If "Shootings" Kill People, Why Are Cops The Only Ones to be Blamed for Deaths?

Beating harms female police officer - Media nonplussed: How could such a thing occur? N.B. Thirty-one officers were shot at in 2016, a 82 percent increase over 2015 numbers, the Chicago Police Department told The Daily Caller News Foundation. Only 17 officers were shot at in 2015. Second City Cop

Nine officers reported gun-shot wounds in 2016, the CPD told The DCNF, but zero died as a result.

CHICAGO — Shootings have killed 3 people and wounded six since Friday, police said.  DNAinfo
CHICAGO ---- 4 dead, 11 wounded in city shootings  Sun Times
CHICAGO ----Man wounded in Englewood shooting  Sun Times
CHICAGO ----Chicago officer shoots man suspected of being involved in shooting  Chicago Tribune

The media is sneaky but rather obvious. Shootings just happen - you know gun violence.  Guns are not inanimate objects they are willful beings, when owned, operated, or within the proximity of a Chicago Police Officer.

The DOJ Report confirms the scripted narrative developed over thirty years for the ink slingers by the Peoples Law Office, Bernardine Dohrn, MacArthur Center for Justice, G. Flint Taylor,  Jean Maclean Snyder, Dave Protess and the Innocence Project, Northwestern Law, Northwestern Medill School of Journalism, University of Chicago, Pastor Pfleger and the Faith Community of St. Sabina, Llc., WTTW, WBEZ, Chip Mitchell, Jamie Kalvan and the Invisible Institute, and the Cook County Regular Democratic Organization.

Every newspaper and every media outlet in this dim-bulb burg of whiners and hand-wringers is wild with joy and the promise of more Hope and Change withe 'landmark, watershed' DOJ screed typed by the underlings of Loretta the Tarmac Lynch.

Please notice that shootings is a verbal - a noun: the act of shooting a firearm, bow, or the like.

Shoot is a transitive verb - blaze, bolt, burgeon, clip, fly, germinate, rise, spring, vent, whip out and requires a subject - a Police Officer, a nasty systemic racist Burge-happy, soulless, sexist, homophobic, Trumpolicious cop.

Shootings are just magically blameless.

There is only one media in this dim-bulb burg of whiners and hand-wringers. Solidarity is what it is all about. This media is told what to write and it is in complete Solidarity with the tellers.

However, there is still John Kass ( "It wasn't the Chicago cops who shaped the police culture. The political corruption and cynicism of politicians over decades in a one-party Democratic machine town shaped the culture")and citizens like you.  Let's toss back some old-timey Solidarity at them!  Buy no papers, click off WTTW, NPR, WBEZ and talk to your neighbors and the cop on the corner for news.

 Solidarity.

The DOJ Report on CPD Should Not Be Tossed Aside Lightly, But Thrown in the Lake With Great Force!

The Chicago Police Department is stuck in the Stone Age — from training that relies on 35-year-old videos to outdated pursuit tactics that imperil suspects, officers and innocent bystanders, according to a scathing 161-page report just released by the Justice Department.
U.S. Attorney General Loretta Lynch called for sweeping changes in a department she said engages in a “pattern or practice of use of excessive force.” Sun Times nodders: Mick Dumke and Frank Main

 "This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." Dorothy Parker

Sounds like Frank and Mick are just pleasured by Lorrreta's cruciation of Chicago's cops.  Cromagnon CSI?    Those two are loo-loos.  How about a chorus of Alley Oop, sweethearts?

The great Dorothy Parker knew how to handle typing, as opposed to writing.  Writing conveys a message of universal truth in an act of bringing people together. Typing is something toddlers, chimps and government bureaucrats do when they get their chubby digits on the keyboard.

Will I take the time to read Tarmac Loretta's hurried and pre-cast Department of Justice philippic on policing?  Only if I run out of Pepsodent toothpaste tubes* to  delight, for ornament, and for enabling insight into tooth decay (sodium flouride 24% brightens teeth and srengthens enamel: sorbitol watre, hydrated sillica, PEG-8, sodium lauryl sulfate, SD alcohol 26-B, flavor, ceelulose gum, sodium saccharin and titanium dioxide) and I have a store of six at time of writing, not typing.

No.  I will not waste the time and talent afforded to me by our Lord and Savior.

I know what it is in the thick ream palaver.  Nothing.  Unless, I am very wrong,  nothing will be said about the personal involvement of Mayors and their politically appointed, advanced over worthy officers in covering up their crimes, the crimes of their kin, the crimes of their political peeps, the crimes of criminals necessary to advance voter intimidation, nor the advent of  University power political corruption.

There will be no time-line highlighting patient and methodical coopting of the press by Peoples Law Office, The Innocense Industry and Loevy & Loevy going back to the advent of Daley's infatuation with Harris School of Poverty and G. Flint Taylor's Wednesday night workshops at University of Chicago on how to subvert law enforcement, justice, feel good about yourself and make tons of taypayer dollars.

The Creation of Chicago's Thug Comfort Zone is the work of political opportunists, phony preachers, pastors, the press, Marxist ambulance chasers, activists spawned by street cash, and people like Loretta Lynch.

Back to Pepsodent! "ther's a man in the funny papers we all know/he lived way back a long time a-go -woe! . . . Ride, Daddy, Ride!"








*Pepsodent is an American brand of toothpaste with a minty flavour derived from sassafras. It has been owned by Unilever since 1942, except in the US and Canada, where since 2003, it has been owned by Church & Dwight.

Ode To Klas: Bohemian Restaurant Icon to the Tune of the Stone's "Last Time"

Klas is closing its doors.  Klas is located on the street named for Chicago's best known Bohemian Anton Cermak and therestaurant that once served as a meal/meeting destination for Al Capone. Another landmark Chicago family restaurant disappears.  

My God, what is next?  The magnificent Italian strip in the Heart of Italy?

The food was exquisite and atmosphere delightful.  It was no faux-hipper-than-thou foodie mecca surrounded by tinted glass, chrome and zinc bar affectations.  It was gloriously Old World - not global.

I will miss this place, already panged by the thought that another piece of solid Chicago is tossed into the Orwellian memory-hole.

Others feel the pain.  My pal Daniel Kelley, attorney and Chicago folklorist and Chicago's greatest historian Richard Lindberg forwarded this poem/parody to the tune of the Rolling Stones - last time.

Ode to Klas ( This Could be the Last time)by Jim A. Moran
“This Could Be the Last Time”

Well I told you once and I told you twice
I like my dumplings washed down with Weiss
Oompa bands try very hard to please me
Where the potato pancakes go down so easy
Well this could be the last time
This could be the last time
Maybe the last time
I dont know. oh no. oh no
Well, I’m sorry girl but I can’t stay
My beef ghoulash is on the way
When Klas shuts down there’ll be much sorrow
Gonna get weiner schnitzel there tomorrow
Well this could be the last time
This could be the last time
Maybe the last time
I dont know. oh no. oh no
Well I told you once and I told you twice
Kolackies are included in the price
But here's a chance to change your mind
cuz I’m going there for pork tenderloin
Well this could be the last time
This could be the last time
Maybe the last time
I dont know. oh no. oh no
Well, this could be the last time . . .

James A. Moran

Sounds like it is, Jim. 

Trampas or the Virginian: Trump and The Spooks and the Supine Media

 

Sworn Donald Trump enemy John McCain admitted Wednesday that he passed the dossier of claims of a Russian blackmail plot against the president-elect.
The Arizona senator issued a public statement amid mounting questions of his exact role in the affair - and how a document riddled with errors and unverifiable claims came to be published.
'Late last year, I received sensitive information that has since been made public,' he said.
'Upon examination of the contents, and unable to make a judgment about their accuracy, I delivered the information to the Director of the FBI.
'That has been the extent of my contact with the FBI or any other government agency regarding this issue.' The Daily Mail

“the document was prepared for political opponents of Trump by a person who is understood to be a former British intelligence agent.” Ben Smith Buzzfeed

Super. Pretty wet out there with all the leaks, Golden Showers, Sobbing spooks and CNN unabe to fathom the fact that the Electoral College worked the way it was supposed to work.

So yesterday the media and the clubby spooks got a nose bleed.

I immediately thought of Owen Wister's great novel - The Virginian.  This is a novel more about the constructive and community forming application of words, than it is about the single show-down and gun play.

The character known as the Virginian is opposed to the glib, cowardly and shameless Trampas.  The Virginian will allow a friend, a person with whom he has shared danger, laughs and a few drinks, to call him an S.O.B. any minute of the day.  He will not tolerate, however, any malicious tag to sit in his aura for a second.

Five or six players sat over in the corner at a round table where counters were piled. Their eyes were close upon their cards, and one seemed to be dealing a card at a time to each, with pauses and betting between. Steve was there and the Virginian; the others were new faces.

“No place for amatures,” repeated the voice; and now I saw that it was the dealer’s. There was in his countenance the same ugliness that his words conveyed.
“Who’s that talkin’?” said one of the men near me, in a low voice.
“Trampas.”
“What’s he?”
“Cow-puncher, bronco-buster, tin-horn, most anything.”
“Who’s he talkin’ at?”
“Think it’s the black-headed guy he’s talking at.”
“That ain’t supposed to be safe, is it?”
“Guess we’re all goin’ to find out in a few minutes.”
“Been trouble between ‘em?”
“They’ve not met before. Trampas don’t enjoy losin’ to a stranger.”
“Fello’s from Arizona, yu’ say?”
“No. Virginia. He’s recently back from havin’ a look at Arizona. Went down there last year for a change. Works for the Sunk Creek outfit.” And then the dealer lowered his voice still further and said something in the other man’s ear, causing him to grin. After which both of them looked at me.
There had been silence over in the corner; but now the man Trampas spoke again.
“AND ten,” said he, sliding out some chips from before him. Very strange it was to hear him, how he contrived to make those words a personal taunt. The Virginian was looking at his cards. He might have been deaf.
“AND twenty,” said the next player, easily.
The next threw his cards down.
It was now the Virginian’s turn to bet, or leave the game, and he did not speak at once.
Therefore Trampas spoke. “Your bet, you son-of-a—.”
The Virginian’s pistol came out, and his hand lay on the table, holding it unaimed. And with a voice as gentle as ever, the voice that sounded almost like a caress, but drawling a very little more than usual, so that there was almost a space between each word, he issued his orders to the man Trampas: “When you call me that, SMILE.” And he looked at Trampas across the table.
Yes, the voice was gentle. But in my ears it seemed as if somewhere the bell of death was ringing; and silence, like a stroke, fell on the large room. All men present, as if by some magnetic current, had become aware of this crisis. In my ignorance, and the total stoppage of my thoughts, I stood stock-still, and noticed various people crouching, or shifting their positions.
“Sit quiet,” said the dealer, scornfully to the man near me. “Can’t you see he don’t want to push trouble? He has handed Trampas the choice to back down or draw his steel.”
Then, with equal suddenness and ease, the room came out of its strangeness. Voices and cards, the click of chips, the puff of tobacco, glasses lifted to drink,—this level of smooth relaxation hinted no more plainly of what lay beneath than does the surface tell the depth of the sea.
For Trampas had made his choice. And that choice was not to “draw his steel.” If it was knowledge that he sought, he had found it, and no mistake! We heard no further reference to what he had been pleased to style “amatures.” In no company would the black-headed man who had visited Arizona be rated a novice at the cool art of self-preservation.
One doubt remained: what kind of a man was Trampas? A public back-down is an unfinished thing,—for some natures at least. I looked at his face, and thought it sullen, but tricky rather than courageous.
Something had been added to my knowledge also. Once again I had heard applied to the Virginian that epithet which Steve so freely used. The same words, identical to the letter. But this time they had produced a pistol. “When you call me that, SMILE!” So I perceived a new example of the old truth, that the letter means nothing until the spirit gives it life. The Virginian Owen Wister (emphases my own)

The Media makes me want to shower.  The spooks ?  Who knows from spooks?