Canned Tongue of Bigot (continued)

Posted in Ted Nugent, WhiteManistan at 3:56 pm by George Smith

Poor Ted Nugent, propped up in bed or on the sofa, dosed with pain-killers so he can bend his new metal knees a little bit more everyday.

What comes into his mind?

Well, he drifts back to the halcyon time of 1955 America, when everyone knew their place, fondly recalling youthful work pumping gas and, today for WND, delivering newspapers on his Huffy bicycle.

No job was too menial for Ted to take, he rants. And that’s the problem with Americans, he continues in a screed exactly like the one yesterday.

Too damn lazy and entitled! Especially the other people — like in Detroit!

The old man does get-off-my-lawn and the bigot’s dog whistling, for the second time in 48 hours, showing that the prescription pain-killers are, certainly, having some kind of effect:

There was no hesitation then for me to get more jobs at the tender age of 11 or 12. I started delivering the Shopping News newspaper to my 100 or so customers from the elevated seat of my Huffy “StumpJumper” bike …

I continued to increase my workload with a second paper route delivering the Detroit News to over 90 customers seven days a week, hunting big, fat, slimy night-crawlers in the middle of the night and selling them for fishing bait around the neighborhood …

If someone would have dared to claim back then that someday America would accept an official category of the American workforce as “those who have given up looking for a job,” or worse yet, a list of “jobs Americans are not willing to do,” you would have been laughed out of town …

Negotiate for sick days instead of better quality products, and continue to punish the producers while rewarding the bloodsuckers.

Bloodsuckers that won’t work, that’s the problem! Repeat it again and again because not enough are paying attention. Especially the two hundred or more lined up for two part-time jobs, one as a dishwasher and one as a meat-wrapper, at Whole Foods a week or so ago.

These bloodsuckers, dragging down the great nation Ted knew. It breaks his heart.

Next week, another column of Horatio Alger-like tenacity, Nugent writing about his days shoveling snow and chipping ice off the sidewalks before the sun came up so old folks wouldn’t slip and fall in the Motor City. And he took that ice and snow, put it on his wooden sledge, named Rosebud, carting it back to the house where it was melted for the sweetest free drinking water.

Tapped out on Ted’s tablet as he stomps around on his new knees, now the size of cantaloupes, blood leaking slowly into his boots but bulling through the pain, tending wild game, clearing brush and picking up the brass from the morning machine-gun firing at the ranch.

America! My America! Where have you gone!!!

Effin-ay, the man’s pathetic to the third power.

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