Those of you who have followed my Pulitzer Prize winning column here at for a long time may remember how about 15 years ago I moved to Wichita, Kansas because I wanted to try something different. I had seen an advertisement on one of those lists named after people that they have on The Internet. A man had been advertising for someone with minimal experience to become a pony boy on his farm in return for food, lodging, and a measely wage. I called him and we talked and I ended up going out to Wichita for an interview only to have him touch me excessively and try to put a bridle on on. I went back to Baltimore with my tail between my legs, let me tell you. It was a learning experience.

That experience made me think twice about a new plan I'd come up with. Recently I have been making quite a bit of money selling defective vacuum cleaners to elderly shut-ins with emotional problems. This has been a very profitable venture and I've also felt free to stick my hand in the cookie jar more than a few times when the opportunity has arisen. Have no doubts about that. The problem has been that some of my customers on this venture are very religious women with pictures of Jesus on the wall, crosses, piles of Bibles on the floor, and so forth. These women like to talk about Jesus and stuff like that, but since I have focused my life on business and sales my Bible is The Art of the Deal by our noble president, I don't have a firm grasp of many of the concepts they are putting forward when I call on them. I needed to broaden my knowledge of Bible Times to increase my sales of defective vacuum cleaners to unbalanced elderly shut-ins.

So I found some information on a place just outside of Wichita, Kansas called Bobby Murphy's Bible College and White Cultural Center and signed up for their three week course in "Bible Basics." I was eager to begin learning so I could increase my earnings, but when I showed up for orientation on a Sunday afternoon I was being stared at. I kept smiling, nodding, and waving but these people just stared at me, slackjawed and amazed. I would later learn this was on account of my somewhat Mediterranean skin tone. My father was a pure Aryan German, but my mother was of Palestinian stock, so there is that. They weren't as troubled by my baldness, my tendency to become sexually aroused at Trump rallies, or my eye for the ladies as they were by my skin tone. Many questions were asked, but eventually someone said something about Jesus loving everyone, "Even the people like you." I felt welcome and although I had to eat my meals outside instead of in the dining room due to a rule dating back to the early 1800s, I thought this would be a good experience.

Then came a weird coincidence. My good friend the man with the red hat that I sometimes see at Applebee's was attending the college, although he was taking the more advanced program. I saw him when I had to stand outside in the rain during a "White Solidarity" event because they said if I did attend I would looked like a poser. Later when I was eating beans out of a rusty can outside in the rain while the other students were eating Porterhouse steaks in the dining hall, the guy with the red hat walked past me again and I made a joke about drinking beer at Applebee's which he didn't laugh at.

I was excited to attend the Bible classes that taught about how Jesus loved all the little children and attacked tax collectors with a baseball bat. I cheered wildly while the others stared at me when the speaker talked about Jesus taking out an IRS supervisor with a roundhouse kick. It was very exciting. I had an opportunity to relate Jesus' story to my own life, standing up in front of everyone while they muttered things like "Look! It is going to try to speak" and "I wish they served beer in here." I told them about becoming friends with The Slow Kid, who had something wrong with him, and how I stood up for him at the shopping mall when a group of liberals began calling him names. That speech, although well written, was not received very well by the assembled crowd and soon after the shuttle bus showed up and I was ushered aboard and taken to a secondary campus the college operated for non-white Bible learners. It wasn't as nice. For example the rooms were small, poorly maintained cabins with no plumbing and six people to a bed, but the learning was mostly the same although the speakers talked more slowly and used smaller words.

This week I got back from my college learning experienced feeling energized. although my experience with segregation had definitely increased my appetite for some sexual healing as spoken about in the seminal Marvin Gaye song of the same name. I was always a bit jealous of Marvin Gaye as he was a famous man with a lot of money who got to have a shoot out with his father on April Fools' Day in 1984 and I haven't seen my father since I shared an ale with him in London in 1973. My father was a high ranking officer in the German Army during the War of German Unification during the 1930s and 1940s and later became a highly regarded triple agent working for the United States, the Soviet Union and a commercial fishing vessel. Because of the nature of his work I rarely saw him and have no idea if he is alive or dead as of this time although he would be close to 110 years old now so if he was still alive he'd probably be a useless husk soaking up tax money. I have mixed feelings about this.

With Brexit going on in Great Britain and my sexual arousal starting to peak, I decided to head out to a local night club to see what kind of sexual healing action I could find. There were a lot of fine young ladies at the club, but odds are not good for a bald man in his 80s who has trouble buying a shirt that stays tucked into his pants in the front. I was going to need an angle to close a deal, and given that my only sexual experience with another person over the past thirty years has been foreplay with a woman who wouldn't stop talking about wanting to have intercourse with elves and a farmer who tried to mount me in his horse stables, the odds were really not good.

One of the great things about my hero, President Trump, is that he is tirelessly working to Make America Great Again like it was in the 1970s. At that time everyone just went out and walked up to a woman and told her what he wanted and she complied. Now we have all sorts of issues with that approach due to too much regulation, but Donald Trump is unwinding all these terrible regulations and soon things will change. It will be so great. It really will be. But before the inevitable sexual deregulation Executive Orders are signed (a bit down the pike from now) we have to play by the difficult rule the liberals have created for the dating scene, including encouraging women to say "no." When women can decide who their sexual partners are there is little chance that an 80 year old bald man with a creepy affect and hands he rarely keeps to himself can take a twenty-four year old "hottie" home. We should feel a certain kind of way about this.

Without any sexual healing available, I ended up going home by myself after being slapped a number of times by liberally empowered women and so I watched a Denise Austin workout tape from the 1990s in which she does scissor action with her legs while wearing a leotard that tends to creep up into her vital zone. That took care of the issue for the moment, but I needed more.

This is why experiences like the ones I've had in Wichita are important in developing a sense of American Nationalism. We have a big country with a lot of different types of people in different communities. There are rural communities and urban communities. There are farm communities and there are communities where people on food stamps try to buy shellfish. We should all be the same, with no dissent, and no opinions that clash with those of our leader. We should unite, as one, under Donald Trump, and experiences like mine in Wichita will continue to set the tone.

Wich"i*tas (?), n. pl.; sing. Wichita (). Ethnol.

A tribe of Indians native of the region between the Arkansas and Red rivers. They are related to the Pawnees. See Pawnees.


© Webster 1913.

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