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The Big Bang…Boom!

 

I like the idea of celebrating the United States of America on July 4th.

The fact that we were not perfect at our start or during the early 1800s or after the 1800s or during the 1900s or right up until yesterday is no reason not to celebrate our great experiment in self-government.

I think we are heading in the right direction. Our ideas are strong and slowly we will see them manifest themselves more completely as time moves on. Most of our citizens are decent people and their decency will win out in the long run. We are created equal even though it is taking centuries to establish that fully throughout our states.

However, can we jettison the street-side fireworks on this important holiday? My neighborhood was a war zone, starting at dusk and heading into midnight. There were explosions that shook our house. There were Roman candles that landed close to our roof. A barrage with no pause, no intermission; a relentless cacophony of booming.

What is the point of keeping your neighbors awake and, for some, have them trembling in fear that their houses might be damaged or even burned? Are those explosive experts romping in the streets aware that what they are doing is morally wrong?

Indeed, it is morally wrong to light up the night with fearing, flaring flights of Roman candles and generate explosions so loud that birds, squirrels, and people quiver in their nests, unable to read a book, listen to music or watch television. Our local yokels were hopping and skipping and bellowing out on the streets as they threw their bombs with nary any consideration for those who didn’t want to hear their whoops and wham-bangs.

We tend to think; “Oh, they are just kids” as if being a kid allows one to be stupid and totally self-centered. Yes, these were kids—a few decades ago. They’ve grown up postulating that making noise has some valuable meaning in the scheme of life.

They have probably read neither the Declaration of Independence nor the Constitution. Maybe they should expose their brains to knowledge and not ka-booming on Independence Day, and, perhaps, lead the country closer to the ideals expressed in those documents.

Some might say, “Oh, buck up, Scoblete, it’s just one day of the year.” Unfortunately, they are setting off fireworks just about every evening throughout year—it’s just louder, longer, and more loathsome on July 4th.

My wife, the Beautiful AP, is of the opinion that these July 4th bombers—and also those drivers who remove the mufflers from their cars so they can be heard for miles—are people who have accomplished little or nothing in their lives, thus making noise is their way of getting attention.. “I’m loud, therefore I am.”

So if you are one of the noisy masses, perhaps next year you should do something more meaningful, or at the very least—do nothing.

Frank Scoblete’s web site is www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, Kindle, e-books and at bookstores. Sign up to get Frank’s articles sent you to you.

My Horse Betting Career

I am in a thick fog in some gambling areas.

Early in my gaming career I thought I would tackle horse racing – but do it in a smart way by getting inside information. A certain individual who had “inside knowledge” started me off with a great pick for one of the Triple Crown races. “This horse can’t lose. He’ll blow away the field,” said my source. I was convinced I would win a lot of money if I bet on this horse so I bet a lot of money on this horse – with my wife, the Beautiful A.P. saying, “I don’t think you should bet that much on a horse. You don’t know anything about horse racing.”

“Honey,” I said confidently, “this horse is going to blow away the field.”

My horse did not blow away the field. Instead he broke his leg midway through the race and had to be put to sleep. He had been a superb animal but a miserable betting choice.

My inside source gave me two more “can’t lose” tips, upon both of which I bet heavily. I explained to my wife: “Don’t worry, these horses can’t lose!” when she fretted about how much I was putting on my horses’ heads.

In the first of the two races my horse came bolting out of the starting gates and looked like he would destroy the field. However at the first turn he decided he didn’t want to continue the race and he headed for the stables. All the other horses went around the track but my “can’t lose” horse just ran to the right and into the barns. The jockey was whipping him, yelling at him; the fans were jeering him merrily – and I lost the first of two very big bets.

Okay, two races, two horses that didn’t finish, so my third horse had to at least make it around the track, didn’t he?

Don’t bet on that.

My third horse looked a little weird – if horses can actually look weird – as he walked to the starting gate. He didn’t want to go into the starting gate but that is not unusual, as many horses don’t like to go into the starting gate.

But when the race started, my horse leaped out of the starting gate and ran in a small circle, around and around as if chasing his tail, foaming at the mouth, bucking and kicking, and trying to throw the jockey who was hanging on for dear life. The horse looked as if he had taken a massive dose of LSD. It took a whole bunch of people to settle the horse down and save the jockey. The horse then walked meekly back to the stables while the race proceeded without him.

Three horses, three non-finishes, three losses.

My horse racing career was now over. It is one thing to lose a race but my horses couldn’t even finish a race. That had to be God telling me, “Scobe, no more betting on horse racing for you.”

I am not sure anyone can beat the horses in the long run, although I have heard tales of some long-term winners, but I remain skeptical. Too much is involved in horses running around the track, not the least of which is the enormous vig you have to pay when you win those races. You also have no idea if the race is fixed, to put it bluntly. Obviously my horses didn’t need to be “fixed” because they couldn’t even get around the track, but horse players always talk about how the smaller-stake’s races might actually be more like professional wrestling than real competition.

I have no idea really. I don’t want to have any idea, really. Because I really know that while horses are really the most beautiful of animals, betting on them racing around a track is not really in my cards. When it comes to horse racing I am the father of teenagers – I have no glory, no glow, no godliness. I am really just a dumb loser.

Mom

 

I sat on the couch as I had over the weeks and months prior to this moment. I had my arm around my mother’s shoulder. She was snuggled into my chest. My father watched from a chair opposite us.

“I was in the backyard on 92nd street and I saw my mommy kissing my daddy,” she giggled. “They were kissing right there.”

Mom was 83 years old. “They kissed a few times,” she giggled. I squeezed my mom’s shoulder. She was skinny by this time.

She would call me “Frankie” as in “Frankie, I saw my mommy kissing my daddy in the yard.” But today she had forgotten my name. She knew she knew me – at least I think she knew me – but my name was now lost to her. Most of her memories were lost too – although some long-term ones still could be bubble up a little here and a little there.

My Mom was born in 1925. Her father died in the mid-1930’s leaving six kids behind; five daughters and one son. There was no welfare in those days so my mom left school in sixth grade and she and her sisters went to work in the factories. My grandmother cleaned schools. They skimped and saved and they were able to keep their house on 92nd Street in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Where they lived is now an entrance to the Verrazano Bridge.

The son joined the army for World War II. He always volunteered for the most dangerous assignments. I do not know how many enemy soldiers he killed. Those who knew him called him fearless and daring.

My two strong memories of him concerned how much he smoked. He always had a cigarette in his mouth. And second, he would twist my arm behind my back and tell me to say that my father was a “bum” or “I’ll break your arm in half.” I’d cry but I never gave in. I am surprised he didn’t break my arm. Oh, yes, he was a hunter too. That might be my third memory of him. So it was his smoke, my pain and various creatures’ deaths.

The five sisters were loving. They doted on each other. They emotionally supported each other. They had an unbreakable union that lasted until the very last one passed away almost a decade ago.

The sisters held their brother in very high esteem. As a kid, I never told my mother that he tortured me. It wasn’t until I was older, an adult actually, that I told her about him. She wouldn’t believe me. She couldn’t believe me. Then the other male cousins started to tell their tales about him, how he would get each of them alone, and hold a lit cigarette closely over the palm of one trapped hand, daring them to flinch. The sisters started to believe. The female cousins had no tales about him. He spared them.

My mom’s was an immigrant family. Italian laborers. Hard workers. Perhaps the New York City version of the salt of the earth. The sons in such families were often lauded and revered. It was true of my family. It didn’t really matter what the child was like, if he were male, he was premier.

This fearless and daring son sent his army paychecks home during the war and my grandmother saved the money so that when he returned from duty, he received a substantial nest egg. The daughters had worked tirelessly for money through the Great Depression and the War, but they had no nest eggs. Instead, they had supported the family. Their brother took his bank account, and left.

My uncle died at 50; as far as I could tell no male cousin shed a tear. I didn’t go to his wake or funeral.

My mom was the middle sister. She worked until her mid-60s. Her final job was at the World Trade Center. I could talk to my mom about anything.

At another visit, my mother snuggled into me, “I have a picture of my daddy.”  She would always say that and then she’d point to someone in a picture, some relative or friend, and say, “That is my daddy.” It never was.

Until this day.

Up to that time I had never seen my mother’s father.  But this day, on the wall near the couch, was a new photo – an old new photo – a little grainy but it showed the clear picture of a young man. He was dressed in a leather overall and he was standing on the side of an ice-truck. He was an ice distributor, an iceman.

I didn’t look like him. But then I realized that this man was indeed my grandfather. His hands! I looked at his hands. They were my hands or, rather, mine were his hands.

“He is your granddad,” my dad said.

His hands and my hands.

“My daddy,” my mother nodded and then: “I saw my mommy kissing my daddy in the backyard.”

“Where was that?” I asked. “Do you remember the street?”

“My mommy was kissing my daddy.”

I am Frankie, mom, your son.  I have my grandfather’s hands. I have your father’s hands. I held my hands up. “Look at my hands,” I said.

She was looking far away. “My mommy was kissing my daddy,” she said.

In a few days, she stopped talking. In a few weeks, she stopped eating. She died. March 22, 2008.

Frank Scoblete’s web site is www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available from Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, Kindle, e-books and at bookstores.

The Proof is in the Pooping

 

I assume all animals and birds on Earth poop. It seems obvious that what goes in, must in some way, shape, or form, go out. Certainly that is true of my two parrots, Augustus and Mr. Squeaky. Each poops. But their poops are quite different.

Augustus, a Quaker Parrot, age 23 (or so), is an old guy smack in the middle in his twilight years. Mr. Squeaky, a Green-Cheeked Conure, is a youngster at about nine years old.

They get along, mostly, as Squeaky has taken to grooming Augustus. You’ve never seen a groomer like Squeaky. He should open a salon. Augustus looks great; he’s clean and glowing.

Their cages are right next to each other in my office. They each like to go into the other’s cage and eat his food even though the food is exactly the same. But here’s the rub: their poops are radically different. How can that be? Same food in; different poop out.

My wife, the Beautiful AP, and I have labeled Augustus a stealth pooper. That’s because whenever he flies and lands somewhere he plops out a big wet white poop. If he lands on your shoulder, plop; your arm, plop; the chair or couch, plop; the top of his cage plop, on top of your head, plop. He’s been this way all his life. My wife trails him and cleans up after him. I do too.

Mr. Squeaky is different. He is a shy pooper. In the morning as his cage is being cleaned, AP has to coax him to poop by saying, “Where’s that big poop? Big poop. Come on, big poop!” He waits until the Beautiful AP turns her back on him before he goes, then gets positive reinforcement. “Oh, look at that big poop! That’s a good bird.”

Squeaky is a clean pooper. When he flies around the house, he doesn’t plop whenever and wherever he lands. He holds it in and just goes off the top of his cage onto the floor. He wasn’t trained to do this. It’s just his preference. Actually, birds in the wild like to keep their nests clean, so they aim to poop outside the nest.

Not us.

We humans have pooped too, but our wastes are of all kinds with devastating impacts. We have dumped so much non-biodegradable plastics in landfills and oceans that we’ve created mountains on land and islands in the ocean composed of this harmful product of human genius.

We have carcinogenic chemicals sloshing in the water and floating through the air, along with industrial wastes flowing in rivers; plus lead and other heavy metals such as arsenic, cadmium, chromium, copper, nickel and mercury; along with nitrates, pesticides, variously tainted sediments—all of these with pathogens from our own personal plops churning in our beach waters.

We, meaning you and me and humanity, have a choice. We can be Augustus, despoiling everywhere we are and everywhere we land; or we can be Squeaky, relatively clean and contained.

Frank Scoblete’s web site is www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Nobel, Kindle, e-books and at bookstores.  

 

Should You Place the 5 or 9?

 

There’s been a lot of debate in craps circles about the placing of the 5 and 9, some of it quite intense between the camps that say do so and the camps that say don’t do so.

Well I am now going to settle this thing once and for all – or at least for the next few minutes while you read this. I am dealing with controlled shooters now, not random rollers. No random roller should ever consider placing the 5 or 9 as that four percent house edge is just too darn big to have much of a chance of being ahead in the near future. It might be such a near future as to be tonight.

There is no doubt that with controlled shooter what happened in the past, meaning the shooters past performance, does tell you something about what will happen in the future. If a shooter is reducing the appearance of the 7 he is obviously increasing the appearance of other numbers, maybe not all of the other numbers but certainly some of the other numbers.

Now a controlled shooter has just hit a few 5s (or 9s) in short order. Do you place the 5 (or 9) in that case? The answer, startlingly, is yes…and no.

Let’s take the “no” first. Is the appearance of those 5s enough to warrant a place bet against that large four percent house edge on a 5 (or 9)? Here is the unexpected answer: Forget that the shooter just rolled those 5s, the question you should ask yourself is this, “Is that shooter’s past results indicative of an ability to overcome a four percent house edge in the future?”  The answer to this is usually “No, he isn’t good enough from this point on to overcome edge on the 5.”

It doesn’t matter that he just hit some 5s, you have to look towards his future prospects based on the wealth of his past performance, not based on a few rolls that just happened.

For most dice controllers that settles the issue. DO NOT place the 5 or 9. The edge is too high.

Now too many novice and intermediate dice controllers have a bloated concept of how good they are. They think, erroneously, that they can overcome the house edge on the 5 because the 5 just showed a few times. This is somewhat equivalent to the idiotic concept of “see a number, bet that number” proclaimed by the ploppies of craps, although the 5 does have a much smaller house edge than the Crazy Crapper bets.

Now let me go to the “yes” you should place the 5 (or 9) argument but first an absolutely important preface concerning bad listening: Kids selectively listen to what teachers say. Take the sex talks that now seem de rigueur in public schools. Teachers say the following, “You shouldn’t have sex but if you are going to have sex use a condom.”

What the kids hear is this: “Have sex.”  The rest of the sentence is forgotten.

Craps players also have selective memories. They look for ways to continue stupid betting practices by scrounging around for trend systems and other systems that essentially make them losers even if these players have developed a controlled throw.

So what I write now is not to be selectively remembered. Remember it all or don’t read it.

If you have an elite controlled shooter then you can place bet the 5. So unless you are at the tables with a true master of dice control who is getting into a real streak, not an imagined one, then you should not place bet the 5 or 9.

And do not selectively remember the above to think it gives you permission to follow the advice of new or intermediate dice controllers or systems advocates.

“Have sex” this ain’t!

Frank Scoblete’s web site is www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, Kindle, e-books and at bookstores.

Bird is the Word

 

They don’t just fly over your house; they have flown into our vocabulary too. Not often for good reasons; not often for bad reasons.

In England young women are often referred to as birds. In the United States and Canada, young women are often called chicks. Women who have passed their peek are often referred to as old hens or old crows.

If someone keeps repeating something over and over we can refer to that person as a parrot. If your acquaintance is a stuck up, classless idiot, you might refer to him or her as a popinjay or a peacock.

Someone who is considered stupid is often called a bird brain. However, someone who is smart can be called a wise-old owl. But if someone is scared you call that person a chicken or chicken shit. If someone thinks of himself as sexually desirable, he pictures himself cock of the walk.

People who are crazy can be called loons or cuckoos. Or maybe they just go to Florida in the winter and are called snowbirds. Someone who uses cocaine is often called a snowbird as well. Someone who lives in Florida and also uses cocaine is called a dodo.

Throughout our country we have many supposed health experts who are really just quacks. Quacks are the magpies of medicine as they are stealing your money selling bird poop. Be an early bird and don’t let them ruffle your feathers.

If you go to quacks you’d better be eagle-eyed and watch them like a hawk so they don’t steal from you. If they do steal from you then go to the police and sing like a nightingale about their thievery. Maybe these people will be arrested and put in a birdcage so they can’t fly the coop.

The character of Mr. Potter in my favorite movie It’s a Wonderful Life was a vulture and certainly deserved the title of old coot. He was probably pigeon-toed too. He was a man who ate like a pig because he could not actually eat like a bird because, in reality, birds eat a lot! I don’t know if Mr. Potter liked to wet his beak from the expensive wines he enjoyed drinking.

I really wished George Bailey, the lead character in the movie, didn’t give a hoot about Mr. Potter but George acted like a silly goose by trying to borrow money from Mr. Potter. Yes, Mr. Potter was always feathering his nest with other people’s money. That man was a bad egg.

By the end of the movie George Bailey was flying like a bird when he found out how many friends he had and, hopefully, all the viewers truly hoped that Mr. Potter would wind up with a severe case of thrush at the end.

Frank Scoblete’s website is www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available from Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, Kindle, e-books and at bookstores.

Trump: The Art of the Steal

 

Lee Child’s Jack Reacher series (now 25 books!) has a hero who is closer to a superhero or to Tarzan than to an ordinary man. I am guessing that many American men who read these books (such as yours truly) wouldn’t mind being Jack Reacher even for a day.

Is it possible, perhaps even likely, that the President of the United States, Donald Trump, would also like to be Reacher? Is it possible that he stole Jack Reacher’s demeanor and evinced it during the recent protests? Did he borrow a litany of ideas from the second novel in the Reacher series titled Die Trying?

Read these quotes from Die Trying and then hear President Trump echo these very sentiments.

…need to get some dominance here. Situation like this, it’s very important…. Just do it okay? (page 64, Kindle edition)

…gain the upper hand. Establish dominance. Classic siege theory. (page 341, Kindle edition)

…kiss goodbye any hope of dominance. That was to lie down and roll over. From that point on you are their plaything. (page 341, Kindle edition)

A few weeks ago Trump wanted to use the United States military to “dominate” protesters and he seems to have also desired a dominating “occupying force” in America cities.

He tongue-lashed the governors of those states experiencing rioting and looting, telling them they were fools and jerks. “If you don’t dominate, you’re wasting your time. They’re going to run over you, You are going to look like a bunch of jerks. You have to dominate.” (Business Insider, June 2, 2020)

Later that same day Trump ordered that the protesters outside the White House were to be disbursed by tear gas and rubber bullets. It turned out that this was simply a method to clear the way for a photo session with a dominating Trump holding a Bible outside St. John’s Episcopal Church at Lafayette Square. The next day he and Melania stood reverently in front of the statue of John Paul II. What was the message he was sending?

Is Trump trying to be Jack Reacher? Has he bought into the idea that using the military might of America against Americans upholds the American way?

Does he want to dominate because he thinks not doing so makes him a fool and a jerk?

Did Trump’s tongue lashing of the Governors come straight out of a Jack Reacher novel?  Is Trump actually preparing a new book titled The Art of the Steal?

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Qualifying Events

Casino players are always trying to figure out when is the best or most propitious or most advantageous time to place their wagers. Should I wait for two blacks to appear in roulette before I bet red since red is now due? Or should I wait for two blacks to appear before I bet black since black is hot and may continue to be hot? If numbers appear in one column on the roulette layout, should I bet that column or jump to a different column? Decisions, decisions.

Whatever system a player uses to determine the correct time for wagering is called a “qualifying” event. As with the myriad number of players, there are a myriad number of qualifying events that can be used to determine the appropriate time to risk one’s money on Lady Luck’s largesse. And let us not kid ourselves, qualifying events herald winners and losers based on Lady Luck’s whim.

Are qualifying events real? Obviously, yes. But are such events in the various games an indicator that the player has the edge over the house at that moment? Sadly, almost all qualifying events have no impact on the house edges of the various games. Bet red; bet black; bet the first column; bet high, bet low, none of it matters how you arrived at your decision because luck determines the outcome and math determines the house edge.

A player’s luck is no match for the math of the house edge whether the player uses a qualifying event or whether a player just dumps his money on the table helter skelter and calls out, “I’ll bet every number on the craps table!”

Still there is one thing these qualifying events tend to have in common; they slow down the total number of wagers the players make and thus using such events will slow down the rate of loss for those players even though the house edge remains the same.

So let’s take a look at some methods players have used for qualifying when and how to bet.

At many casino games players use a trend-betting system. If two, three or more of the same event occurs, one can bet that same event continuing or against that same event continuing. You see this clearly in the roulette examples above. But variations of this will work with blackjack and other card games as well.

In blackjack if you see that the dealer has busted once or twice or three times in a row, you jump into the game figuring he will bust again. This is called following a positive trend. However, if he doesn’t bust you can figure he will bust on the next hand and jump into the game. Or you can figure he won’t bust and you stay out of the game. You can also decide to raise or lower your bets as you play based on such trends as high cards coming out together, low cards coming out together, a combination of high and low cards coming out together, the dealer getting two blackjacks in a row, the dealer getting two hands of 20 in a row and so on.

In baccarat, Pai Gow poker, Caribbean Stud, Let It Ride, Three-Card poker and many of the other “carnival games,” you can sit out hands and use a trend-betting system to determine when to jump into the fray. There is no rule that you have to play each and every hand so sitting out and waiting for your qualifying event is a mathematically smart move.

During a game you can raise your bet if you have won several hands in a row (you determine what constitutes “several”) or lower your bet if you have lost several hands in a row. Of course, you can also lower your bet if you have won several hands in a row since that might mean you must lose the upcoming hand. You can also raise your bet if you have lost several hands in a row figuring, “I have to win sometime!”

At craps, there is a host of qualifying events that you can use to decide which numbers or propositions to wager. If several Crazy Crapper bets such as the 2, 3, 11, or 12 have been rolled, you can jump on this trend thinking these numbers are getting hot. You can decide to bet multi-bet Crazy Crapper bets such as the Whirl, the Horn, or the C&E if such groups of numbers seem to be showing a lot.

If you are looking for a qualifying event to actually start betting at craps, many players like the shooter to make a point before they bet. Some players take the bull by the horns (what sane individual would ever take a bull by the horns?) and ask the dealers before cashing in, “Is this table hot or cold?” If the dealer says, “Hot,” the player jumps in figuring the table will stay hot or he can choose not to jump in figuring the table must therefore get cold.

Card counters at blackjack use a simple formula to determine when to raise and lower their bets. If the game favors them at a given moment owing to which cards have been played, the card counter bets more. If the game favors the house at that moment they bet less. This is the only qualifying system that actually works to give the player the edge.

So to qualify this column, qualifying events can be a fun way to play but they will rarely give you any kind of edge.

 

 

Frank Scoblete’s web site is frankscoblete.com. His books are available at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at bookstores. Get Frank’s articles by e-mail!

 

 

 

 

A Second Virus Attacks!

The coronavirus has caused the world to turn upside down and inside out. My travels have been interrupted; no casinos in the last two months; no trips outside the country either. My wife the Beautiful AP and I are having a sedate life at the moment—the most sedate life of our lives. Our lives now revolve around our home, our pets and Zoom calls.

Our village is quite quiet now. We are stepping back in time to an older, finer world.

Except:

There is a second virus out there; a hideous one, perhaps more hideous than even the coronavirus. It is called the carownervirus (pronounced car-owner-virus) and it entails humans removing the mufflers from their cars and speeding on New York’s highways and boulevards.

Intermittently during the mornings, the days, the evenings and the middle of the night when I get up for a refreshing urinary expulsion, I hear them zooming in the distance as they race one another. The closest parkway is about two miles away but even so that mufflerless cacophony assails my ears.

Who are these life-forms that think removing mufflers and stepping down on a gas pedal makes them special? Are they believers in the idiom I am loud, therefore I am? Are they the adult version of those beings that spent years trying to ruin the educations of all the other kids who wanted to learn something? Is it true that the young idiot usually grows into an older idiot? I do ponder these questions.

The carownervirus might be here (hear) to stay as the infected take over the roads while healthy people hunker down to avoid catching or releasing the coronavirus.

Perhaps those infected by the carownervirus will even have their own PPE uniforms to wear: short-sleeved T-shirts with a pack of unfiltered cigarette rolled up in one sleeve, adorned with gold chains dangling from their necks, along with greased hair and leather jackets bearing their gang’s name (Misfits!).

Will their saying now become for all time, “Hey, Daddy-o! What’s happening?” And when all our lives settle into a new normal, will we be challenged to a perpetual drag race each time we venture on the open road?

I know what I’ll say when I am challenged: “Sorry sir, but I have a bowl of goldfish on the front seat.”

Frank Scoblete’s books are available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at bookstores. Receive Frank’s articles in your email box. Sign up today.

Unsocial Media

I’ve been called a communist, a socialist, a Nazi, a Trumpite, a Trumparine. a never-Trumper; a lefty, a right winger, a UFO denier, a tool of the Dr. Fauci and Bill Gates’ conspiracy, a lover of Hillary Clinton, a Republican, a Democrat, a disgrace to Italians, an idiot, a moron, a cretin, an enemy of Our Lord, an anti-Christian, an atheist, an evolutionist, a destroyer of America, a slave owner and today’s most powerful expletive: racist.

I am a liberal tool to expand the Democratic tax thefts, but I must be a greedy Republican, because I think it is a good thing to make money.

My friends of all political persuasions, religions, non-religions and colors have been attacked. I especially love the Jews who are trying to destroy the world (for various reasons) and have been since they came into existence when Adam and Eve ate the apple (it was a fig folks, not an apple). I am also a dumb figgest.

I support the Asians who are taking over the country. I want China to take over because I hate Caucasians. I am a white supremacist, also a traitor to my white race, a beastialist, a privileged white male even though I once lived in a cold water flat for six years as a child and started working at the age of nine. I am a misogynist. I do not know anything about the vagina. I am a subjugator of women. I must have a small penis.

I do not obviously know how to read the secret messages of the Illuminati or understand that Sandy Hook never happened. I am a Catholic; an anti-Catholic, an evangelical, an evil denier of the plain creationist truth and I evidently have no common sense. How can I deny the Kennedy conspiracy? I am a jerk because I don’t think face masks kill people or that Covid-19 is a hoax. I am an “N” lover.

I am probably a Satanist and denier of the eternal truths of the bible.   I am an anti-vaxxer. A populist. An elitist. A sexist. A feminist lackey and probably a rapist. I don’t think GMOs are unhealthy and that means I am “as stupid as an idiot.” I should be ashamed of myself because I don’t think the word “organic” means what a lot of people think it means. I am a sad example of a man who can’t figure out that the world is actually flat.

Therefore, I am never going onto social media again. Well, at least for the next few months, as it is a scary world of hyper-sensitive, tense, threatening, and angry extremists. For them, lashing out is a relatively calm behavior.  Threatening bodily harm is par for their course if you attempt to engage them in discussions.

You might think that I debated these ploppies over the course of the last month on the weird and wacky world of social media but you would be mistaken. The most I did was ask for real evidence of whatever claims a person made. A simple, “prove it,” could bring down the house as most people thought their arguments were self-evident. But I became the monster who dared ask for reasons to support their beliefs. Yikes, I never should have done that!

Now, I am taking a break from unsocial media.

Frank Scoblete’s website is www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at bookstores.