Anti-Donald Trump ad uses disabled boy

The link goes to CBS.

Poor kid was diagnosed with cancer on his spinal cord at one year of age. Worse than that debilitating condition, he's stuck with two Democrat activists for parents. Viewers in Colorado, and elsewhere presumably, are treated to the lad's parent's political position through his mouth. They're displaying their child to use to their political advantage. So, whereas the boy could be pursuing a childhood unencumbered with adult concers he has his parent's obsession for additional burden.

And it works!

On viewers such as the commenters on the CBS website, to a person, so very sanctimonious, so very unaware this vulnerable demographic is not so untouchable as they insist by their p.c.

In part, the Trump phenomena is reaction to stifling p.c., in part, I said,  that seeks to control by controlling language. And here is Hillary's PAC applying p.c. as usual business. And in this I do know whereof I speak. They've sunk half a million dollars into promulgating this ad and this conceit and it works only on Democrat voters already in the tank for Hillary and already set against Trump. In the end it's really quite absurd.

And you can actually see the strings of the puppeteer.  No you can't, I lied again. But I'm making a point over here, okay?

Don't watch this video because I do not like it. It's only put here as evidence.

Everyone over there on CBS agrees that Trump is just terrible for mocking that handicapped guy earlier who lied about him. For you see, Trump is actually not a politician. Not by a long shot. He's just another wealthy self-centered turd. Whereas Hillary is pure 100% political ambition, all her errors dismissed as misstatements. But still made by professional politician, a turd polished to high sheen. A sick, wasted, corrupted withering turd. 

And never look to a president for inspiration. Never! They are your employee that you hire. Not your inspiration. That's patently ridiculous. Hillary is inspiration for nobody except mob capos on how to avoid justice and how to corrupt government departments. Whereas Trump might be inspiration for persistence through failures and successes in business. Hillary has always taken, and Trump has always provided. If looking to others for inspiration for any reason it would be Trump and not certainly not Hillary Clinton. You have got to be kidding.

Further, Hillary is not interested an any chid's future except to have them beholden to government. 

I told you not to watch the video. It's depressing. This is Lem's Levity, not Lem's Depression. 

So then, by way of compensation and by way of counter argumentation, here are a few hilarious handicapped comedians instead. I watched these today. Some handicapped comedians are better than others. The less they address their condition the funnier they are. But all seem to have a need to address it. Even the ones who are already well  known.

Watch Josh Blue make fun of his own deaf interpreter onstage. He's funny pretending to discover the screen behind him displaying the text of his act as if his speech cannot be understood. His wtf look is priceless.  He incorporates these things into his act. Watch him discover how long his microphone cord is by rolling it up in loops as a garden hose using his affected arm. He knows that he looks hilarious doing that so he makes the most of it for his humor.

One last video. Jack Carroll, a 14 year old auditioning as comedian Britain's Got Talent, brings down the house. The audience leaps to standing ovation. This kid is truly funny. Well worth the time watching. His mum tells us that Jack is more concerned about his act being funny than he is about his condition.

Did I just now say one last video? I lied again. The British are simply not quite so p.c. bound as America has allowed itself to become and that Democrat voters insist. Here is the pilot for one of their television shows called "I'm Spazticus" that features handicapped people having fun punking normal people and going for the humor, I mean humour, in their reaction. Some of the dialog is a bit hard to follow, but all still hilarious. Everybody has fun with this.

There are many more. A LOT more. I find, though, sometimes they discuss their condition a bit too much and that's not so funny to me. Maybe you'll you can appreciate that more than I. 

Nina G, the stuttering comedian. (I think she might have been featured at the Democrat convention, I could be mistaken on this) Even so, apart from politics, she really is quite funny. Such a filthy sense of humor and that's why I like her. She had me cying with laughter.

Mysoon Zayid, a Palestinian comedian. This video is very funny, more so than some of her other videos. Unfortunately the shaky-cam vertical phone is held by person more afflicted than she. It will rattle your eyeball out of their sockets. Still, very funny. From a disabled rejection point of view as well as a Palestinian stereotype rejection point of view. 

Who said women aren't funny? These women have me cracking up along with their audience.

Stella Young, an Australian little person who passed away. Her TED talk is not that amusing. She's a disability activist who works humor into her discussions. 

Whereas another little person, Sean Stephenson has near perfect timing and exquisite sense of cynical irony. The video sound is poor quality.

Eric Mee, a blind comic who plays San Francisco. 

And too many more to continue to list here. You can find them all on YouTube.

However, none of that is what I care to talk about today. It's not my chief interest today. 

I'm too blown away by own dream. I know, I know, it's wearisome to read, and nonsense to everyone else,  but to me it is far more important than Hillary Clinton's PAC shenanigans and the people that those stupid tactics work on, more meaningful, more enlightening to me, more forceful to my own self-awareness, and a load more entertaining than all this. 

If you care to, something entirely different. Almost ... 

The strangest most astonishing dream. 

It’s all one dream in several distinct acts, like a stage show that just changes from one to another without interruption simultaneously both jolting and smoothy transitioned one to the next.

The first begins having parked the car in a familiar garage that does not match anything known IRL. I’m struggling with bags of groceries up a steep narrow concrete stairway that does not actually exist, cannot exist, would not be allowed by code. Young people half my age both male and female are delightfully and amusingly helpfully gracious in relieving me me of my burden and assisting me with the steps. Like Hillary Clinton, except more extreme. All of that unnecessary, the struggle is not really so hard as that. Then a later episode with the same steps becomes worse so that I can barely make it up the same steps. And this time it is a real struggle, but not anything discouraging. Not at all.  Just challenging, that's all.  This time there is only one young male helping, I recognize from real life who delivered groceries when I was ill a few weeks ago and carried up an impressive load all at once. He’s taken the whole load form me and now it’s quite impossible for me to get up the steps properly. Nearly at the top very close to the door I decide it’s easier to go sideways through a slot under the rail, so I’m on my back looking up and struggling to push with my egs and pull with my arms through the bottom slot of the railing when the young man becomes alarmed at seeing my struggle and in an anxious state he dials 9-1-1. I look up at him and ask “Why are you so alarmed? Don’t bother them." I laughed. "But this does show me what I’m to expect through the next decade. And that’s kind of a bummer.” 

Now I’m on the roof of my apartment except everything is different up there than it really is. I’m up there with the manager. We two are alone. It’s flat and plain up on the roof  and she’s taking some time off listening to a woefully out of date radio connected by a power cord that drapes off the side, down through a tree branch well below, then into an occupied apartment. She accepts my intrusion into her private escape and talk privately up there.

She leaves and trusts me to return the old radio. The renter of the apartment way down below yells up to me, “I need my extension.” She pulls the black cord until it disconnects and then she too leaves. Now the radio cord is trapped in the elbow of the tree branch and dangling over the sidewalk way down below. I consider how I’m going to get the cord unstuck and radio down from the roof. As I analyze the situation passing pedestrians begin playing with the dangling cord. Boys start swinging from the cord complicating my situation. 

I manage getting the cord and radio down by unrealistic means. I tell helpers who have appeared that I’ll take it to my apartment. They keep saying my “studio apartment” and that is not real. They insist their term is correct for my type of apartment because of its position in the center. I tell them that’s not the meaning. They insist that it is. Terms change, you know. They tell me everything’s been removed anyway. All my furnishing have been cleared. And I think, “good.” I say, “Let’s go see it all cleared.” 

We go up to my apartment but its not the real apartment. This one belongs to a NY senator. It’s much better appointed than my real apartment. Large modern kitchen, granite countertops, more rooms larger rooms, more lavishly appointed, better more expensive furniture, better designed, but like everything in NY, rooms left unfinished, abandoned mid project, carpet left with its edges unfinished. I think, ”Oh well. I cannot find anything in this other person’s apartment anyway. These people are going to realize this place is not mine.” 

Now I’m in a new nearby park briskly walking a path overgrown on both sides with tall vegetation on both sides. A small claque of young males catch up and talk it up unnaturally friendly. Young teenagers do not behave this way. They’re much younger than the previous young people. They’re all four cheerful punks. We hit it off about how great the new park is, what fun it is briskly walking its complex paths, what interesting plants surround us as a maze, interesting up and down terrain, great to bike at speed, the whole thing excellently ideally planned. Good job all around. What a great city to plan such a spectacular place to play. One young male of the group shorter than my self and 1/3 my age puts his arm around my shoulder like we’re chums and with his other hand produces my wallet. “See? I’m so skillful and clever I just now pinched your wallet and you didn't even notice.” I said, “Take a closer look. That’s not a real wallet and those aren’t real cards.” Ha ha ha. Psych!

The boys dash ahead. I turn right onto another transecting path, around an exotic African bush. It’s large and sort of scraggly and its leaves are thin long and thick such as nothing I’ve seen in botany. Something from the African savannah it seemed. A light wind is blowing directly onto the front face of the bush at the point of the new transecting trail. I notice the front of the bush is actually a very large stick insect positioned to take advantage of the wind hitting the bush. The insect IS the whole front of the bush and insect and bush are indistinguishable from one another. The mouth of the insect is wide open in the perfect replication of a small spider’s web. It is capturing tiny airborne insects and closing the web around them one after another. The edges of the web mouth curl to bring in its food. Then spread out again to to a spider's web to capture more tiny flying insects. I stand there observing completely fascinated with this bizarre and gloriously large and impeccably camouflaged insect. I point this out to people passing by. I speak pedantically while knowing nothing at all. A thing like that is easy to miss. I wanted everybody to see it.  I am well pleased with this interesting and delightful and outrageous new sight. The bug, the plant, the park, this whole thing is just fantastic.

I walk past and the park then develops into me walking an actual African park in Africa. I find myself with a group of people as tourists there to learn something specific. We’re walking a flat dirt trail with wooden railings and immediately beyond them rough unpainted wood sides of barn-lie buildings, a very poor and crude unnatural environment. A scruffy black man takes up position behind me in the line of people inching forward. I overhear him talking behind me with others in conversation, and I begin picking up his nonconformist thoughts. He is outsider to his own tribe. He is displaced within his own culture. He is different from all the rest of his kin. He is a dangerous type. He is a controversial figure. He’s had trouble with the laws of his land, he’s troubled his country’s leaders and he’s been imprisoned. He has a following of discontented people. He speaks about his daughter. 

I can hear his daughter, unseen, on the other side of a wooden dividing wall. She’s speaking with another young woman inculcating her with the daughter’s revolutionary agenda and her own distinctly opposed values and views, a disruptive religion of sorts. Her criminal father takes position beside me as a line of people progresses the path for some kind of odd display that we're all anticipating, like walking through a primitive African makeshift zoo. As walk past the first corral the criminal revolutionary father says, “Look at that.” he points to water covering the mud bottom, much like sty, a puddle that formed in the enclosure that is loaded with squirming dark fish, small fish, fry that were channeled into by a recent flood. It was unusual. The corral was for a large dark cow or an ox that apparently would be sacrificed for their African ritual. Some kind of rite that the group was expecting. The father befriends me somewhat. He speaks to me like a shaman. I’m fascinated with the fish but we move on to the next corral and sit there in front of it as audience and wait for the ritual to begin. He’s explaining things that do not apply to my life. I don’t like him. But I accept his presence beside me as necessary for the situation we’re in. 

Referring to the previous corral, and pointing back to it and still fascinated with the fish fry squirming in the puddle, I ask him, “When will the little fish come back?” He finds that question terribly funny. Too childlike. Concerned for the wrong thing. “The fish are an accident,” He tells me, still laughing,  “they’re not related to what’s happening here. They are not a concern.”  He was just pointing out something a little bit odd to him, the result of a recent flood, but that fascinated to me way too much. I’m still stuck on the dark baby fish when my attention should be on much larger things of much greater importance than that flood-related accident that brought in the fry merely seeking safety as fish do in schools. And now the man is seated directly in front of me and his afro is touching my face annoyingly. Then he leans backward as if my body is his airline recliner so that his fuzzy hair is smashed into my face and I lift and pass through him beyond him and take flight beyond all the corrals, now all is behind me, beyond the entire shack and barn unpainted wood and mud poorly setup zoo, above all the dirt and the trouble and I’m lifted with music. Music! Music is carrying me forward and upward, music is lifting me above the African terrain, music determines my tempo, my speed, and my elevation, my aspect in the air. I decide as I’m flying away that I must use this flight to  tour Africa. I look down upon the African terrain and marvel. I take in breathtaking African red canyons, I fly to African coast and watch the waves break and spread to the beach. I’m concerned how my body is covered, how my light garment is keeping me unexposed, how I can barrel roll  midair without my very light half wrap exposing my otherwise naked self at altitude, it just automatically covers the right spots. I fly the coast of Africa and I’m reveling in the very real glory of flight better even than hang gliding, the best of all flights, I have mastered flight, completely mastered flight, and the voice of the revolutionary criminal black shaman instructs, “This is what Jesus got up to by his meditations. This is what the profits all got up to. This is it. You've done it! While for now you must see to your legs. Right now, though, relax your flight, abide, and take care of your legs. Relax, abide,  take care, stretch your one chance here on earth, now, mind your earthly concerns.” 

I woke up and had to pee. No option in delaying. And this time it really was a struggle getting up on my legs in the dark. What a f’k’n bummer! Compared to what I just experienced, but I didn’t care. I  was still completely delighted in having felt it. And I still am. And I mean completely! Simply the most extraordinary flight dream ever. The most glorious of all. And I mean it. Nothing so far has compared.  It is like a gift. The very best gift ever.

(Just checked Blogger dashboard. If you step on this post I'm going to be cross.)