Bill de Blasio, the single worst mayor in the history of New York, wants to become president of the United States. He’s delusional. Nutty as a fruitcake.
This raises the question: Can’t we have de Blasio removed as our mayor on the grounds that you can’t have a man who is clearly mentally ill running the biggest, most important city in the nation?
It’s bad enough we have a man whose mind is clearly going off the rails running the country.
Like that disgusting old creep Bernie Sanders, de Blasio claims to be a socialist.
Well, we all know that a socialist is a person too stupid to know they are a communist.
De Blasio has said that this country has plenty of money … it’s just in the wrong hands. As though if it were in his hands and Bernie Sanders’ hands and dopey Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s hands, we wouldn’t have the kind of socialism that has millions of people in Venezuela starving.
De Blasio has also called for a program of actual redistribution of wealth that includes much heavier taxes on the wealthy.
I say to de Blasio: Tell that to Ken Langone, who started off poor and has used the money he’s earned (the money that de Blasio and Sanders want to take away from him) to donate millions of dollars to various charities. His philanthropic focus has been universities, medical research and training, education, and helping children. Langone just announced that every NYU medical student will be studying and getting a great medical education tuition-free. That’s wonderful, and it comes from a man who’s all action and not a politician who’s all talk.
Tell it to Ron Perelman and Hank Greenberg and the Koch brothers and a hundred other millionaires and billionaires who have built hospitals and hospital wings, and have contributed millions to make this the greatest and richest nation in the world.
When did we change? When did we hand off our future to the Trumps, the de Blasios, the Bernie Sanders, the Elizabeth Warrens?
And what have they done to the minds of our young people?
I can’t help but think if I were 18 years old today, would I be voting for Bernie Sanders? Would the prospect of a life with no prospects and no responsibilities turn me on?
Let’s see: There would be free college and free medical care and if I wanted to earn a few bucks to buy weed I could always go to work for McDonald’s and make an incredible minimum wage of $15 an hour and all the Sausage Egg McMuffins I could steal.
And while I think of it, why should I pay for weed? I think the government should give me weed for free every week to keep me happy and to make sure I vote for a socialist the next time I vote.
Now as far as I know, according to Bernie Sanders, all this money to fund everyone’s life of ease is going to be taken from the rich.
According to Bernie, all the billionaires out there should have their bank accounts looted (with the exception of George Soros, a liberal Democrat who should be allowed to keep every penny of his money for all the good things he is doing for liberals and mankind).
What frightens me is that there are many people out there to whom socialism is a system that has a lot of appeal.
I watched Bernie Sanders the other night and found myself thinking about my Mom and Dad. I was the first member of my family to graduate high school. They were simple people who worked hard, paid their bills and never would have fallen for the “free everything” bullshit Bernie Sanders and Bill de Blasio and most of the Democrat presidential hopefuls are dishing out.
They paid their own bills. No matter how tough life was for them.
Then I thought about Mr. Kramer.
When I was seven years old, I would sit by the window and wait for Mr. Kramer. He would show up at four o’clock every Wednesday. He wore a brown fedora and a rumpled brown suit and had the stub of an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. He always had a great big smile on his face and, to keep the cigar from falling, he clenched it between his teeth and talked in a mumble.
He smelled like a cigar and, now that I think about it, dressed all in brown, he looked like a cigar. A fat, stubby cigar. His big belly would hang over his belt and he always perspired so that winter or summer, you could see beads of sweat on his forehead. He was a nice jolly man and, as a kid, I could never understand why my mother would make a sour face when I would shout out, “Mr. Kramer is here, Mom.”
“How are you, Mrs. Della Femina?” he would ask.
“I am fine,” she would say, deadpan. I never saw her smile in front of Mr. Kramer.
“And you,” he would say to me, “you little monkey. How are you doing in school?”
“I’ve got three stars already, Mr. Kramer,” I would answer proudly.
“Isn’t that great?” he would say.
While we talked, my mother would be digging into her pocketbook and most of the time she would come up with 75 cents. Sometimes she would say, “Mr. Kramer, I’m a little short this week. Is it okay if I pay you next week?”
“No problem,” he would reply. But he would look serious and my Mom would look even more serious. A few seconds later he would break into a smile and say, “I’ll see you next week.” Then he would pinch my cheek and say, “Keep getting those stars, monkey, and everything will be all right.”
“I will,” I would answer, not knowing that as one gets older those stars become harder and harder to come by in life. Then he was off next door to see Adeline, my friend Andy’s mother, and collect her 75 cents.
One day I said, “I really like Mr. Kramer. Why does everybody give him money?” (Thinking to myself that maybe this was a career for me. You know, you walk around with a cigar in your mouth, smile, and everybody gives you money.)
“Because he’s an insurance man.”
“What’s insurance?”
“That’s something you have to have.”
“Why?”
“In case something goes wrong. You need to have insurance to help you pay in case a bad thing happens.”
“What do you mean, a bad thing?” I pressed.
My Mom looked sad. “People get sick, bad things happen,” she mumbled. There was no way in the world my mother was going to talk to me about people dying and insurance paying for funerals.
“I don’t know what you mean by bad things,” I pressed.
“You don’t have to know now. You have to know when you grow up,” she said, and walked away from the answer. It was years before I learned the importance of insurance. I also realized years later why my mother made a sour face every time she saw Mr. Kramer. He reminded her that people die and that she had to take 75 cents and pay for my father’s insurance policy every week.
At that time, my father, a good union man who voted Democrat all the way, was working at four jobs. The four jobs brought in a total of $35. When you work four jobs to make $35 a week, 75 cents a week to pay for a coffin when you’re dead is a lot of money. But my Mom paid. She had no choice. It was her responsibility. And she wasn’t about to walk away from her responsibility.
Not my Mom and Dad.
Not your Mom and Dad, or your grandparents either.
When did so many people decide it was the government’s responsibility to take care of them from the cradle to the grave? When did it change? When did so many people decide that someone else should pay their bills?
When did it become a crime against society to work hard and become rich?
My parents were simple people who believed one had to work for a living.
I realize that by today’s standards they didn’t have a penny, but they were wealthy – very, very wealthy in spirit.
They, along with millions like them, helped make this the richest, greatest country in the world. A country that Bernie Sanders and millions of his followers cannot be allowed to destroy.
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