Or, the time Joe blasted John McCain saying, “Look, John’s last-minute economic plan does nothing to tackle the number one job facing the middle class, and it happens to be, as Barack says, a three-letter word: jobs. J-O-B-S.” Nice.

In a moment of rare clarity—and to his credit—Joe Biden has been downright prophetic on the impact of ObamaCare. After he introduced President Obama at the ObamaCare signing ceremony (3/23/10), Biden dropped the f-bomb saying, “This is big f-ing deal.”

Joe Biden’s prediction about the impact of ObamaCare couldn’t have been more accurate. The President’s “signature legislation” continues to be an unmatched disaster that ObamaCare was skewered by Carrie Underwood and Brad Paisley at the CMA Awards Show this week. (Watch clip).

Then again, perhaps I give Biden too much credit here. Report after report indicates that this president knew full well what the impact of ObamaCare would be. So while Obama promised “If you like your health care you can keep your plan” the fact is millions of Americans are losing their health care—or paying 200% more for less coverage. Biden was right—that’s a “big f-ing deal.”

As Rick Pritikin, author of Why Did I Lose My Job If God Loves Me? reports, according to the current report from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, this is the longest stretch of unemployment at or above 7.5% since the Bureau first started tracking the national unemployment rate back in 1948.

Estimates place the effective unemployment rate at 16% when we take into consideration those who have stopped looking or dropped out of the purview of the numbers. The August Jobs Report found a mere 47% of Americans have a full-time job. No wonder food stamp recipients have skyrocketed 70% under Obama.

I’m not surprised—this man hasn’t run a lemonade stand, so why would anyone think he can run the world’s largest economy?

The one thing Obama does appear to be good at is planning and enjoying vacations. Lot’s of ’em. Earlier this year when he was spreading panic over the sequester, the Obama’s took FOUR vacations—translating into more than one a month for January, February, and March.

And who could forget President Obama’s 100 million dollar vacation in June—while the rest of us cut out our vacations, we’ve still had to pay for his 14 limousines, 56 support vehicles, Air Force One, secret security, fighter jets protecting the airspace overhead, and a hospital ship anchored nearby for any medical necessities—no doubt one of those ObamaCare perks.

Must be nice to be king.

]]> https://bobdemoss.wordpress.com/2013/10/06/obama-next-time-try-running-a-lemonade-stand/feed/ 1 550 bobdemoss @TSchupp Used with permission. All Rights Reserved. https://bobdemoss.wordpress.com/2013/07/08/what-if-rush-limbaugh-had-tweeted-alec-baldwins-rant/ https://bobdemoss.wordpress.com/2013/07/08/what-if-rush-limbaugh-had-tweeted-alec-baldwins-rant/#comments Mon, 08 Jul 2013 12:05:19 +0000 http://bobdemoss.wordpress.com/?p=538 As celebrity slurs go, Alec Baldwin’s latest in a long string of meltdowns was a real doozy. Baldwin’s temper tantrum—in which he tweeted a vile barrage of hateful gay slurs at George Stark, a writer for The Daily Mail—netted a collective yawn from the Follywood Elite and the PC crowd. Why no outcry?

Hillary Rosen, a Democratic activist and former college buddy of Baldwin, told The Post: “What he said was disgusting. But I think he has a deeper reservoir of good will among folks because he’s been a progressive ally and fighter for progressive causes for years.”

Translation: It’s okay to spew violent, homophobic threats as long as you’re a “progressive” supporting liberal causes.

Baldwin later claimed his “ill-advised attack . . . had absolutely nothing to do with issues of anyone’s sexual orientation.” Huh? He calls a gay reporter for The Daily Mail a “toxic little queen” and then has the audacity to think we’re dolts by denying his slur was about “anyone’s sexual orientation.” Classic double-speak.

Just for fun, read the following now-scrubbed Twitter posts by Alec Baldwin. Then imagine the firestorm and career-ending damage that would have ensued if the same hate-speech had been tweeted by conservative talk show hosts Michael Savage, Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, or Glenn Beck.

Sure sounds like this guy needs a vacation . . . and some anger management classes. I’m not the only one asking what’s up with the double standard. CNN anchorman Anderson Cooper (who is gay) tweeted: “Why does #AlecBaldwin get a pass when he uses gay slurs? If a conservative talked of beating up a ‘queen’ they would be vilified.”

Bonus round: Picture the media feeding frenzy that would ensue if Sarah Palin had tweeted the same thing Alec Baldwin had said. Just saying . . .

I’m referring to June 19, 2013, a day Paula Deen will never forget. That’s the date when her use of the n-word 30-years ago made headlines prompting corporate sponsors to cut Paula’s endorsement deals worth more than $12.5 million.

On the same day, Kid Rock appeared on Howard Stern where Rock admitted:

We all use the n-word. We call each other the n-word all the time. We cut it up. My dentist’s name is Taco. We say stuff like that all the time ‘What’s up my ni66er?’ We’re just living up pop-culture. We just call it like it is, like band members do in privacy.

Shock jock Stern went on to ask whether or not Kid Rock used the n-word around his son—who happens to be half black. Answer? “Why can’t I say the n-word to him?” Nice.

Ironically, not a peep from the same press that skewered Paula Deen about this double standard. What’s more, not one sponsor has backed away from Kid Rock. Not Harley-Davidson. Not Jim Bean. Oh, and not Walmart—which is selling tickets for his current beer-buzz tour.

Let me get this straight. Walmart drops all of Paula Deen’s products because she used the n-word once three decades ago, but has no qualms about selling Kid Rock tickets who admits using the word “all the time” today.

Hey Mike Duke (President and CEO of Walmart) . . . you’re needed at the office.

I’m not a fan of the N-word and, for the record, I haven’t used it myself. But the hypocrisy from the politically correct crowd is stunning. Where was the same outrage when Ludacris—President Obama’s favorite rapper—wrote the little ditty “Too Many Niggas Not Enough Hoes“?

Take Eminem, who used the N-word back in 1993. He claims the rap was “made out of anger, stupidity and frustration when I was a teenager.” At the time he rapped, “All the girls I like to bone have big butts/ No they don’t, ’cause I don’t like that n***er shit/ I’m just here to make a bigger hit.” N-word aside, gotta like his view of women.

Rapper 50 Cent, who uses the N-word constantly, told NBC’s Today Show, “I’m not using it as a racial slur . . . It’s just slang.” He gets a pass from the left for raps like “To All My Niggars“and “The Realset Niggars“.

Then there’s Jesse Jackson who called then Sen. Barack Obama the N-word for which he has apologized—good for him. Not to mention Def Jam founder Russell Simmons who defended the use of the N-word, saying, “When we say ‘nigger’ now, it’s very positive.”

If the N-word is so “very positive” now, why does Paula Deen get a bad rap? To her credit, Paula has apologized several times. Can’t say the same thing about Ludacris, 50 Cent, or any number of rappers who have sold millions of albums with the N-word. This begs the question: Why are Walmart and Target still carrying their albums, books and videos?

My name is Barabbas. I killed a man with my two hands. That’s why the Romans threw me in a stinky prison. They condemned me to die—well, at least that’s part of their reason. The way I see it, they didn’t appreciate my efforts to overthrow their evil, Roman Empire. Insurrection—yeah, that’s the fancy word they used.

They said I was a menace to society and I must be silenced. So much for freedom of speech. I was just acting upon my convictions. I put into action what most people around me only dream of doing—which is why the Romans came and arrested me. I had a trial; I was found guilty. According to Roman law, I had to be crucified. They tossed me into prison to await the day I would be nailed to a cross.

Now I understand you guys have jails with something called a “TV.” Everybody has books. They have magazines to read. They sleep on a comfortable mattress with a pillow [and] even eat “three squares” a days. I heard some take watercolor painting while they’re doing time!

That, my friend, is not jail; that’s a country club. Let me tell you how it goes down in a Roman prison.

We had chains around our legs. Our wrists were shackled. We had a chain around our neck and that chain was linked to a wall so we could not move. Some of us were placed in wooden stocks. Our legs and our arms would be stretched out as far as possible to prohibit movement. Plus our neck would then be put in a bent, forward position—and we would be locked into place.

That is how you’d remain for days . . . weeks . . . months at a time until every fiber in your body cries out in pain.

For us, it was the roaches and the rats that were our TV. You know, sometimes if you could catch one, they were better than the stuff—the slop—that the guards would feed us. Unless you were extremely lucky, you had no windows; you had no privacy. Men and women—together.

You had no free time shooting hoops out there in the yard. We had no hoops . . . we had no hope. That, my friends, is jail.

That wasn’t the worst of it. You see, Pilate was like any Roman governor: a brutal, despicable man. And, I might add, not exactly a picture of justice. Ask any Jew. Pilate was a violent and abusive ruler. Did you know he slaughtered a group of Galileans who were just going to offer sacrifices to God on their way to Jerusalem? He acted like it’s no biggie; mix their blood with the sacrifice. Nice guy, you know. He just sweeps everything under the rug; washes his hands of stuff that he doesn’t want to deal with. Some leader!

I believe that Pilate will go down in history as a spineless puppet with no courage and no will of his own. O sure, sure he possessed “supreme judicial authority” within the province. He could do whatever he wanted—but make no mistake he was also a people-pleaser.

So imagine how Pilate felt about me—Barabbas. I’m here, stirring up the masses with the truth about Rome. Yeah, I’m kind of like a popular folk hero, you know? You see, we Jews hated paying tribute to a pagan emperor. Actually “hated” is too soft of a word. We despised paying taxes to Rome. Why? For us, such payments constituted treason—treason to God.

I’m going to let you in on a secret: I was a member of a zealot party. It was founded by Judas the Galilean. Not Judas Iscariot — Judas the Galilean. It was a continuation of the spirit of the Maccabees from years and years ago. We believe that Jews are God’s people to be ruled only by God and God alone.

We also watched with anger as some of our own, some of our own high priests became nothing more than a pro-Roman collaborator. They were mere puppets of the state. So at the grassroots, my fellow Jews wanted a leader: a real leader . . . somebody who would free them from oppression of Rome—even if that involved a little guerilla warfare. That has been my vision.

So I was introduced to the party of men who were devoted to overthrowing Roman rule. Meanwhile, Pilate, Mr. Big, sitting in his cushy palace, wanted to make a statement by having me silenced and executed “Roman style.”

I’d better explain what I mean by being executed “Roman style.” The Roman soldiers were experts in death. Not just any kind of death. I’m talking the slow, grueling kind of torture—the torture of a human being that could last for days. Pain was their specialty and they loved inflicting it on criminals. That’s why crucifixion was their method of choice.

First, they beat you on the back with a whip. We called it “the cat of nine tails.” Why? This whip had 3, sometimes 6, and a lot of times 9 pieces of leather. Embedded in the leather there were bits of bone, bits of metal, fragments of glass. A soldier would tie your arms around a whipping post, strip you naked, and then hit you with that whip.

I’ve been whipped before. They thought that would shut me up but, of course, it didn’t. Because I’m Barabbas, the Zealot. Well, they would hit you again. And they would hit you again. Each time they yanked that whip back it would rip pieces of flesh off of your back. Do you know that forty of those lashes would kill a man? That’s why, like I said, they’re experts at torture. They would only hit you thirty-nine times—until you were begging for death.

Then they would nail you to a cross. But see, it wasn’t the nail that they pounded through your wrists and through your legs that killed you. No, no. You die because you suffocate. As your body hangs on that cross the weight of your body starts to sag. If you want to breathe, because your lungs are being pressed down by your chest, you have to push up on those nails to grab for a breath. Then you slowly sink again.

After a while you no longer have the energy to push up and get that breath. Meanwhile, your back, which remember has been beat to a pulp, is getting raked across that rough wooden cross. While the Roman guards are standing around laughing and teasing and mocking you, you take your last pitiful gasp and then you die.

Maybe you are beginning to see why I wanted to bring an end to the Roman rule. They are a bunch of barbaric pigs if you ask me. Pilate figured he’d wait until a special occasion to really draw attention to me. So, there I was in jail—in what you’d call today Death Row—waiting for what was coming to me.

That’s when an amazing thing happened. It was about 6 o’clock in the morning. I remember it well. I was chained to my usual spot in the damp cell with several other prisoners. At first I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming.

Somewhere outside the jail people were screaming my name! BARABAS! BARABAS! I couldn’t tell why. The echo of their angry voices bounced off the cold prison walls.

A few moments later I heard the mob shouting “CRUCIFY HIM!! CRUCIFY HIM!”

I’m a strong, self-made man. I’ve faced enemies and hard times but I’m telling you at that moment I never felt so afraid in my life. It’s funny how just days before I was a hero to that crowd. I was going to lead a revolt. I would free them from Roman, pagan oppression. And I remember how good it was as they sang praises to me, Barabbas.

In fact, my full name is Jesus Barabbas.

Jesus was a common name at that time. My name was Jesus Barabbas. They would sing my praises. Now, with a shout, they were betraying me. I felt wounded and broken. Some of the other prisoners wished me well but . . . we all knew what was coming to me.

A short time later I heard the footsteps of the jailer approaching, his keys clanging at his side. With him were several heavily-armed Roman soldiers. Escape was out of the question. I knew that; everybody knew that. There was no way out. I remember feeling utterly alone and full of despair. I knew my number was up. I scanned the hollow eyes of the other prisoners then turned to face those who came to take me away.

The jailer unlocked our cell area, unhooked me from the wall, and barked, “Come with me!” I’m telling you, my legs almost failed me. I tried to put on a good face on what was happening—you know, be strong; don’t let them see you down. But my chest almost couldn’t contain the pounding of my heart.

We walked in silence through the chamber leading to the courtyard. Within moments we reached the doorway. I had to shield my eyes as we stepped out of the darkness of my cell into the light of a new day.

The crowd was still shouting “CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!”

I didn’t have the will to press on.

The guards nudged me forward. I stumbled as we moved maybe 20 feet away from the prison gate. Moments later I notice my guards were no longer looking in my direction. Something else had caught their attention. I squinted to see who they were looking at in the distance. As best I could tell, the man had a crown of thorns pressing down on his blood-soaked brow. I noticed how his back had been beaten with that Cat of 9 Tails.

As I watched, the soldiers nearest to him spat on his face. One of them reached up and grabbed a part of his beard and yanked it off causing the blood to flow directly from his cheek. Another took a reed and whacked him on the head with that crown—pushing those needles deeper into his skull.

I was so caught up with the drama unfolding before me that it took a minute to realize my jailer was using his key—finding the right one—to unlock my chains. I stepped back into the moment when he said to me, “Barabbas, you are free to go.”

I didn’t want to anger the guard, but what he said made no sense. “What? I’m free to go?”

“You heard me,” he barked. “You are a free man.”

I couldn’t comprehend it. My mind raced for some explanation. Was this a trap? A new form of mind torture? If I were to take two steps toward freedom, I knew for sure they would beat me for attempting to escape. But the soldiers had left me standing alone. In a few moments, they joined with the others who were mocking the other man.

That’s when I realized something: It was His life for mine. Who was this man? What had He done to deserve such treatment? I needed answers—but I needed to get out of there too.

After I slipped away I found some of my fellow zealots and I got the whole story. The name of the other prisoner was Jesus, the Christ. My friends said I was being released instead of him.

Jesus. Yeah. His name came back to me. He loved God too.

In fact, He claimed to be the Son of God. He once said, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father but through Me.” He was supposedly the promised Messiah.

I recalled how the chief priests hated him. My friends told me that this Jesus was given a bogus trial. That didn’t surprise me. Like I said, our leaders were nothing more than a puppet of the Roman state. But until my friends explained what happened, I didn’t realize how many laws were broken to get Jesus.

Check this out: the Sanhedrin, number one, was never supposed to meet at night—which they did. Secondly, the high priest was not supposed to ever tear his clothing—which he did. A man was never to be convicted by his own testimony—but that’s how they convicted Christ. And a case with conflicting testimony was supposed to be thrown out of court according to Jewish law. The witnesses against Jesus contradicted themselves time and time again and the Sanhedrin ignored it.

Only a full meeting of the Sanhedrin was supposed to make decisions on capital crimes but I learned that there was every indication that several men who were followers of Christ were not at that meeting. It was nothing more than a kangaroo court.

By the time Jesus got through six different bogus trials He ended up in front of Pilate. Pilate made a proclamation from the pro-council seat—which cannot be revoked. Then he changed his mind. That is a big no-no. Pilate said, and I quote, “I find no fault in this man Jesus.” He said the man was innocent. So why then did he have Him punished and whipped? Seems like he was trying to score points with the Jewish leadership.

Let me put it this way: the trial of Jesus would be the equivalent of you here in America being arrested by a mall security guard, jailed with no charges pressed, no rights were read to you, you’ve got no legal council, and then you’re hauled into court on the basis on faked evidence. Then you are convicted on false testimony. The judge overrides the jury’s attempt to acquit. You are sentenced to death and you are being allowed no appeals. Then you are deported to Saudi Arabia and you are beheaded.

That, in a way, was the justice Jesus was given. Here was an innocent man sentenced to die. I was a guilty man but I was set free.

All I know is this man died and I lived His life for mine.

Now I’ve never had much use for the Scriptures. Never had time for it, really. Frankly, I was busy rallying support to overthrow Rome. But now everything has changed. Funny how a crisis will do that. I do remember as a boy reading something from one of the prophets. Those last few days got me to recall those words from Isaiah.

Listen to what the prophet spoke:

“Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by him and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions. He was crushed for my iniquities. The punishment that brought us peace was upon him and by his wounds we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray. Each of us has turned to his own way and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all. He was oppressed and afflicted yet he did not open his mouth. He was like a lamb led to slaughter, as a sheep before her shearers is silent so he did not open His mouth.” [Isaiah 53:4-7]

Isaiah went on to say:

 “Yet it was the Lord’s will to crush Him and offer Him to suffer. After the suffering of His soul He will see the light of life and be satisfied. Because he poured out his life unto death and was numbered among the transgressors. For he bore the sin of many and made intercession for transgressors.” [Isaiah 53:10, 12]

Jesus, like me, was a revolutionary. I’ve come to see, however, His revolution was different. It was a revolution over death and the sin that prevents us from eternal life with God. The Romans crucified Him and they figured that was the end of it. But you want to know the most amazing part of this story?

Three days later I heard Jesus came back to life. He rocked the world with a power so great, so unheard of, no wonder people wanted Him dead. Me? One thing is sure: I owe Jesus my life.

©2013 Bob DeMoss, All Rights Reserved

One minute this thirty-something blonde was fully clothed. The next moment she stripped off her top revealing what Solomon poetically describes as “two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle” (7:3 NIV). These “fawns” were au naturel, as in “naked as a jaybird.”

A wardrobe malfunction? Nope. This was a deliberate full frontal exposure.

Not to quibble with the wisest man who ever lived, but Solomon was mistaken when he quipped, “There is nothing new under the sun.” After all, I’ve traveled more than 511,000 miles on DELTA and that has never happened to me before.

I’m no prude. I’ve considered making Proverbs 5:19 my life verse: “. . . rejoice in the wife of your youth . . . Let her breasts satisfy you at all times; Be exhilarated always with her love” (NASB). Admittedly, I haven’t quite figured out how “at all times” is supposed to work on a practical level, but I digress.

I was seated in “sardine class” where every one of the 300 seats was taken on this massive 777LR jet. The cabin lights had been dimmed for the 4-hour flight from Los Angeles to Atlanta. My eyes slowly adjusted to the anemic glow from a few hundred seat-mounted TV screens flickering in the darkness.

Since we haven’t owned a TV for the last 16 years which, granted, is un-American, I thought I’d do my patriotic duty by imbibing in a show. I picked one called the BOSS—a Chicago political drama with a warning label. I’m thinking, “Sure, it’s rated TV-MA for a mature audience, but how nasty could it be when shown on a TV in a public place, right?”

When the blonde tore her top off and reached for her partner’s zipper, I instinctively grabbed a vomit bag to cover the action unfolding on the TV monitor inches from my face. I held the bag in position until both the gratuitous nudity and ensuing sex scene passed. I could tell the offending material was over when the grunts, groans and moans in my headset gave way to dialogue in a new scene.

Let’s say I was a jaded, voyeuristic TV addict who, like a peeping tom, digs watching strangers grope and fondle their way to a climax—which I’m obviously not. Can reasonable adults at least agree there’s something seriously wrong about offering that sort of sordid fare on an airplane where children and discerning adults are present?

DELTA makes a big deal about their efforts to recycle aluminum cans, plastic bottles, and newspapers to preserve the environment. Their website even asserts: “DELTA is committed to preventing pollution wherever possible.”

Maybe one day DELTA will be equally convicted about polluting the moral environment of their passengers.

In a recent piece, The Vast Left-Wing Conspiracy Is on Your Screen, Chait finally admits what conservatives used to argue, namely, that TV programming is a vast wasteland of liberal indoctrination.

Regarding Hollywood’s impact, he notes that “A trio of communications professors found that watching Will & Grace made audiences more receptive to gay rights.” Furthermore, “When Joe Biden endorsed gay marriage in May, he cited Will & Grace as the single-most important driving force in transforming public opinion on the subject.” Although I’d suggest Glee makes Will & Grace look like a couple of lightweights by comparison.

If conceding that a connection exists between extreme liberal values on TV screen and a values shift in the culture wasn’t brave enough, this self-proclaimed “liberal hawk” does something I can’t say I’ve ever witnessed any liberal journalist do—he invites his reader to empathize with conservatives:

“…think of it from the conservative point of view, if you don’t happen to be one. Imagine that large chunks of your entertainment mocked your values and even transformed once-uncontroversial beliefs of yours into a kind of bigotry that might be greeted with revulsion. You’d probably be angry, too.”

However, he rightly points out that conservatives have largely stopped publicly holding Hollywood accountable for the daily dose of excrement they shovel into our living rooms via TV. Which begs a question: Why do millions of people in fly-over country wear a muzzle when Follywood producers mock, trample upon, and vilify their core beliefs?

Chait confessions “The more uncomfortable reality is that the culture war is an ongoing liberal rout. Hollywood is as liberal as ever, and conservatives have simply despaired of changing it.” Some might argue that we shouldn’t impose our values on others. Ah, yes, but clearly Hollywood doesn’t have that issue, do they?

That said, it’s 20 years after the fact—but hats off to this brave soul for having the hutzpah to say we conservatives are right about Hollywood’s role in corrupting our culture. I wonder if he saw the light because he got married and had two children . . . funny how that works.

His 2003 debut album, Get Rich or Die Tryin’, sold more than 12 million non-biodegradable CDs. Which is too bad—the compost pile is where that disc belongs with its graphic tales of cold blooded murder, gun slinging, point-blank gang-banging, and whacked-out-on-drugs hoodlum pabulum.

If trashing up both the airwaves AND the environment wasn’t enough, Fitty envisioned taking his twisted reality and dumping it into theaters across the country.

In 2005, Get Rich or Die Tryin’—the movie—debuted. From a sheer artistic endeavor, this flick was so bad (as in lousy) that it’s not even a worthy 99-cent rental. Let’s set aside the 200+ f-words that pulverize movie goers . . . or the full frontal nudity and pursuit of all things oral . . . or the slow-motioned, drive-by rampages . . . or the knife stabbings, gold teeth being yanked from a man’s mouth, suffocations, and close-ups of blood streaming from wounds . . . underneath all of the posing and brooding for the camera, 50/Fitty displays a sheer delight in the thug life.

The plot thickened, however, when the violence moved from the screen to the lobby, as it did at a theater on opening night in Pittsburgh. Shelton Flowers, age 30, paid his homage and $9 to see Get Rich. On the way out, Shelton and several others got into an argument which was settled with three shots to his chest and body . . . just as fights are handled in the movie.

Evidently, Fitty saw fit to do a little damage control by issuing a statement on “The View.” I recall thinking at the time that Mr. Cent’s appearance was nothing more than a half-baked, blame-shifting PR job.

Naturally, the filthy-rich Fitty rattled a little ditty about how his movie was not responsible. Don’t blame him . . . it’s just a movie blah blah blah. As an after thought, Cent said he was sorry for the loss of life. Here’s where my Baloney Meter gets pegged. He’s sorry?

I’ll bet you my last dime that 50 Cent doesn’t know what the word “sorry” means. Why? Remorse is not part of the gangsta culture. If you, as an Original Gangsta, were to say “Sorry,” your bling bling lifestyle would be over. You wouldn’t have two nickels to rub together by the time the other thug posers hosed you.

If the truth were known, I’m convinced somebody had to talk some sense in to Fitty Cent behind the scenes. I can imagine how this conversation went down between 50 and his two-bit company handler back in 2005:

FITTY: What up, dogg?

PR man: We have a problem . . . remember that shooting in Pittsburgh on opening night?

FITTY: It’s all good—

PR man: Um, actually, it’s not. We don’t need more bad press right now.

FITTY: Yo, dats not my thang. Don’t lay dat shootin’ on me, see?

PR man: No, you’re right Mr. Cent. But still, Paramount needs you—actually, more like they’re begging you, sir, to do some damage control.

FITTY: Yo what?

PR man: We need you to put on a shirt, sit with a cute blonde on The View and say the words “I’m sorry.”

FITTY: Yo, the blonde—I’m down wit dat. But what up with dat sorry rap?

PR man: You know, “I’m sorry” as in “I feel real bad someone died.”

FITTY: I do?

PR man: Doesn’t matter. But you’ve got to make your fans think you care.

FITTY: Look, my man. I’ve-been-shot-nine-times-I’m-the-real-deal-gangsta. I can’t be dropping “sorry” on the peeps. Da homey’s will be illin’, say I’ve been chillin’ soft.

PR man: Peeps?

FITTY: That’s people, dogg.

PR man: So, you’ll do it? If you don’t, your movie might just get pulled from all of the theaters—

FITTY: Tell you what, Holmes . . . get me a new Glock and I’ll talk.

PR man: Done. I’ll send the limo. Just practice saying “I’m s-o-r-r-y” . . . and try to look like you mean it.

Since 2003, Fitty has produced a string of excrement-worthy releases, including The Massacre (2005), Curtis (2007), and Before I Self Destruct (2009). Thematically, all three discs are nothing more than retreads of his debut with their fixation on being a really bad, no good, nasty gangsta, dealing and using mind-altering substances, lesbianism, and twisted sexual exploits.

Given this record of feces-laden filth from Fitty, when Street King Immortal releases next month, there’s nothing to indicate Mr. Cent has anything to say that’s worth a plug nickle.

Upon reading a concert review, I recalled how several years back the Blonde One lectured the world about “sin” and warned that people “are going to go to hell, if they don’t turn from their wicked behavior.” That fiery judgment came on the heels of her blasting television as an evil influence. She said, “TV is trash . . . my kids don’t watch TV.” The Naked One added, “We don’t have magazines or newspapers in the house either.”

Let’s set aside the irony of a woman who made millions leveraging her overexposure on TV now calling that medium the devil. That’s like the pot calling the kettle black, or, more to the point, like Victoria Secrets calling Ambercrombie & Fitch kinky . . . Still, she’s entitled to have a change of heart.

We were told that Maddonna’s inspiration for “holiness” came from her study of Kabbalah. That presents a problem. Not long after her alignment with Kabbalah, the queen of S&M and all things perverse hit the road in 2006 for a series of concerts. What did fans see?

Would Maddonna lecture the audience about the evils of TV? Would she offer a weepy confessional for the twenty years of sticking her cleavage in our face? Perhaps an apology for her humping and grinding every time she got in front of an MTV camera?

No. Maddy decided to mock the Christian faith by appearing crucified on a cross. I’m not entirely surprised. This is the same person who once spouted, “Crucifixes are sexy because there’s a naked man on them” (SPIN, 5/1985).

Fast forward to her MDNA Tour. This time out the 53-year-old boob crossed the lines of decency by, among other things, baring her moo-moos in Istanbul to a largely Muslim audience. Nice. Still, her shock and awe flesh-flashing schtick—”cheap thrills” as Janis Joplin would say—pales by comparison to her mixing of the crucifixes and satanic symbols (as she did in Tel Aviv).

One concert reviewer reports: “The show turns into a big Black Mass insulting Christianity. Madonna’s Black Mass included monks turning into male strippers along with guts, guns and satanic symbols being flashed on the walls.”

While various organizations have called for a boycott of her concerts, I’d take a different route. It seems to me that when someone has lost their mind so as to spit in the face of God by mocking the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross, probably the best course of action is to stand back—way back—and let God handle the matter.