Donald Jeffries Quotes

Waldo nodded and waved goodbye pathetically, like a young father going off to war.
As soon as the door was closed and he was gone, Jeanne squelched her own apprehensions, opened the paper and read the poem Waldo had written for her:

One taste of Jeanne and out I flew
Wildly, madly, in no direction
But hers, and yet so straight and true
I fly towards her with no protection
It feels so strange to move this way
Though I should land, desire it seems
Moves in strange circles and so I stay
Disoriented beyond my wildest dreams.

Waldo nodded and looked at the policeman's face. Somehow the water that was dripping from the bill of his cap made him appear almost human. Nah, Waldo thought, it would take a lot more than water to wash that look off.

Before the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, the very word
conspiracy was seldom used by most Americans. The JFK assassination
was the seminal national event in the lives of the Baby Boomer generation.
We've heard all the clichés about the loss of our innocence, and the beginning
of public distrust in our government's leaders, being born with the events
of November 22, 1963, but there's a good deal of truth in that. President
Kennedy tapped into our innate idealism and inspired a great many people,
especially the young, like no president ever had before.
John F. Kennedy was vastly different from most of our elected presidents.
He was the first president to refuse a salary. He never attended a Bilderberg
meeting. He was the first Catholic to sit in the Oval Office, and he almost
certainly wasn't related to numerous other presidents and/or the royal family
of England, as is often the case. He was a genuine war hero, having tugged an
injured man more than three miles using only a life preserver's strap between
his teeth, after the Japanese had destroyed the boat he commanded, PT-109.
This selfless act seems even more courageous when one takes into account
Kennedy's recurring health problems and chronic bad back. He was an
intellectual and an accomplished author who wrote many of his memorable
speeches. He would never have been invited to dance naked with other
powerful men a

The record is replete with witnesses reporting that they were intimidated
by various authorities. Could all of them, unconnected and unknown to
each other, be having the same fantasies? And if the threats were real, the
obvious question is: why would any law enforcement officer at any level,
or any anonymous phone caller, for that matter, threaten someone if the
assassination was the result of a random act by a lone nut that was no longer
alive? But this is akin to asking why any information about the murder
of John F. Kennedy was ever withheld, let alone still withheld after fifty
years, on the grounds of "national security" if Lee Harvey Oswald was a
minimum-wage loser, with no conspirators, who was out to impress his
estranged wife.

Our society has come to adopt many of the draconian measures Orwell
tried to warn us about. Cameras monitor citizens from nearly every street
corner in the United Kingdom, and there are a steadily growing number
of them mounted on traffic lights in America. The fact that Orwell's 1984
remains a part of the required reading curriculum in many high schools
across the country is laughably ironic. What is truly sad is how many readers
acknowledge the brilliant foresight of Orwell yet fail to grasp how closely
present-day America (and England) resemble Winston Smith's Oceania.

Despite an unimpressive first term in office, which featured huge tax cuts
for the wealthiest Americans and tax increases for everyone else, Reagan was
reelected in 1984 in an unprecedented landslide, winning forty-nine of the
fifty states against hapless Democrat Walter Mondale. While he has become
the patron saint of all Republicans, especially those who revel in wearing the
"conservative" mantle, Reagan's record is far, far removed from his rhetoric.
Despite this, the collective delusion of his supporters is best exemplified by
noted Republican speechwriter Peggy Noonan's claims, regarding his 1980
campaign promises, that they were "Done, done, done, done, done, done and
done. Every bit of it.

At Snortin' Reformatory, a notorious Washington, D.C. jail located in the northern Virginia suburbs, The Afro-Anarchists were being thrown into a cell. It was a situation that the three of them, like many young black males in the D.C. area, had long ago come to expect as a rite of passage.
As the door slammed shut behind them, Bucktooth spoke. "Man, Phosphate, they didn't read us our rights or nothin'."
"Yeah, Phos," Fontaine chimed in, "I didn't think they had to beat us, neither. And whoever heard of being charged with singing too loud and off-key in a public establishment? I don't believe there is no kind of law for that shit.

With the birth of the Internet, Clinton's critics began chronicling his
scandals - which were entirely ignored by the reliable mainstream press -
and even came up with a colorful term to describe the untidy truth that an
inordinate number of those connected to Bill or his wife, Hilary Rodham
Clinton, had met unnatural deaths - the Clinton Body Count.

Gossip columnists patrol their mundane arena with the same sort of mysterious merit the advice-givers do. Plainly put, how does anyone become a gossip columnist? I can't simplify it down to a lower scale than that. Are there universities that offer courses in gossip writing? How about plain old Gossip 111? Are there that many literate people who could not write a gossip column? What then, qualifies the chosen few above the rest?

The legitimacy of Oswald's alleged alias, Alex Hidell, is tainted beyond
repair by the nature of the Selective Service card supposedly found on him
after his arrest in the Texas Theater. This card bore a photograph of Lee Harvey
Oswald but the name of Alex Hidell. The problem is real Selective Service
cards never had photos on them, so the card would have been worthless as
a means of identification. It was perfect, however, for instantly associating
Oswald with the Hidell alias. Oswald apparently only used this alias twice -
once to order the unreliable rifle later dubiously tied to the assassination,
and once to order the revolver allegedly used to kill Officer Tippit. The
authorities claimed Oswald utilized a P.O. Box, under Hidell's name, for
just this purpose. Critics quickly pointed out how senseless this would have
been, as anyone could have purchased better, cheaper weapons on virtually
every street corner in 1963 Dallas, with no convenient trail left behind.

I can remember when believing in conspiracies wasn't cool. Now, in the
second decade of the twenty-first century, more people are starting to
sense that things may not be as they appear to be. The truth in Lord Acton's
classic axiom that "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely"
becomes more self-evident every day. Politicians from the only two parties
we have to choose from break promises, are unresponsive to the will of the
people, and opt for war, austerity measures, and state control over and over
again. Gary Allen, author of the book None Dare Call It Conspiracy, defined
things perfectly when he wrote, "It must be remembered that the first job of
any conspiracy, whether it be in politics, crime or within a business office, is
to convince everyone else that no conspiracy exists.

That tank," Bucktooth pointed at the gas gauge on the dashboard of the decidedly unfredneck-like '65 Dodge Dart, "is almost empty. We ain't going much farther."
"Indeed it is." A solemn Phosphate agreed. "I suggest we stop the car and weigh our options."
"What options?" Professor Buckley asked. "Why do-that is- we've been traveling up and down this path for over an hour without seeing anyone or encountering anything. Even the doughnut shop cannot be relocated. In light of this, what options do we have?"
It was difficult to argue with the ex-history teacher's typically alarmist position. Brisbane's reliable old automobile had indeed been expending its remaining fuel supply in what seemed to be a hopeless effort to exit the unnamed dirt path. After leaving the doughnut shop and the blonde presidential descendant who worked there, they'd been unable to find DeMohrenschildt Lane again, or any other side street.

Waldo, I say-that is-aren't you tired, my boy?" Professor Buckley, suppressing a yawn, was unaccustomed to others matching his wakefulness wink for wink, as it were, and seemed jealous of the competition Waldo presented in that regard.
"Who can sleep?" Waldo replied. "We're on another of these crazy roads, we can't find the interstate...."
"Yes, I suppose you're right." The Professor interrupted, taking off his thick spectacles and polishing them on his bright tie. "I, on the other hand, never sleep, as I'm sure you're aware."
Waldo smiled. The Professor had little in life to be vain about, and he wasn't going to stop him from expressing a little pride now and then.

The JFK assassination itself has been dissected to pieces by obsessed
researchers like me. Suffice to say that a few days of intense study of the
available record will convince any honest person, beyond any reasonable
doubt, that Lee Harvey Oswald was not responsible for the crime. The coverup
was so clear and obvious in nature, and so shabbily constructed, that the
conclusion is inescapable that the conspirators who killed him wanted the
kind of controversy that soon exploded, shortly after the first wave of private
citizens began to look at the data.

The red haired waitress arrived with their drinks, dancing about the table as she placed their orders in front of them. "Hiya, keeds. Peachy place, ain't it?" Before anyone could respond, she kicked her heels in the air and flitted off again.
Waldo lit up a cigarette and tasted his drink. "Listen, I don't think we ought to stay here very long...."
"No shit, Sherlock!" Brisbane chortled. "But first I want to have a little fun. I think I'm gonna talk to some of these guys."
The fredneck left the table and walked over to a group of five men, all of them clad in the old baseball uniforms that were apparently quite popular at The One Year Wonder And All-Around Oddity Bar. They were huddled together on one side of the bar, and Brisbane broke into their conversation with a burst of fredneck chutzpah.

Waldo was not alone by any means in trembling over an unjust plight. With the recent uproar over drunk driving, arrests had skyrocketed and detention centers all around the country were overflowing with bewildered motorists. Many of these dumbstruck, inebriated souls had been transferred and thoughtfully placed behind the same bars that held back murderers and rapists. Unfortunately for our heroes, they now joined the ranks of these luckless citizens.

As we know, Clay Shaw was acquitted, and the establishment celebrated
another victory over the truth. In my view, Ferrie, Banister, Shaw, and Jack
Ruby would have been the conspirators Oswald worked with personally, on
the ground level, while far more powerful forces manipulated everything
behind the scenes. I share Jim Garrison's theory that Oswald was some kind
of intelligence operative who was assigned to infiltrate what he was told was
a plot to kill the president, shortly before the actual assassination. At least
that's where I think the evidence logically leads.

George W. Bush's legacy will always be defined by the events of September
11, 2001, which provided him with something of a delayed mandate.
Without 9/11, there would have been no unconstitutional Patriot Act, no
Homeland Security Department, no decade-long occupation of Iraq and
Afghanistan, and no open-ended "war on terror." As such, it is important to
look closely at exactly what really happened on 9/11/2001.

What exactly is meant by the quaint and popular term professional? Does not the very word imply a superior class of people? Couldn't we apply this definition to farmers, or truckdrivers, or janitors, or factory workers, or butchers, or bakers, or any of the other anonymous classes of laborers? By bestowing such a title on certain fortunate groups such as doctors and lawyers, aren't we suggesting that what they provide is of a special importance? Aren't more imagined responsibilities being attributed to them in order to justify the undeniable reality of their superior rights and perquisites? Or are we simply recognizing the fact that they are paid far more than what we kindly refer to as 'employees?

Who originates the latest slang terms that are, seemingly overnight, known to every black youth across the country?