Cartoon of the Decade

Posted on Sunday, August 14, 2016 by Post Scripts

Thankful for a little humor today…had to share:

Ramirez 2016-08-14

RAMIREZ IS A GENIUS POLITICAL CARTOONIST

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7 Responses to Cartoon of the Decade

  1. Dewster says:
    Sunday, August 14, 2016 at 5:49 pm

    EDITORS NOTE: The link posted in the original comment lead to material that could be offensive to some people and could be construed as incitement to violence. For that reason I have chosen to delete the link and ask that we take caution in posting such material in future.

    My fav Political Comedy

    Patriot Jim Stachowiak

    Reply
  2. Peggy says:
    Monday, August 15, 2016 at 8:03 am

    Hope you enjoy this as much as i did, it is a great tribute to the U S A.

    P-51 Mustang

    This 1967 true story of an experience by a young 12 year old lad in
    Kingston, Ontario, Canada. It is about the vivid memory of a
    privately rebuilt P-51 from WWII and its famous owner /
    pilot.

    In the morning sun, I could not believe my eyes. There, in our
    little airport, sat a majestic P-51. They said it had flown in
    during the night from some U.S. Airport, on its way to an air
    show. The pilot had been tired, so he just happened to choose
    Kingston for his stop over. It was to take to the air very
    soon. I marveled at the size of the plane, dwarfing the Pipers
    and Canucks tied down by her. It was much larger than in the
    movies. She glistened in the sun like a bulwark of security
    from days gone by.

    The pilot arrived by cab, paid the driver, and then stepped into
    the pilot’s lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair was
    gray and tossed. It looked like it might have been combed,
    say, around the turn of the century. His flight jacket was
    checked, creased and worn – it smelled old and genuine. Old
    Glory was prominently sewn to its shoulders. He projected a
    quiet air of proficiency and pride devoid of arrogance. He
    filed a quick flight plan to Montreal ( “Expo-67 Air
    Show” ) then walked across the tarmac.

    After taking several minutes to perform his walk-around check, the
    tall, lanky man returned to the flight lounge to ask if anyone
    would be available to stand by with fire extinguishers while
    he “flashed the old bird up, just to be safe.” Though only 12
    at the time I was allowed to stand by with an extinguisher
    after brief instruction on its use — “If you see a fire,
    point, then pull this lever!”, he said. ( I later became
    a firefighter, but that’s another story. )

    The air around the exhaust manifolds shimmered like a mirror from
    fuel fumes as the huge prop started to rotate. One manifold,
    then another, and yet another barked — I stepped back with
    the others. In moments the Packard – built Merlin engine came
    to life with a thunderous roar. Blue flames knifed from her
    manifolds with an arrogant snarl. I looked at the others’
    faces; there was no concern. I lowered the bell of my
    extinguisher. One of the guys signaled to walk back to the
    lounge. We did.

    Several minutes later we could hear the pilot doing his pre-flight
    run-up. He’d taxied to the end of runway 19, out of sight. All
    went quiet for several seconds. We ran to the second story
    deck to see if we could catch a glimpse of the P-51 as she
    started down the runway. We could not. There we stood, eyes
    fixed to a spot half way down 19.

    Then a roar ripped across the field, much louder than before. Like
    a furious hell spawn set loose — something mighty this way
    was coming. “Listen to that thing!” said the
    controller.

    In seconds the Mustang burst into our line of sight. It’s tail
    was already off the runway and it was moving faster than
    anything I’d ever seen by that point on 19. Two-thirds the way
    down 19 the Mustang was airborne with her gear going up. The
    prop tips were supersonic. We clasped our ears as the Mustang
    climbed hellishly fast into the circuit to be eaten up by the
    dog-day haze. We stood for a few moments, in stunned silence,
    trying to digest what we’d just seen.

    The radio controller rushed by me to the radio. “Kingston tower
    calling Mustang?” He looked back to us as he waited for an
    acknowledgment.

    The radio crackled, “Go ahead, Kingston.”

    “Roger, Mustang. Kingston tower would like to advise the circuit is
    clear for a low level pass.”

    I stood in shock because the controller had just, more or less,
    asked the pilot to return for an impromptu air
    show!

    The controller looked at us. “Well, What?” He asked. “I can’t let
    that guy go without asking. I couldn’t forgive
    myself!”

    The radio crackled once again, “Kingston, do I have permission for
    a low level pass, east to west, across the
    field?”

    “Roger, Mustang, the circuit is clear for an east to west
    pass.”

    “Roger, Kingston, I’m coming out of 3,000 feet, stand by.” We rushed
    back onto the second-story deck, eyes fixed toward the eastern
    haze. The sound was subtle at first, a high-pitched whine, a
    muffled screech, a distant scream. Moments later the P-51
    burst through the haze. Her airframe straining against
    positive G’s and gravity. Her wing tips spilling contrails of
    condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic. The burnished bird
    blasted across the eastern margin of the field shredding and
    tearing the air. At about 500 mph and 150 yards from where we
    stood she passed with the old American pilot saluting.
    Imagine. A salute!

    I felt like laughing; I felt like crying; she glistened; she
    screamed; the building shook; my heart pounded. Then the old
    pilot pulled her up and rolled, and rolled, and rolled out of
    sight into the broken clouds and indelible into my
    memory.

    I’ve never wanted to be an American more than on that day! It was a
    time when many nations in the world looked to America as their
    big brother. A steady and even-handed beacon of security who
    navigated difficult political water with grace and style; not
    unlike the old American pilot who’d just flown into my memory.
    He was proud, not arrogant, humble, not a braggart, old and
    honest, projecting an aura of America at its best. That
    America will return one day! I know it will. Until that time,
    I’ll just send off this story.

    Call it a loving reciprocal salute to a Country, and especially to that old American pilot: the late – JIMMY STEWART ( 1908-1997 ), Actor, real
    WWII Hero ( Commander of a US Army Air Force Bomber Wing
    stationed in England ), and a USAF Reserves Brigadier General,
    who wove a wonderfully fantastic memory for a young Canadian
    boy that’s lasted a lifetime.

    PLEASE GOD MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN….

    Reply
  3. Tina says:
    Monday, August 15, 2016 at 4:33 pm

    Great American story, Peggy, and yes, PLEASE GOD MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN….

    One of my favorite Jimmy Stewart movies, Peggy.

    Reply

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