even though I was not there.
I say all that to say this……all these silly ass marches of the left……will fade in a short time so that even the intelligent members of the left (both ofthem) will eventually ignore the marching of the Little Sorros Soldiers . They will just become “people in the way, taking up unnecessary parking space at airports and other places of public interaction.”
Rich man…. George Sorros…should just buy them a TV channel and post all their bitching and marching there…..they can record themselves, watch themselves, have little parties and watch reruns of themselves. They can become ever so important in their own minds. He can even have it photo shopped to make the crowds appear bigger and bigger….UNTIL………. they eventually become smaller and smaller……when old George Sorros kicks the proverbial bucket and those who he has paid to bitch and march, as well as, Flo from Progressive Insurance, are forced to get real jobs.
Mrs. Pete Monaghan came into the newsroom to pay for her husband’s obituary. She was told by the kindly newsman that it was a dollar a word and he remembered Pete and wasn’t it too bad about him passing away.
She thanked him for his kind words and bemoaned the fact that she only had two dollars. But she wrote out the obituary, “Pete died.”
The newsman said he thought old Pete deserved more and he’d give her three more words at no charge.
Mrs. Pete Monaghan thanked him and rewrote the obituary, “Pete died. Boat for sale.”
Not being a whiz on cars, I feel inadequate when talking with a mechanic. When my vehicle started making a strange noise, I sought help from a friend. He drove the car around the block, listened carefully, then told me how to explain the difficulty when I took it in for repair.
At the shop I proudly recited, “The timing is off, and there are premature detonations, which may damage the valves.”
As I smugly glanced over the mechanic’s shoulder, I saw him write on his clipboard, “The man says it makes a funny noise.”