The End of the Odyssey of the Idiots

By David Baker

The Odyssey of the Idiots is an autobiography of the author with satirical tones discussing the politics and history that have led America to where it is today.
Manuscript’s Strengths
• The author uses an educated style and language that will appeal to an educated/scholarly audience. This language sets up the book to be for an educated audience who has some understanding of the topic and wishes to learn more regarding the issues discussed.
• Including the glossary of terms in the back of the book was great on the part of the author to provide a tool for readers to fully understand the author’s terminology in the book. It adds a reference for readers to be able to refer to if they need further clarification of terms, which will assist in their better grasping the author’s meanings and message.
• The author’s language holds a dramatic and descriptive flair that helps contribute to the engagement of readers in the text. It makes the author’s writing unique and adds something readers may not find elsewhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664140370

David Baker

David Baker has published widely in the field of Library and Information Studies, with 19 monographs and over 100 articles to his credit. He has spoken worldwide at numerous conferences and led workshops and seminars. His other key professional interest and expertise has been in the field of human resources, where he has also been active in major national projects. He has held senior positions at several institutions, including as Principal and Chief Executive of Plymouth Marjon University, and Emeritus Professor of Strategic Information Management. He has also been Deputy Chair of the Joint Information Systems Committee (Jisc). Until recently he was a member of the Board of Governors of the Universities of Northampton and South Wales. He is Chair of the Board of the Institute of Contemporary Music Performance. He is a leader in the field of library and information science.

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Copyright © 2020 by David Baker.

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Rev. date: 11/11/2020

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Contents

About the Author

Prologue

Preface

Chapter 1     Odyssey of The Idiots—Idiots No More

Chapter 2     The Newest Testament

Chapter 3     Traders Bush Never Saw Came Trump

Chapter 4     Israel, America’s Ally

Chapter 5     Wars, Holocausts, and Assassinations of Convenience—The Banking and Finance Mafia’s Assassinations of Upstarts and Other Notable Targets: Jack Kennedy and Lincoln

Chapter 6     Holocaust Deniers—Russia’s Bolsheviks Slaughter 60 Million

Chapter 7     Civics 101 Mob Rule by the Confederation of Minority Tribes

Chapter 8     Boobus Americanus

Chapter 9     The Audacity of Stupidity and the Leftist Charter

Chapter 10   The Great White American Idiot in Africa-America

Chapter 11   The Iron Curtain Descends and Portends the End of The Odyssey of the Idiots

Chapter 12   The Founders and Education

Chapter 13   Girls Gone Wild in Academia and Corporate America

Chapter 14   The Victims of the Mentally and Emotionally Vacant Fathers: America’s Little Girls into the Abyss and Death—A Dumpster for a Coffin

Chapter 15   The Real War on Women and Western Lunacy

Chapter 16   The Third Rail Topic—The History of the Monsters of the Id and Bolshevism

Chapter 17   We Are Being Eaten Alive—’70s and ’80s

Chapter 18   Katrina Exposed Obama’s Third World America

Chapter 19   Obama and Michelle: A Match Made in Hades—The Emissaries of Lucifer

Chapter 20   La Raza, Mexican Version of Bolshevism’s (Racist) Political Machine

Chapter 21   The Republican Party—Led by the Bush Criminal Enterprise

Chapter 22   The World

Chapter 23   Media and Assorted Venues

Chapter 24   Recommended Reading: The Bush Clan’s La Raza Thugs Itching for a Fight with Whitey

Chapter 25   History of FOX’s Leftist Network

Chapter 26   Your Enlightenment and Epiphany Phase 1

Chapter 27   Mein Kampf—Might As Well; They’re Gonna Call Me One Anyway

Chapter 28   Media Culture and Wide World of Sports

Chapter 29   Media Assassins—Politically Correct Racists

Chapter 30   The Discovery of the Origins of Anti-Goyimism—Marxist Media Menches

Chapter 31   The Other Holocaust

Chapter 32   The Jesus Connection

Chapter 33   Deja Vu All Over Again—Weimar, Only This Time in America?

Chapter 34   Politics Is a Euphemism for War While the Idiots Snooze

Chapter 35   Vladimir, Ukraine, Crimea, and the State Department’s Neocons

Chapter 36   Review and Summation—The Rest of the Story

Chapter 37   Trump and Vlady Putin

Chapter 38   As Far Back As 1994—PC Pollution Invades North Country Education

Chapter 39   The Battle of the Sexes (The War Rages On)

Chapter 40   The Neocon Military Meets President Trump

Chapter 41   The Final Chapter

Chapter 42   The Evolution Is Almost Complete As the Sun Sets On

Chapter 43   The End

Epilogue

Glossary of Terms, Jargons, and Definitions

Endnotes

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David P. Baker

Behold the Idiot - a - Kindred Spirit of H.L. Mencken’s Boobus-Americanus

This Book had to be Written, I was the Only One Dumb Enough to Do it...

001.jpg

An Assessment of the Prospects of the Progeny of The Founding Fathers

living out their Lives in the Idyllic America they grew up in, are grim...

The Ink on the Pages of the Constitution is fading as fast as the lights

of Christmas in America... Salvation Begins and Ends at the Doorstep

of Donald J. Trump and the Second Amendment, their salvation...

Co-Authored by

Tempestuous Fugh-It & Izzi Facto

I Now Invite the Reader to Experience Up-Close and Personal, the Trials

and Tribulations of a Couple of Generations of America’s White Middle

Class Boobus Americanus’ Grappling with Their ‘Whiteness’ & ‘Toxic

Maleness’ Occupying the Top Spot in the X-Hairs of the PC Agents of

Change, Aided & Abetted by The Boobies’ ‘Cradle to Grave Stupidity.’

Quote George W. Bush at Trump’s inauguration, with Lips plastered

to Michelle Obama’s derrière, observed: This is some weird shit.

***

PROLOGUE

Disclaimer: Before embarking on this odyssey, a point of order must be addressed. This book makes no pretense to being a historical masterwork of English literature with 1,001 faith-inducing footnotes, meant to coerce the reader to agree to a list of preset narratives.

T HE NOTION OF this tome earning a niche on a shelf in the Library of Congress is remote indeed. The intent of the author is to prompt Americans to get off their asses and discover for themselves the who, what, when, where, why, and how millions of America’s best and brightest were sacrificed in dozens of wars all over the globe. How their values and ethnicity became the targets of contempt and ridicule in the media; their culture corrupted and polluted; their wives, mothers, and daughters assaulted, raped, and murdered in what has become a pandemic in the West, and the nation hijacked.

The Pivotal Role Played by Rufus the Cat in Confirming the

Validity of This Narrative on the Evils of the World, the

Centuries-Old Rothschild Dynasty’s Banking and Finance

Syndicate—They Are the Diabolical Enemies Within

One Sunday I woke up, and Rufus appeared to be in distress. There are no vets open on weekends, but I was not going to lose him without an effort to save him. There was a vet in Rotterdam about five miles away, and I jumped in the car to see if there was a phone number and name on the facility. I peered in the window and saw a light on over the reception desk. The woman at the desk gestured that I come in. I asked her if she could give me thirty minutes to get Rufus in because he was in trouble. Miracle of miracles, she said yes.

The doc, on the high side of middle age, spoke with a thick Eastern European accent. I soon learned that he was an Orthodox Jew of Romanian extraction and was open Sundays because he closed the facility on the Saturday Sabbath. Rufus had a blockage that would have been lethal had it not been addressed immediately.

After the operation and long-term convalescence, the bill came due. I don’t know why he said it, but he did. He said in that thick accent, Obamacare is not going to cover this.

I shot back, Obama is a Bolshevik.

He was incredulous. So you know vat is Bolshevik.

I said, Indeed I do. I gave him a cursory outline of my understanding and study of the history of Russia and political landscape of Marxism in America.

He opened up and said, My father had very bad timing—he move family from Romania to Russia just before the keeling start. I tell you, when the keeling start, Bolshevik make Hitler look like baby. After an interesting discussion, he said to me, I have been in America thirty-five years, and you are the first America-born individual besides my family and circle of friends who know these facts. Like it or not, they are here, and America is going down fast.

Rufus is gone. Rest in peace, Little Rufus.

PREFACE

A Father’s Nightmare

A CROSS THE NATION every Sunday, tens of thousands of fathers get up, quietly amble down the hall, and peer into the living room to see a solitary figure in a wheelchair, that which is left of his son, unaware of Dad silently watching the Sunday-morning football pregame programs.

A son, a body and life blown to bits, fighting for freedom only to lose his, maimed and horribly disfigured, trapped for life in a wheelchair with those American flags duct taped to the frame.

On the screen, the NFL’s semi-black-racist stooge, dissident Colin Kaepernick, leads the National Football League of millionaire felons protesting racial injustice in football stadiums (oops, plantations) across Africa America.

Contrast that to a beautiful sunny Saturday or Sunday afternoon on fairgrounds, in rural America, at vintage car shows. The dozens of amputees and guys in wheelchairs with those American flags duct taped to the frame are mind numbing. The premise that their sacrifice was to prevent terrorism from coming here . . . The horror is already here. Half of those souls can no longer physically drive a car, ever again, and so many lost their families. Often the spectacle and reality is so overwhelming, I have to sit in my car and get a grip.

The Messiah—Barack Hussein Obama (Pardon Me

While I Indulge in a Mirthful Interlude)

I always knew it could happen, and then it did. One starry night, a student at the University of Hawaii, a daughter of the left driven by a virulent hate for America combined with a smoldering case of jungle fever, encountered a drunken, abusive, often violent African foreign exchange student from Kenya. With her libido in thermal overload, he rose to the task; and after many command performances and encores of their version of Othello, it happened.

As often is the case, nine months later, from the fruit (no pun intended) of her loins burst the Messiah, baby Barack Hussein Obama. After a couple of decades, he became president of the United States; and the speculation is one would have a better shot at getting Trump’s tax returns than Obama’s transcripts and legit birth certificate, although we have it on good authority that he did play basketball at the University of Hawaii.

The abbreviated version: ln 2010, candidate Obama emerged riding the ass end of a Marxist Trojan horse and became president of the United States of America, forming the nucleus of Mad Maxine Waters’ Congressional Black Cuckoos, the most stupefying collection of racists buffoons ever to surface in the parliament of a nation in the developed world.

Immigration—America Was and Is Not a Nation of Immigrants

America is not a nation of immigrants. America is a nation of people who came here and became Americans. Today Americans are on a precipice overlooking festering hordes of rabid racists and third world tribes.

I have a reoccurring image, a YouTube. A Muslim savage in a village square with his wife’s long hair wrapped around his clenched fist, dragging her on the ground and pummeling her senseless; and all the while, the whole village stood watching dispassionately. How about that Kamala Harris? The State Department should buy her a ticket for a fact-finding assignment and extended stay in Islam land.

- Them -

Money: The God of the House of Rothschilds and the World

Money is the god of our time and Rothschild is his prophet, opined his cousin Heinrich Heine, poet and friend of Jacob Rothschild. Quote Mayer Rothschild: Permit me to issue and control the money of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws.

This epoch is dedicated to the premise that according to Marcus Tullius Cicero, A nation can survive its fools, but not its enemies within.

He forgot (idiots or enemies) your choice. They inspired this opus-based perspectives on politics, people, places, and events, spanning the lifetime of a baby boomer–white guy navigating in a hostile world gone mad.

CHAPTER 1

Odyssey of The Idiots—Idiots No More

A White Guy’s Manifesto

The Odyssey Begins: May 10, 1941–October 21, 2019

Oedipus Rex and My Education and

Scholastic Exploits in Academia

D ESPITE A CATHOLIC school education reluctantly bought and paid for at the insistence of my intrepid, sainted mother, grudgingly my penny-pinching old man anted up. It was all for naught, devoid of any evidence to suggest that I possessed an IQ north of room temperature, my abysmal performance while occupying a desk in school confirmed to his delight, my old man’s assessment, that I was an imbecile. And he passed up few opportunities to remind her that paying good money to educate ‘one’ was a fool’s errand. (Sorry, Mom.)

Years later, I found out that one day he went to school to inquire as to the cause of the problem. His motivation had nothing to do with altruism or concern for my outcomes. Although I was stupid, based on his attitude toward me, I perceived correctly my old man’s animus. From there, it was reasonable to assume, from a kid’s perspective, that if my own father did not like me, there is no reason in hell why I or anybody else should like me.

In any event, his making that pilgrimage to that institute of accelerated learning was not as much about sorting out the problem as it was confirming that he was frittering away good money. Of course, the crux of the problem was had I half a brain, I wouldn’t have given a shit about him or what he thinks and why. But alas, as a two-year-old kid, I was very sick, with terrible asthma attacks. In that time frame, the only course of action to stop a lethal attack was a shot of adrenaline. The combination of a doting, protective mother who made the calls to Dr. Bodkin and the subsequent bill for the lifesaving shot were the elements that set the old boy off. My earliest memories are of me at about three years old sitting in a chair gasping for air and him fixing me with contempt saying, Jesus Christ, here we go again, more goddamn doctor bills. Need I remind the reader, I was his son.

In those days, my old man had what he believed was the alternative to the doctor bills: VapoRub’s vapors that supposedly clear congestion and in the wrong hands are lethal. I remember sitting in my chair gasping for air, and he would do a drive-by and put a glob of that shit under my nose. I cannot count how many times the vapors soaked up what little oxygen was available and almost finished me off.

Unfortunately for him, after years of a chubby kid contemplating suicide, I survived and made a pivotal discovery. When in a life-and-death struggle with an evil force, you don’t kill yourself—you kill the protagonist. And so it happened, eighteen years later, a very abusive event involving him and my mother led to an episode of Oedipus outrage followed up by an up-close and personal resolution of the issue. I might add with a brief, violent, and no uncertain finality . . . Twenty years later, I visited him in Brooklyn. He said to me, Before I die, I want you to know, you turned out great. I’m proud of you. Imagine, at that moment, much was resolved and forgiven. That’s all it took. One day he told me, You could have been a great welterweight fighter. Your punching power was ferocious.

Catholic School

Prayers and Attending Mass Prior to Classes Had a Minimal, If Any, Effect

The whole thing started out in, of all places, that Catholic school. One of my teachers, actually a Catholic school nun in the sixth grade (I don’t remember much of anything prior to the sixth grade), built like a brick shit house, had, of all things, an odd-sized, rather thick fourteen-inch steel ruler that she wielded like a medieval broad sword. It was silver with black numerals etched on the face. She was a big burly, two-hundred-and-forty-pound mass of blubber and intimidation, with thick black eyebrows and great, intense big dark eyes. Her name was BB Eyes and shortly thereafter Beer Belly BB. Unfortunately for her, most of the student body were already budding criminals from working-class families with hard-drinking fathers who honed ass whipping and intimidation to a fine point. Although she started each year with renewed vigor and positive outlook on life, it didn’t take long before it was game on and reality set in.

The morning and after-lunch inspection ritual resulted in uncombed hair being pulled, wax-clogged ears being twisted, and hands with dirty fingernails being put flat out on the desk; and we felt the sting of the steel ruler coming down with the blunt force of a ten-pound hammer on an anvil. As the year progressed, any and all restraint evaporated commensurate with her level of hate and exasperation with our shenanigans. As her hate escalated to the next level, her insatiable bloodlust knew no bounds. She’d brandish that ruler like the aforementioned medieval broad sword; and she painted various parts of the anatomy of the class clowns, academic underachievers, and assorted idiots until they were black and blue.

One fine day, while taking a test, she walked between the rows of desks peering over the shoulders of the few individuals who actually took the whole thing seriously, and then it happened. Etched on the wooden desk were references to the oral proclivities of one of the more precocious of the eighth-grade hussies. Horrified, she screamed, Stand up, you nasty boy! and the inquisition commenced.

The quick-thinking wise ass jumped up and said, I didn’t do it. Harry sat here yesterday, and he did it.

Then Harry jumped up and said, No way! Albert did it, and then the floodgates opened up, and the whole mob was up and pointing at each other saying, He did it. Then they ramped up the pandemonium, calling each other nasty little boys. It took the better part of five minutes to restore a modicum of order.

We weren’t finished with her; there was encore after encore . . . In the spring, everybody was packing a pistol, actually, loaded water guns. Standing in front of the class, she spotted a strange substance dripping under the seat of the lead desk of the first phalanx. The weapon had sprung a leak, and the ammo was creating a puddle under the occupant’s desk. She then demanded that he surrender the weapon, which he did with a sheepish grin on his mug. Seizing the weapon, she placed it on the floor strategically located at a spot, next to her right foot. She lifted her massive leg, and on the descending stroke, with lightning reflexes, the perp swiped the gun from under her foot, and it came down with a thunderclap on the floor. That did it! In full-blown hysteria, she flew out of the room and found refuge in the principal’s office. After a short time, she regained her composure and returned to the scene of the crime. Ah, but this time she was confronted with water running down obliterating the images on the blackboards. The floor was drenched, and the perps looked like drowned rats, and the saturated girls looked like participants in a wet T-shirt contest. Beer Belly BB exited stage left screaming like a maniac, and it took three weeks of rehab to get her to give it another try.

Our eighth-grade teacher, one Sister Mary Anita, was a totally different breed of cat. As the lone girl, we conjectured (a tomboy), born into a family of five brothers in an Irish Catholic family, she had all the answers. She laughed at us all the time, and when it looked like we were hatching a plot, she’d smoke it out, and that was that. In the fall, she was first on the scene at the commencement of the smash mouth associated with the annual rutting season and the renewal by the protagonists of the previous year’s hostilities. A dozen or so schoolyard fistfights broke out over that stretch of weeks, and she’d officiate and preside over the festivities until the exhausted dummies punched themselves out in what were often bloody affairs.

No big deal. I remember one year, when I emerged from a fight with a black eye, before it cleared up, I had another fight and had two black eyes. I looked like a raccoon for a couple of weeks. There was no such thing as bullying; we had too much pride in our status and place in the pecking order, earned the hard way on the field of battle. This stuff about bullying and suicidal kids is a new phenomenon. Any kid who was soft had nothing to worry about. Nobody took pride in beating a helpless kid, and we learned early in the game that you don’t kill yourself because you are being bullied; you try to kill the other son of a bitch. And it’s amazing how quickly the bastard loses interest in the whole thing when the encounter turns out to be the aforementioned mutual smash mouth.

I hated school; it was tantamount to torture. I considered my loss of freedom an affront, an outrage, and I considered resisting my loss of freedom a noble enterprise. In the seventh grade, I earned the ignominy of being assigned a seat in the dumb row. I loved the dumb row. It ran parallel to and next to the windows, and I would stare out at the world in a catatonic state and indulge in endless flights of fancy flashing by, as my mind flew out the window.

Today they even have a definition for that malady. I had and still have attention deficit disorder (ADD), and worse, I was dyslexic that made algebra an adventure. I asked how could X be anything other than X? The teacher thought I was being a wise ass, but I was dead serious. When I finally got it, I asked why in hell use X, that’s what numbers are for? I sensed that’s when he wanted to beat the shit out of me and detour to the O’Brien’s Bar and Grill on the way home and get back what was left of his sanity.

The Goys¹ and the YIDs—The Great Divide

Little had changed for me except when upon the threshold of adulthood, I flunked (as usual) the entrance exam to the Catholic citadel for high school (boys) only. Talk about dodging a bullet, I had to settle for second best, White Plains High School, brimming with hundreds of delectable little vixens with smoking-hot libidos and bodies engorged with raging hormones on a collision course with the testosterone in the boiling blood coursing through the veins of the wild males of the species hell-bent on connecting the body parts any way and every way possible.

White Plains High School was upscale, and the student body was a mix of Jewish kids from the fabulously wealthy bedroom communities of Hartsdale and some from Scarsdale, New York, and kids from working-class families mixed in. The Jewish kids were somewhat aloof but affable, and for the most part, they kept their distance and stuck to their inner circle. In fact, in a student body composed of hundreds or so, I can’t recall a Jewish girl or boy dating their Christian counterparts, even those of the same privileged class. We sensed the divide or that they and we were different but never gave it much thought. Many became high profile, politically connected leftist radicals, to whom Obama might as well have been the Messiah . . . It’s easy to have the luxury to hate America and live the life of a festering commie when you grow up without a care or worry in the world.

The exceptions to the rule were kids from various backgrounds living in close proximity who bridged the gap. Curiosity got the better of them, and they set aside the negative stereotypes of the goyim that they were programmed with in the crib. Friendships were formed, and ethnic bashing and the ingrained cultural differences and negative stereotypes laid out in the open became an endless source of fast-flying humor and fun. I treasured my Jewish friends and associations, and I was transformed to another dimension, as were they when we introduced them to pitchers of beer, cigarettes, and the most delicious sausage pizza in the northeast, served up in LaManda’s Italian restaurant. Not all pizzas are created equal.

Birth of the Cool—No, Birth of the Fool

and Bye-Bye, Ms. American Pie

My Adolescence as a Pawn in the Political Machinations

of the Leftist Tribes and Immigrant Constituents

This segment of the narrative is based on observations in my adolescence grappling with the ironies and experiences of an American kid growing up in New York in the ’50s. Although as a self-absorbed fledgling aspirant destined for membership in good standing in America’s white Christian idiocracy, I occasionally paused long enough to take a cursory notice of my surroundings and unfolding events of the times, albeit with a modicum of curiosity.

However, my fascination with music and as an aspiring debaucher in pursuit of self-aggrandizement, intent on unraveling the mystery of girls, cars, and sports, took precedence. Eventually, the revelations associated with the progression from one phase to the next in my development, raised suspicions. It became apparent to me that much of what I learned from my folks and in school regarding the history and ethos of America and my place in the scheme of things was in stark contrast with much of what I was raised to believe and my constituents dismissed as a matter of course.

This is not to cast aspersions as to the idealized view of the America that I believed it to be from the 1700s to the ’50s. With the passage of time, however, my view of the world unraveled exponentially along with it. Now in the autumn of my odyssey, I came to terms with the fact that not only were my most cynical suspicions confirmed, but the reality of the events transpiring as I write this is a nightmare beyond comprehension.

No Vietnamese Wonton Soup Bowl and Rice Paddy for Me

When I arrived at young adulthood, it was during the age of the birth of the cool. Now, the best way to describe the arrival on the scene in America of the last two generations of Boobus white kids would be the birth of the fool.

My idyllic life in American Graffiti was about to come to a screeching halt, and I knew that my number was up when I was called in by Uncle Sam’s draft board for my second physical at White Hall in New York City where they processed our asses like cattle.

I was not college material, but I was smart enough to comprehend that a generation of my folk, the not exactly college material, was being thrown down a rathole at an obscene rate in Vietnam; and what was left of them arrived home in flag-draped coffins, off-loaded from military transport aircraft, inventoried, and warehoused until they could be buried. I wanted to know, for what reason? I hadn’t the wherewithal with which to come to terms. Regarding the physical, years after my service in the air force, I found out that if I brought up my history of asthma to the military medicals, even if arrested, I would have been classified 4F because many geographical locations are conducive to setting off attacks.

And so after some research revealed that the air force was a soft gig, I decided to play trumpet in the air force band. After a brief meeting at the local air force recruiter, he scheduled an audition for me at Stewart AFB. At the appointed day, I went to the Stewart band facility, played an audition, and was accepted and joined.

On the way to LaGuardia Airport for my flight to Lackland AFB and basic training, I stopped at the mailbox at the bottom of the steep driveway and checked the mail. There it was my draft notice, my free pass to the Vietnam wonton soup bowl. I laughed my ass off and tore it up. But like the driveway, it continued to be downhill from there. The laugh was on me, had I known that along with a rather dormant brain was a not-so-dormant but real history of asthma, which would have had me classified 4F . . . I’ll bet all my Jewish buddies were budding asthmatics documented by Dr. Schwartz.

Preppy for a Day among Ivy League Lotharios

On the topic of my not being college material, that was about to change, because when I returned home on leave after basic training, I was invited by an old high school buddy, now a frat boy/preppy, to a Friday-night basketball game at UConn. Nice of him. However, it got better when he doubled down with the news that there was going to be a Saturday-night mixer at the Phi Sigma Delta frat house. Imagine, they were going to mix it up with a ready-made group of willing maidens from a nearby sorority; and when they showed up for the proceedings, not only did they change my life forever, the soiree ended my tenure as not exactly college material forever.

All my life, preppies were squares, the objects of scorn. Although it seemed that the fair sex mystified them (à la Woody Allen), they pursued an education, while we hipsters were at life’s party. After a night on the prowl, and failing to consummate an evening of carnal delights in the company of a member of the feline of the species, the second option went something like fight’ll make the night complete, tiger in the street. So there I was, a goy pretty boy swigging beer from one of the kegs strategically placed at arm’s length from any location in the lounge. The bevy of willing maidens, some of whom would be my first choice on the menu, were one short flight of stairs to a bed in the first unoccupied room at the top of the landing. I soon learned that the ladies loved ravishing goyim pretty boys. Seems like many of the Jewish Lotharios intimidated by precocious females preferred the safety of sex with somebody they loved, themselves. Less trauma than dealing with the unknown.

Although growing up goy with Christian morals that were more likely to be honored in the breach than the observance, the prevailing attitude of Jewish mommies and daddies on the topic of their sons and daughters indulging in sex with the goyim was quite a departure from my concept of cultural morals, parental rules, and Christian morals. It went something like We couldn’t care less if you indulge your carnal delights with the goyim. However, you do not marry them. That worked out rather well for all concerned because according to my many Jewish friends and acquaintances, velvet-tongued, premarital Jewish vixens with voracious oral appetites were one thing, and a married Jewish princess with credit cards and control of the bank account with available cash in triple digits was a very different kettle of fish. According to my Jewish pals, after the wedding, a typical Jewish princess immediately loses interest in oral sex.

Indeed, the whole scene and vixens with wicked smirks on their faces dispelled any notion that these cats were in any way missing the party. There they were, living life in a Greco-Roman orgy, sans, of course, the grapes and baths. Upon graduation, they had it made. In fact, my future looked bleak in comparison. I no longer wondered why not one of them went into the military, but more to the point, I wondered how they managed to escape Uncle Sam’s clutches and extended seminars dodging bullets and death in Vietnam rice paddies.

A Mile Closer to Heaven

I took some artistic license with the title of this episode. It is a bit of a misnomer considering a typical prop plane had a service ceiling of 23,200 ft. and the altitude in excess of 7 mi. at which I flew in the darkness on one of those old crates. And so I am able to share with the reader one of the most profound, magical of my life’s experiences.

It was after basic training, and my first assignment was SAC Headquarters / Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska, and you might say it started with an auspicious beginning. The flight from Lackland Air Force Training Base (where I survived basic training) to SAC Headquarters in Nebraska was a relatively short distance, but on a slow-moving military prop-powered (transport) plane, the trip was good for a few hours.

As was usually the case, the old crate was converted with a couple of dozen or so seats and very little lighting. It was medium sized, small but bigger than a C-47. I was in my dress blues, and only a few people were on board. I took a seat near the rear of the plane next to a window and sat in the darkness contemplating what might be in store for me in the next three years. I was apprehensive. The window was a waste of time, the night sky was pitch black, and I couldn’t see anything outside much less what was below. Although I was a white-knuckle flyer, I guess I dozed off.

I sensed a presence and woke up. Much to my surprise, in the semidarkness, an incredibly pretty flight stewardess stood smiling and looking down at me. Then she took the seat next to me. We spoke in hushed tones about who, what, when, why, where, how, and so on; and then it happened—she got closer and closer, and then she kissed me! I dismissed it as nothing more than her just taking pity on a lost, forlorn young kid, but then things escalated. She took my hand and led me to a compartment in the back of the plane with an upholstered bench spanning the narrow width of the tail section