How To Build An Atomic Bomb

Ralph’s simple atom bomb recipe.

Building an atomic bomb that you can shoot across the Pacific Ocean on a ballistic missile takes a lot of work. But if all you’re going to do is clear some bush out in the country, you can make this simple atomic bomb in a matter of hours!

The Secret Is In the Black-Eyed Peas

Ingredients you will need:

2 four quart metal mixing bowls

4 lbs of uncooked black-eyed peas

1.5 lbs of enriched uranium (or 1 lb plutonium if available)

(Can’t find enough enriched uranium? see our recipe “How to Enrich Uranium The Easy Way”)

5,000 firecrackers (approximately 1 lb black powder when unwrapped)

2 lbs of Silly Putty®

1 roll of duct tape

1 box cutter

30 feet of #3 string

8oz Zippo® lighter fluid

1 9×13 baking pan

2 large plastic mixing bowls

Approximate Prep Time: Two Hours

Yield – 1 Megaton

Directions:

  1. Divide the Silly Putty® into thirds. Put aside two of the pieces. Place the remaining piece into one of the plastic bowls and mix in the uranium quickly and thoroughly. Form into a ball, approximately six inches in diameter.
  2. When finished put the bowl in the refrigerator, oven or any convenient metal box.
  3. Inside of each firecracker is about .1 oz of black powder. With the box cutter, slice open each of the firecrackers and empty its black powder into the other plastic bowl. Discard fuses, wrappers, etc.
  4. Knead the black powder into the remaining two pieces of Silly Putty® for five minutes or until the black powder is evenly distributed.
  5. Smooth the Silly Putty® mixture evenly into the 9×13 baking pan.
  6. Take the uranium ball and place it in the middle of the baking pan. Quickly wrap the sheet of black powder Silly Putty® around it to form another, larger, ball.
  7. Cut a four foot piece of # 3 string from the roll. Push one end of the string at least half way through the Silly Putty® ball.
  8. Pour 1 lb of black-eyed peas into one of the 4 quart mixing bowls. Take the Silly Putty® ball and place it on top of the peas. Cover the ball with more black-eyed peas until the bowl is nearly full. Leave the remaining piece of string looped over the edge of the bowl.
  9. Pour five oz of Zippo®lighter fluid evenly around the black-eyed peas.
  10. Now cover the bowl with a sheet of plastic wrap. The plastic wrap should be large enough to extend over the edges of the mixing bowl by at least an inch. Near the edge on one side of the bowl, make a ¼ inch hole in the plastic wrap and pull the string through. Pull the wrap snugly over the rest of the bowl and secure it to the sides of the bowl with duct tape. Again, make a ¼ inch hole in the duct tape to pull the string through. It is important NOT to tape the string to the side of the mixing bowl. Ensure the string hangs freely through the hole in the duct tape.
  11. Fill the second four quart mixing bowl with black-eyed peas. Cover with plastic wrap and secure it in place with duct tape.
  12. Lay each mixing bowl on its side and carefully duct tape the bowls together, the mouth of one bowl to the mouth of the other. Work the string around the duct tape so that it remains exposed. You will now have one large eight quart spherical container.
  13. Double or triple wrap everything up with more duct tape. Make sure to leave the string hanging freely.
  14. Tie the remaining #3 string to the piece of string that goes into the Silly Putty® ball.

You are pretty much done. The big duct taped metal sphere you have is an atomic bomb. But don’t worry. It is harmless until you activate the fuse.

Ralph’s Hint: Make them two at a time. It doesn’t take much more time and you’ll be surprised how quickly you’ll use them up.

Getting your bomb ready to explode is simple. Take the bomb to where ever you want to set it off. Remember, this is an ATOMIC Bomb – it makes a big bang. Ensure there are no children or pets about. Watch out for windy conditions that could carry radiation where you don’t want it to go.

Once your bomb is in place, unroll the string so the end of it is at least twenty feet from the bomb. Liberally squirt the remaining Zippo® lighter fluid along the length of the string. It will not take much before it is thoroughly doused. Then simply light the end of the string with a match. Run.

Enjoy!!

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Golden Rears

 

The Tim Rogan Acoustic Love Seat

I made my first audio chair when I was seventeen. J. Gordon Holt had just reviewed the Dale Swanson Black Lightning Eams chair in this magazine. It wowed me! How could something a simple as a listening chair make such a difference in how you heard music? But it did. JGH was not ready to give up his standard Nekkers Headroom seat but he sure convinced me that the Nekkers was just as important in his sound room as his favorite Mark Levinson 20.6 monoblocks.

J. Gordon Holt’s Original Nekkers Headroom Chair

The Black Lightning sold for $8,500 in 1981. No way a high school kid running a neighborhood lawn mowing business was going to buy one of those beauties. But JGH’s review was full of details; enough for me take one of mom’s old French provincial living room chairs stored in the cellar and rebuild it into an simple listening chair: two pieces of grey duct tape on each of the panels that stuck out on the head rest; a couple pairs of panty hose pinned to the back of the seat and four two inch wide strips of rubber on the arm rests. Boy could you hear the difference!

Now my day job is refurbishing old audio equipment for a high end shop here in Chattanooga. When I am not tinkering with old set of Carver amps or refoaming a vintage AR, I am playing music in the listening room I set up in the shop. And I now have a Nekkers Headroom chair pretty much like JGH’s – updated with electronic ergonomic controls and polylaminate latex covers but still with the classic Nekker J shaped listening design. I have tested at least a half a dozen other chairs over the past ten years but the Nekker has never been surpassed in coupling absolute sonic neutrality with a listening position so darn comfortable that that you forget it is even there. I figured it would be Nekker’s for life just like they were for JHG.

Until last month.

Enter the Tim Rogan Acoustic Love Seat. A love seat? So right away you’re thinking, how can a love seat possibly work as reference audio chair? The whole idea of setting up a listening room is to pick the precise spot where the two sonic lines of whatever toed in speakers you are listening to intersect and put your head in exactly that spot. What use is a love seat? Only one person can be in the magic position.

Well – how about you and your buddy being able to listen to the same piece of music played through your show case reference system and hear exactly the same thing? Impossible? That is what I would have said to until Tim Rogan (Rogan’s Audio Heights, Madison, WI) offered to loan me one of his Acoustic Love Seats to play with for a while.

How could it possibly work? I spend an afternoon chatting with Tim to learn the secrets of his design. First you start with two skeleton frames that look like an airplane version of an Eams chair. The seat portion of each frame is a medium size square that slopes backwards into frame’s back. The back attaches at a rather straight 105 angle and rises up to the sitter’s shoulders. Individual headrests sits on top of each of frame.

The two frames are bolted together and the whole thing is covered with about four inches of speaker foam encased by polyester/latex blended cover. Each sitting position is taunt, upright and surprisingly comfortable.

The magic is in the headrest. Each headrest extends from the middle of your neck to about three inches above the top of your head. The headrests have two wings at ear level that protrude inward four inches towards your head at about 35 degrees. The headrest and wings are fully adjustable. Tim recommends a starting position with the wing’s placed so that they are centered on your ears and bending the wing angle so that it just catches your peripheral vision if you are staring directly ahead. You start from here and adjust things to optimize the sound.

Each of the headset wings are covered with what look like hundreds of sea shells covered by a thin layer of rubber. Tim will not say exactly what they are but it is these little shell thingies and the pattern in which they are layered to each wing that allow both listeners on each side of the love seat to hear the same sounds from the speaker exactly if you were sitting on a normal chair set in the sweet spot of the listening room.


The E. Dickinson XP-30 Limited Editon

None of this was convincing to me until I spent an evening with just me, my Nekker and the Acoustic Love Seat. First I set up the Nekker in its usual place for serious audio listening. My normal system is a Linn Sondek Lp12 with the SME M2-9 tonearm plugged a E. Dickenson XP-30 preamp fed into a pair of Ralph Cramden monoblocks. I am currently using a pair of Rutherfor Streaker 2000 speakers that Jerry Rutherford sent me to evaluate six month ago but sound so good in my room, I don’t think I will ever give them back. o

I started with Daniel Barenboim’s version of Pickleman’s Te Mentula Magna (LP, Decca DL1430). I have heard this contata with the TSO at Symphony Hall many times and the Decca recording captures the complex string timber and overtones of the first movement better than any other recording I have ever heard. I settled into the Nekker with the Dickerson turned up to 11 o’clock. Te Mentual Manga is a sonic masterpiece if done right. Barenboim uses four violas in the first section and they open the symphony with yawing bow work between the C and G strings creating a delicious harmonic that has a biting, almost rustic timbre. After eight measures, the seconds repeat the seesaw bowing as the firsts move up an octave and smooth the bow work into a liquid wave. The effect is mesmerizing if played right and captured accurately on the recording. In the Nekker, I heard familiar perfection.

Kramden Only Built A Dozen Of These Babies – I Have Two Of Them. Ha

I moved the Nekker out of the room and slid in the Rogan. Tim had told me to position the tip of inner wings of the two headrests exactly where the sweet spot of the Nekker was. And so I did. I then sat on the right seat of the love seat. I adjusted the headrest legs to the right height and length for my head. This, of course, threw off the position of the inner wings. I slid the chair slightly back to reposition the wings and adjusted the seat height downwards about an inch. The inner wings were back in the sweet spot.

I could not believe Te Mentula Magna when I played it again. It sounded almost exactly as when I listened with the Nekker. The first violas’ low rumble that starts the first movement was slightly darker than it should have been. I moved the outside headseat wing outward five degrees (Tim had told me never to move the inside wings once they were in the speakers sonic center). The darkness darkened even more. Then I adjusted them 10 degrees outward. The viola’s timbre was now restored to just what I had heard with the Nekker. It seemed to work every time – adjusting the wings outward, lightened the sound, sometimes making the 4-6Khz range sound a little watery. Slant the wings inward, and tones darkened with the bass then the treble starting overpowering everything else. But once you got the wings adjusted right, the effect was amazing. The sounds of the instruments was simply the SAME has when sitting in the Nekker Headroom chair.

But the soundstage was not. On Jason Bruels Hoppin Gitters, (LP, Columbia CS23945), Ray Crumble plays one rhythm guitar on the right side of the stage; his brother Eric plays on one the other side. On Watch The Dog, they are both playing the same notes but Ray is one octave higher than Eric. With the Nekker, I always knew their exact position on the stage – ten feet apart. The Rogan’s blurred the separation. Yes they were on opposite sides of the stage but four feet, six feet? I couldn’t tell.

I tried multiple adjustments with the various components of the chair. If I got the separation a bit more distinct, I lost the purity of the music’s sound. After futzing with the chair for a couple of hours, I called Tim for some advice. He came over the next day and basically repeated all of seating alternatives I tried and finally said it looked like they a bit more design work to do.

Don’t get me wrong. The Rogan Acoustic Love Seat hits right on all of its cylinders 90% of the time. But it’s not the Nekker.

A week later, I invited Tom Swift, a close audiophile friend, to listen with me. This was the first time two people who really appreciated great music reproduction could sit down together and hear nearly the same thing at the same time. Tom was an old hand with my reference system and the Nekker. His amazement match mine after 10 minutes listening to Golden Records’ re-issue of the Stone’s original Beggar’s Banquet recording (LP, Golden Records, O0100) on the Rogan Love Seat. He was asking ‘how is this possible?’ just like I did the week before.

Ears don’t lie. The Tim Rogan Love Seat would be a top notch audiophile chair if it only sat one person. But as a love seat – it is a piece of genius. You get it at a bargain price too – at just over $15,000 love seat is little less expensive than the standard Nekker Headroom chair and way way less than the Nekker Platinum version which comes in at $25,750.

Tim called me last week. They had the separation issue figured out (latex coating on the shells had to be changed) and he expects to have the new design in production next month. I am getting one of the first off the line as a replacement to review.

Unless are you are some kind of audiophile nut case, you should seriously consider the Rogan Acoustic Love Seat as your next listening chair upgrade. Your wife probably already thinks you’re a dope just because you coop yourself up in the listening room for hours each evening. Now you can invite her in and share your favorite music together. Who knows what will happen next?

 

 

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Last Stand On The Oche – Eric Bristow

Golf, bowling and darts: America’s everyman sports. Well maybe not darts in this country but the other two for sure. Anyone can do them. You don’t need to be an athlete; you don’t need expensive equipment. You don’t even have to be particularly skilled to have fun. They all came from England with our pre-revolutionary war forefathers.

Another thing about the three games is they are not actual sports. That embitters some of their more serious players to know end. But assuming you have two legs and at least one arm, you anyone can play them regardless of how obese, old or uncoordinated they are. If you don’t believe me, drive down to a local golf course on a week day afternoon and watch 70 year old ladies lugging their little oxygen carriers around from putting green to putting green. Golf requires you swing your arm 70 times in a four hour period, walk to and from an electric cart each time you swing your arm and periodically sip beer using the arm you aren’t swinging at the ball with. Donald Trump, who can’t walk up a path in Italy without nearly passing out, can play 18 holes of golf and still have the energy to pat some asses in the clubhouse. The average golfer’s caloric intake from the beer during a typical round far exceeds any burned through in an afternoon’s play. You can make the same argument with bowling and darts.

Beer is the twine that binds the games together though the part it plays varies by game. Golfers have to bring their own beer and since it is an English tradition that players stand upright through the whole game, its consumption is usually modest – a six pack a player a round is the common club rule. Bowling thrives on the stuff. Building a bowling alley is an excuse to build a bar. Beer Frames, Pitcher Perfect, Strikes and Splits – these are all time honored bowling traditions for guzzling brew at the alley. Remaining upright is optional going into the third game – that’s when most bowlers swear they bowl their best – their arms are finally relaxed and legs loose. Typically bowling nights end with a detailed post mortem of game strategy, plunkered balls and cheating over burgers and more beer.

Darts makes no pretense that a drink or two is incidental to the game. Darts is a drinking game. You play it in bars. You play it with dart in your right hand and a beer in your left when it isn’t holding a cigarette. Lose a game, chug a beer. Win a game, chug a beer. Waiting to play a game, chug a beer. It makes no difference. If you’re a darter, you’re a drinker.

Name any of the world’s top five bowlers (Dick Weber and Earl Anthony don’t count – they have both been dead for 20 years).

Darters. We don’t have real darters in the U.S. But England has them. They have lots of them and they are real good. Popular too – darters a better known in England than NASCAR drivers are in the U.S. They are certainly more popular than pro golfers and bowlers. (Though nobody knows any pro bowlers do they? (Hint, hint – the top four bowlers in the world aren’t even Americans. Betcha even Trump didn’t know that one or we’d be doing some serious bowling alley building in this country.))

Everyone knows the top dart players in England. They are on cable TV just as much a basketball players are over here. There are dozens of darting franchises organized into darting leagues which play each other in games for league championships which end up in inter-league championships which lead to world championships (very similar to our baseball’s world championships – only played by the British franchises that organized it).

That is why the U.K. is experiencing a time of somber mourning right now. Last Thursday, Eric Bristow, England’s most revered darter (think Babe Ruth, Mohammad Ali, or Michael Jordan) died at the young age of 60. He died with his boots on. He was in Liverpool as a celebrity host at a Premier League event in Echo Arena. He suffered a heart attack midway through the games and died immediately.

Eric Bristow in Liverpool prior to the start of the Premier League games.

Bristow was not the U.K.’s first dart world champion. He didn’t he hold that crown the longest. If you look at his stats compared to say Phil Taylor or Jockey Wilson, he wasn’t the best well rounded player either. But what Eric did have was wondrous charisma and great timing. He broke into the game in the late 1970s just as British TV was searching for any sport and any player that they could splash on the evening telly and grab an audience. Eric Bristow did that. His was boisterous, sassy, and fast on his feet. They nicknamed him the Crafty Cockney both for his ability to confuse opponents on the oche and his cocky panache. Born in the Hackney area of southeast London, he was about as cockney as you could get. He mixed charm and humor with the instincts of a street fighter; he had the face of a Dickinson street urchin grown adult – a round head that framed a full mouth of jutting gapping English teeth. When he smiled – and he loved to smile – he glowed. When he laughed, everyone around him gleamed in a piece of his halo.

Eric Bristow in the early 1980s.

Eric Bristow dominated the sport from 1978 through the late 1980s. But in late 1987, he developed a throwing condition called Dartitis that prevented him from controlling his throw/release. Dartitis is like Yips – a mental block a person develops that stops them from doing something they routinely excel. Eric spent the next 10 years trying to overcome Dartitis. He regained is control from time to time but it never lasted very long so he turned to what most jocks do when their playing days are over – he became a TV commentator. His network was SKY.

Bristow worked for SKY from 1990 through most of 2016 when he was sacked for texts he sent ridiculing some victims of a British soccer coach pedophile. It was Eric being Eric. He apologized quickly but you could tell he was trying to figure out why. (He basically said that instead of the victims waiting for 20 years to go to the police with their accusations they should have just beat the fucker up as soon as they were old enough.)

Eric at Jocky Wilson’s funeral. Pimping Harrow Darts. Jocky would have understood.

Eric wrote an autobiography in 2010. His basic message was that he lived a good life, had no regrets. He was what he was.

‘I never drink before a game.’

A commentator once asked Eric if he ever drank during league play. ‘Never’ said Eric. ‘Oh, I’d have one or two pints to loosen up before the first round but that was it until the game ended’. One or two pints didn’t count as drinking to Eric. He said he usually had 10 to 12 pints on average every day between tea time and closing time. The man liked his drink – a couple of pints before a game was nothing.

Eric was a heavy smoker and had a fondness for curry. ‘I should be dead by now,’ he wrote in the autobiography. And eight years later he was. Watching darts and sipping Guinness. He wrote that script.

Eric Bristow 1957 – 2018

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The Germans Are Joking

“In Buddhist metaphysics, there is the idea of ’emptiness.’ To realize the emptiness of things is to say, ‘This is neither real nor nonexistent.’ Our perception of the candle refers to something real, in the real world. But this candle – the one we see – it’s mental content. And yet it’s also not true that the experience, the model in our minds, is unreal. It’s ’empty.’ ‘Empty’ may have been their way of saying that it’s just a virtual model. ‘Emptiness’ could be ‘virtuality.'” Thomas Metzinger, the German philosopher, to Joshua Rothman over coffee at a table lit by a candle discussing virtual reality, The New Yorker, 2 April 2018.

 


Thomas Metzinger, Professor of Theoretical Philosophy, Johannes Gutenberg University of Mainz – Looking Very German

I know what you’re asking – did ‘real’ philosophy die with Ortega y Gasset in the middle of the last century? Is the mumbo jumbo of Thomas Metzinger any different than the nonsense that Peter Sloterdijk repeats in book after book (60(!!) so far) then the ethical fairy tales Thomas Pogge weaves around morality between diddling students? Ortega likely would have said ‘of course the candle is real – its light illuminates the table which my eyes perceive, the flame flickers in the same breeze that also waifs my face; should I touch the flame (which because it is real, I do not), my fingers will burn and blister. ‘Mental content’? More like neo-Kantian crap a la Metzinger. The added slam at Gautama Buddha is gratuitous. Though I am sure the Buddha would have much to say about virtual reality were he ever asked, ’emptiness’ would be the adjective he’d apply to the head inside the helmet, not to the virtual reality experience. I suspect he might add dullard somewhere in his description as well.

Joshua Rothman Demonstrating Practical Philosophy with the German V.R. Rig.

Rothman was too much of a boner to say anything of substance of Metzinger’s profound insight. He called it neither gobbledygook nor trenchant insight. Instead, he simply changed the subject and went on to describe how the experiences he had in the Virtual Reality laboratory earlier in the day fucked up his mind. He was being paid, of course, to write a sympathetic story about Thomas Metzinger. Let his editor take a crack at adding a clarification sentence if she dared (and she didn’t).

So this is how the whole thing happened: The New Yorker sends Joshua Rothman out to write on the current state of virtual reality. This is the New Yorker so we are talking to academia researchers, not the guys from Google or Microsoft or Apple who are productizing the technology. Somebody says, “Go to Germany. That’s where it’s happening.” and so he does. He finds a lab that has V.R. helmets, robots, AND Thomas Metzinger all in the same place. The Germans strap him in a helmet and start playing with his mind big time. Then he has cake and coffee with Tom (please, just call me Thomas). Eight thousand words of polished prose result. And that’s exactly what the publisher ordered. The story reads great. Dr. Metzinger gets another citation. When you finish the eight thousand word read, you sigh. Thirty minutes of your life now ’empty’. The Buddha would have called in endless suffering.

Gautama Buddha in the Buddha Helmet© Rig.

 

 

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Killer Dads

I was walking my dogs up Fulton St. last week. We were nearing the intersection where Fulton runs into Blue Fin Drive. There is a Chipotle on the corner. Their parking lot takes most of the block going down Fulton.

In the parking lot, a Dad was helping two little girls out of their Suburban. It was jet black. The girls looked to be between 7 and 12 years old. Good old Dad was taking them into Chipotle’s for lunch. My first reaction was Jesus Christ. You are going to kill those kids!!

If the Tomatoes Don’t Kill Ya, the Servers Will.

Yea, it is alright for adults to eat at Chipotle’s, at least now that they started washing the vegetables and allow a tad of antibiotics in the chicken. Servers still don’t get paid sick days so there are always a few of them snuffling around the serving line but this is Miami – our colds are mild and the flu rare. So if you are an adult, you basically are dealing with the usual Chipotle menu of bacteria and virus that, if you have lived to make to 30, you are probably immune to. But not little kids. They’ve had their exposure to day care and elementary school bugs but, unless they were raised in a strict vegetarian or vegan kitchen at home, they don’t have the resistance to the likes of infections that lurk in a Chipotle’s restaurant.

A Dad should know these things. I bet the two girl’s mother wouldn’t be caught dead bringing in a kid to Chipotle’s. Too dangerous. The mom can ingest the critters that lived in the tomatoes that graced her burrito but the worst she’ll get is some slimy shit the next day (face it, we all look forward to the natural laxative a meal at Chipotle’s supplies). But kids – Come on!




Dumb, Dumber and Dumber

I was tempted to say something to the guy but then I thought, he is driving a Suburban. So he is not dumb. (There was a GMC Yukon parked three spaces over. It’s the same car priced $10,000 more because it has ‘GMC ‘in big big letters on the grill. Unless the Yukon owner was spectacularly stupid, he would have known that. He didn’t. BUT – he is smarter than the Escalade owner who bought the EXACT same car as the Suburban but paid at least $15,000 for it (or for the big Cadillac shield on the grill), proving P.T. Barnum’s dictum that nobody ever went broke underestimating the stupidity of an American. There were no Escalades in the Chipotle parking lot. But this is the north side of Miami. I’m not sure we get a lot of Escalade owners here unless their packing side arms and Rottweilers.)

I wanted to scream “Take them down the street to the McDonalds. Nobody gets sick there!” But I didn’t. Seriously, when is the last time anybody got E. Coli poisoning at a McDonalds? 1988, you can look it up. And Chipotle? 2017 but 2018 just started so give them a chance.

Dads want to be good fathers and good fathers want their kids to eat something they like but something that is good for them too. That’s a tall order. I guess if you drive a Suburban, Chipotle’s makes all the sense in the world. Can’t explain the Yukon guy though – would have guessed he’d be more into big burgers slathered in bacon and Velveeta. Maybe he came for the queso.

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Shed No Tear For Melania Dear

I Wonder Where Daddy Is Tonight.

London’s The Independent newspaper today referred to Melania Trump as the ‘most popular’ member of Donald Trump’s family. The article was discussing her decision to hide out at Mar-a-Lago rather than accompany the President to Davos. The poor girl was pissed at the President again – This time because Stormy Daniel’s shared that she and Donald had a months long fling in summer 2006. This, as you probably don’t recall, was a couple of months after the birth of their son Barron. Melania’s motherly instincts apparently were that hubby should still be caught up in the joy renewed fatherhood – after all, it was his third son thereby increasing the odds by 20% of having an heir with more brains than a coo-coo clock.

But Donald was being Donald. The only really surprising thing is that Melania herself was somehow offended by Trump’s behavior.

For those of you who shed tears for the suffering that Melania may endured as Trump’s marital partner, get a life. The woman is not some innocent back-country Slovakian swept off her feet by a handsome American playboy who now, as years and years of abuse unfolds, finds herself living with a devil she never suspected.

The Owner Has To Check Out The Goods.

Melania knows all about Donald Trump. She lived with the man six years before they married. She watched him cruise into the Miss USA and Miss Universe dressing rooms on award night, ogle the nude contestants up and down, then boast about how he was the only one who could get away with it (he owned the franchise after all) and man, what great stuff he got to see. He didn’t do it just once – he did it every year and Melania not only got to see it, she got the hear Donald boast about it on the radio in 2005 to his buddy Howard Stern. Yak, yak – that’s my Donald.

What about the groping, the kissing, the ‘come up to my room’ after the show stuff? Eight women have accused Trump of molesting them between 2005 and 2013. There were twelve others before then, but let’s just look at what occurred after Melania and Don tied the knot. The women’s stories are all similar – some event threw them in a room with Donald Trump. He comes over, forces the woman to kiss him, squeezes her breasts or ass or both, puts his fingers up her skirt, and then invites her to come up to his room a little later. These were the women who said ‘No’. Some said ‘Yes’. Stormy Daniels for sure but also, for sure, many, many others.

Would any of this surprise Melania? Absolutely not. Remember, she is wife number three. The other two shared plenty of dirt on how Donald played fast and loose on them during their years of bliss together.

No, Melania didn’t miss a thing. She had her own goals and liked the odds. In January 2005, she married to New York’s wealthiest landlord. In March 2006, she gave birth to their son Barron. Melania figured Don was 60 years old, a walking heart attack with a golf club in his hands and lived like a ravaged pig. Time was on her side – she’d just out wait the prick.

You Have To Admit She Has Nice Eyes

What changed was that the prick ran for President and then, against every value America was supposedly based upon, won. That’s when Melania’s world turned wretchedly bleak – now she has to ‘live’ with the man. Worse, she has to appear the devoted spouse as all the dirt comes out: first the Hollywood Access Tapes (and she just buried her head in the sand), then 20 women accusing Trump of some type of sexual assault (buried her head deeper) and now Stormy Daniels. Burying one’s head here gets tricky because Stormy likes to editorialize on what a slob Trump must be to do this to his wife right after his son was born; and how this wasn’t a one night stand – no she and Donald fucked month after month after month. Talk about shoving it Melania’s face.

Women’s March 2018 – Las Vegas

It is easy to be cynical about Melania – she was a social climbing money grubber who never let scruples stand in her way to get what she wanted. Now she has it. To most of us, it looks pretty tacky. No matter how she got there, it is hard not to feel a little sympathy for the poor woman. Just don’t feel too much sympathy. There’s that aphorism about reaping what you sow. Children could learn a real life lesson here from America’s First Lady.


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