Dear Mr. President

So the Obama machine (I would call it an administration, but let’s be honest—it’s more similar to an army howitzer, bulldozing through the Constitution and all of our inherent rights) planted people in the town hall crowd yesterday to promote the Obama Wealthcare, I mean, healthcare plan.

Does this really surprise anyone?

Honestly, no president that I can recall has promised more and delivered less. A reference to Jekyll and Hyde is like comparing an anthill to Mount Everest. He promised “change” and that is just about the only truth to come out of his mouth since…well, maybe ever.

Americans raced to the voting booths in November (50% of voters did not pay taxes last year mind you) and penciled in their country’s “savior”. He feels a lot more like a villain to me—and not just when the teleprompter technician falls asleep.

He was the man who would end big government, and weed out the wealthy crooks from the hard-working blue collar citizens who deserved more…and they got it—more taxes for more government programs than ever before.

But don’t forget, this man who has spent more money in his first six months in office than every other president combined, rushed to sign his book deal before he took the oath in front of the nation’s Capitol building, sparing himself a substantial amount of taxes.

Apparently we all need to sacrifice a little bit more—live within our means—unless we’ve earned it by lying our way into the most powerful position in the world…then you should probably treat your wife to $300,000 date to the theatre...courtesy of the American citizens.

P.S. Barak, you’re not very good at the “doom and gloom” game, either. You are so much better at smiling and promising hope, and then hijacking our paychecks to pay back all of the worthless, crime-ridden government programs who helped get you into office. Your ratings would look a lot better, too.

But you couldn’t resist, could you? You couldn’t resist the control and power. You will be replaced in 2012, unless you pull an Ayatollah on all of us (which I do not doubt at this point). Unfortunately, you’ve already left your mark, or better put, your geyser on this nation’s history. With any luck you will have sold our children and grandchildren into Chinese slavery—well done!

Just another day at the office…for another slimy, all-too-smooth, politician. That is all you are—a politician.

Don't Poke This Bear, ACCU

As a devout and practicing Catholic, I would appreciate very much if the ACCU did not take it upon itself to decide what is morally appropriate and what is not when dealing with higher education in the United States. To say “that it would be desirable for the [U.S. bishops] to withdraw” their 2004 policy...and "that juridical expressions of bishops’ or universities’ responsibilities should be kept to a minimum" is OUTRAGEOUS and ARROGANT!

Without the unending study, devotion and leadership of said bishops the ACCU would not exist, nor would the entire Catholic Church. To put yourself above the authorities of the church for political gain is not only preposterous but gravely sinful. Catholic institutions are solely responsible for upholding the core values and beliefs at the higher education level. I attended a secular, public university, and although I shone my light on as many people as possible, it was nearly impossible to reach as many people as is granted to higher education Catholic institutions.

I understand that President Obama and other noteworthy politicians create a "buzz" or attention nationally when they speak at universities such as Notre Dame, but at what cost? Is it really worth ignoring Christ's words and teachings to raise the academic admissions standards for incoming freshman, and therefore raise the cost of tuition and gather more donations from more sources? No. It is not.

But as long as organizations such as the ACCU continue to work hand in hand with the oppressors or our Catholic liberties, values and beliefs, and disregard the leadership and guidance of the authorities of the church, they will continue to head down a gravely sinful path. Not only are the ACCU and institutions such as Notre Dame doing their supporters and students a disservice, they are doing God and his church a disservice.

Please reconsider who you answer to.

God Bless You,

A.P. Vasko

I Urge All To Do The Same

Dear Rev. John I. Jenkins, CSC:

I am a devout Roman Catholic, who has direct ties to the University of Notre Dame, and I am immensely discouraged by the disgraceful and downright shameful invitation extended by Notre Dame University to President Obama for its 2009 spring commencement address.

This an extremely sinful political exhibition by the university, which should protect, defend and honor the core values of the Roman Catholic faith first and foremost.

Notre Dame University should be revered as the United States leader in higher Catholic education. Sadly, that cannot be the case any longer if this invitation to President Obama is not rescinded.

Abortion is a disgusting act of individual selfishness, disregarding the will of our Creator. Any man, woman or organization who condone it no longer hold the privilige of calling themselves a Christian.

It is a tradition for Notre Dame to invite standing presidents to give commencement addresses, however, the traditions and practices of the Roman Catholic Church and God should be held in higher regard.

God Bless You,

Anthony P. Vasko

Contact Rev. Jenkins at:
president@nd.edu

PLEASE WAKE UP! Your Children and Their Children Depend on it

This started out as a point my character, Bryce, is making about the need for a revolution within his generation...it went a lot further--God started speaking to me, and I was very privileged to record it! Please read with an open mind. Then go to zeitgeistmovie.com and watch the two films provided, especially Addendum. Thank you and may God grant us pardon for all the wrong we have done!

To call the three of us average teenagers would be a vast understatement. I thought of us as the founders of our generation’s revolution. It had to start somewhere. And I really doubted it would effectively come from a place like MTV or YouTube or any other venue for brainwashing the masses, and selling them crap they don’t need. Everywhere I looked in the world, I found lost souls. A bunch of robots, who do the same fucking thing as everyone else, every single day of their miserable fucking lives. Sorry for the language, but this is a sensitive subject to me. Somewhere in time, the human race was imprisoned by a very small number of people who thought of a simple yet brilliant scheme to enslave people worse than they have ever been enslaved, at the cost of their lives, and for the monetary benefit of this select few. The most endangered, and the most targeted mass of people is those of adolescence. If there was anything that I could be happier about, in terms of my relationship with Ashton, was the way he taught me how to think for myself—to recognize the ploys of those who wanted my soul, and to fight them. That’s what we were doing—fighting the miserable, greed filled hearts that seemed to own everything in the world but happiness.

What a sad thing it is to depend on money for happiness, because it is utterly impossible to fill one’s heart with bank statements, horsepower, cashmere scarves, and bottles of vintage wine that could feed an entire village in any one of the many third world countries. What a sad and discouraging grip the Devil has on so many people—most of which have no idea that it is purely the work of all things wicked, what they strive for, how they get it, and who ultimately pays the price. Foolish! We are so foolish when we try to put our heads together, and he or she who tries to speak the truth is made an outcast, un-American and tyrannous. What a pitiful reality it is that we send our sons and daughters off to foreign lands to shoot and kill other human beings who were less privileged to begin with—ALL IN AN ATTEMPT TO FREE THEM! WHAT A SAD, SAD, JOKE that has been played on all of us. In truth, we imprison more and more, from the top to the bottom, for the benefit of such a select few—THE BANKS!

Wake up from your dreams, and face the nightmare at hand. We our owned by a series of make believe numbers in a databoard in a computer somewhere. Yet we exhaust ourselves, neglect our families by working longer and longer hours, literally kill each other, even our sons and daughters, because we’re too proud to admit that we’ve been pawns in a horrifically brilliant scheme, for almost 100 years.
PLEASE WAKE UP!

There's Always a Reason to Love...Ask Steven

If Steven could throw his arms around the world and hug every human being alive he would.

He is not an extraordinary man, with extraordinary talents, or an extraordinary history.

He is a man, and just that.

His mother died giving birth to him; his father died six months earlier, storming the beaches of Normandy.

He was raised by his aunt and her live-in boyfriend, who sexually abused him until adolescence.

He suffered from a special but minor case of Autism. He never saw a doctor. It was never treated.

Having great difficulty making friends, he constructed a basketball hoop out of a plastic milk crate, tied it around a tree in the nearby forest, and shot baskets every day with a used soccer ball on the walk home from school.

Winter came hard in 1955 and he caught pneumonia. He recovered but would never breathe without discomfort again.

He taught himself how to write and throw a baseball. In fall tryouts, he struck out every batter he faced, but did not make the team.

He was black.

After high school he was drafted by the U.S. Army and deployed to Vietnam.

He served two tours, and came home to no parade, no applause. But he did bring with him a Purple Heart.

He has lived alone, ever since, in an understaffed, undersupplied, and poorly financed Veterans Home.

If Steven could throw his arms around the world and hug every human being alive he would.

But Steven has no arms.

"With A Little Effort"--A Short Short Story

Charlie was a prominent businessman at a very young age. He had everything—cars, women, money, a condo in downtown Chicago.

When I met him, he stood in front of me at the corner shop—two brown paper bags of junk at his feet. He leaned down and removed a five dollar bill from the inside of his green wool sock, and paid for the pack of off-brand cigarettes.

Charlie was nearly sixty-years-old and homeless.

“Sorry kid,” he said, apologizing for the long wait.

“It’s okay, sir,” I replied.

“Sir? Look at me…I’m a dirtbag!”

Then he walked out of the store.

As I exited I saw him fishing through the trashcan for a food.

“My name is Stephen,” I said to him, holding my hand out to shake his.

“Charlie,” is all he said, without looking up.

“Can I buy you a sandwich or cup of soup?” I asked him.

“You can buy me a beer,” he responded.

“How’s Rick’s?” I asked.

“What do you want from me, kid?”

“Your company.”

A smile came across his face.

And I knew, I had succeeded for the day.

Asleep in the Grass

Ernie was a very simple man, with a mountain of guilt on his shoulders, which he would never overcome.

He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. Behind the dumpster was his bicycle—his most treasured possession. He hid it back there, because he could not afford a lock, and he would always say a prayer that it would still be there when his shift was over. He slowly lifted his 67-year-old leg over the frame, and sat down. The ride home was short, but always some of the most enjoyable minutes of his day. The night air in Key West was usually cool and warm, at the same time. And on most nights, there were stars in the sky—if only a few, there were more than he had seen in prison, the past 48 years.

Ernie was the proud new resident of a small, bug-infested room, in a mildew-ridden crack house. After his release from the St. Thomas Correctional Facility, he had stayed at the YMCA for two months, saving every penny he made at the restaurant, to obtain his new home. He was very proud of his room, which was complete with an army cot, small bookshelf, a lawn chair, and a small table, made out of plastic milk crates and a cardboard box—all of which he had found inside dumpsters in the surrounding alleyways. The only book he owned was his Bible—a gift from the warden upon his departure of St. Thomas.

Every night when he would arrive home he would remove a Styrofoam box from his knapsack, and eat his dinner—edible portions of leftovers from the plates that were slid across the soapy dish sink toward him that evening. He would eat while reading Bible verses. Then, when he was finished, he would wrap his rosary as tightly around his right hand as comfortably possible, and he would lay down to sleep.

When Ernie woke up on Wednesday, October 29th, his day began and followed exactly how it had every day since becoming a free man again. It would not be until he left the restaurant that night that everything would change.

At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He walked down the steps to the first floor, and onto the front porch. He hid his bicycle off of the left side of the house, behind a bush and several large trash cans. On this morning it was not there. Someone had found and stolen his most treasured possession.

“Ah bien. ¿Qué hace usted?” “Oh well. What do you do?” he said to himself, and started walking up the driveway toward the road.

He would run a little behind schedule on this day, because he walked significantly slower than he rode the bicycle. This would not deter him from accomplishing all of his tasks, though. He just continued down the road, dragging his right foot a bit—the consequence of an injury he endured while defending his cellmate in a fight 35 years previously. He saved his friend’s life, but his Achilles tendon was snapped like a rubber band by the makeshift shank. He had never walked the same since that day. He was proud of his limp. It reminded him of that day, and the friendship he had with Juan.

He arrived at the food bank around 7:10 A.M., which was fifteen minutes later than his usual time. Due to his tardiness, the only food left were a few pieces of toast. Before he took a bite he bowed his head and said, “Gracias Dios para este alimento. Gracias Dios por este día.” 2 “Thank you God for this food. Thank you God for this day.”

He ate slowly and quietly. He liked to be very mindful of every bite, to thank God thoroughly for his blessings. As he chewed, he would think about the wheat, flour, water, sunshine and human labor that all worked together to bring that piece of toast to his mouth.

When he finished, he gathered his Bible and knapsack, and began walking to his second destination of the day. When paced correctly, he could arrive at St. Mary’s with enough time to say his morning rosary and novena before 8:15 Mass. On this day, he walked in late, but was very appreciative to have made it in time for the Gospel—his favorite moment of every morning. Confession immediately followed the celebration of the Eucharist, and he was always the first one in line—usually the only one in line.

Every day he entered the confessional and said the same thing. “Please forgive me, father. I have let my wife down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.” They were the only sentences he had ever been able to put together in English. If ever asked to give a further explanation, he would respond, “No comprendo.” 3

Then he would say his penance at the feet of the Virgin Mary statue, light a candle, and continue on in his day.

He left St. Mary’s around 11 A.M., and he began his walk to the pier. On the way, he stopped at Sam’s, and purchased his lunch—the same lunch every day—an apple. When he got to the pier, he walked to the very end, and slowly sat down, so that his legs dangled off toward the pearly blue water. He took great pleasure in his two hours of ship watching. And just as he ate his breakfast, he would slowly chew each bite of the apple, thinking of the fertile soil, the strong tree roots that supported the trunk, the branches that supported the growing fruit, and everything that God provided to make that meal possible. One by one, he watched the ships come and go. Sometimes it was a cruiseliner; other times it was a fishing boat. No matter what the size or significance of the ship was, he would entertain himself, wondering what it must be like to be the captain. When the two hours were over, he would slowly rise to his feet and continue on his journey.

On the walk from the pier to the cemetery, he would stop at the flower shop on Simonton, and he would purchase one rose, for one dollar. Then he would continue to Olivia Street, where he always entered the graveyard from the southwest corner. When he arrived at the headstone, he knelt down, placed the rose on the weathered marble, and said the same thing, everyday.

“Perdóneme, mi amor. Yo le falla, y para este soy mucho arrepentido.” “Forgive me, my love. I have let you down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.”

Then he would remove a small pair of garden shears from his knapsack, and he would clip the grass around the headstone, so that it was level and short. Once he was done, he would kiss the stone, and rise to his feet, to continue on his way. He never spent much time at the gravesite; it hurt his heart too much.

So he walked up Olivia, to White, and then two blocks to Truman. Slowly but surely he made his way to work on time, and at 4 P.M. his apron was tied, and he stood behind the soapy dish sink, waiting for the dishes and cups and silverware to start sliding toward him.

No one at the restaurant talked to Ernie. Even though a great deal of the staff spoke Spanish, they made no attempts to hold a conversation with him. The extent of their exchanges would come when they made fun of his being 5 foot 4 in height. Also, Ernie could not speak English, but he could understand it when spoken by others. Openly, the others would talk about him. They would make fun of him, and call him a killer, or a psycho, or a jailbird.

When this happened he would close his eyes for a moment and say, “Deme por favor fuerza Dios.” “Please give me strength, God.”

Hour after hour, the dishes would stack up, and the silverware would slosh the medal pans of sanitizer water into the air, and all over him, and without a doubt, he would be covered up to his shoulders and neck in dirty water and half eaten food. He never complained, though. He just washed them all—one by one—until the final rack of glassware emerged from the industrial washer. And this night, October 29th going on the 30th after midnight, was a very special night for Ernie.

He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. When Ernie looked behind the dumpster, he remembered that his bicycle was not there. So, on he walked with his limp, ever so surely and slowly, back to the cemetery.

Although Ernie was a free man for just over two months, he had been imprisoned by this date, October 30th, for 48 years. He would remain imprisoned by this date until the day he died. So he did the only thing he thought would make him feel free; he lied down next to his wife—in the cold grass, without a pillow or blanket.

On this night, October 30th, forty-eight years ago, Ernie lied next to his wife in bed. It was just past midnight, when he arose in their small one room apartment. The shipment would be ashore very soon. So he dressed quietly as she slept, and locked the door behind him as he left. He met his business partner and co-smuggler at the pier, just as their ship rolled into harbor.

“Hola,” a man said to him as he walked off of the small boat.

“Hola, senor,” a very young Ernie responded, and then handed him every dollar he had to his name.

The man pointed him to a large bag, fifty pounds in weight, at the portside corner of the boat. Ernie and his friend walked over to the bag, opened it, grabbed a handful of the Cuban coffee beans, and held them just under their noses.

“Muy bien!” Ernie said to his friend.

“Si. Maravilloso!” his friend responded.

They each grabbed an end of the bag, and they carried it through the dark and quiet streets of Key West. When they arrived at his friend’s home, they put the bag inside of the small shed out back, and locked it.

Cuban coffee had become illegal, along with all other forms of Cuban goods, just ten days earlier. On October 19, 1960 the U.S. government posed an embargo on Cuban goods, to counter the new Cuban dictator’s expropriation of American landholdings in Cuba. Coffee was Ernie’s business. It was his way of life. And now that Cuban coffee, in particular, was illegal, he could sell it to his customers, under the table, at an exorbitant price. He and his friend were sure to make a fortune. So they said farewell to one another, and parted ways.

When Ernie arrived home, the door he had locked was wide open.

“Rosa?” he said as he walked in. “Rosa!” he screamed as he rushed to her bloodied body.

She had been savagely murdered. Stabbed and strangled to death. Sobbing, he held her, and cried out, “¿Por qué? ¿Dios, por qué?” “Why? God, why?”

Then the sirens came. The police rushed up the stairs, into his apartment, and without asking even one question, arrested Ernie. In such agony, despair, and feeling of worthlessness, he could not muster the words to defend himself. He just continued to cry as he was dragged away from his wife, and off to jail.

Ernie’s friend and business partner had set him up. While they were at the pier, smuggling the bag of coffee, he had sent an assassin to Ernie’s house, to murder his wife. Then, a few moments after they had hid the bag of coffee beans in the shed, Ernie’s friend called the police, and reported that his friend had just come to his house and confessed to murdering his wife. The testimony held up in court, because the judge was promised 20% of all earnings made from Cuban coffee from that point on.

Ernie went to prison. Rosa went to the graveyard.

Forty-eight years later, Ernie lied alongside of his wife, like he had wished he would have every day for those forty-eight years. As tears welled up in his eyes, he spoke to her.

English Translation:

“My dearest Rosa. My Love. It has been too long since we have lied next to one another. That is all my fault. I can never forgive myself for what happened. I do not expect you or God to, either, but I pray for it every day. I served 48 years in prison, and I would serve it again and again and again, if it meant you would have life. I let you down, my love. I should have never left your side. I should have been a good husband. I should have protected you. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you. I will never leave you again. I will never leave you again. I promise.”

Ernie fell asleep to tears streaming down his face, and images of his young bride in his mind. When he awoke, he returned home. At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He started his day the same way as the day before. And he continued it the same way, as well. In fact, the only way he changed his day to day routine, was the way he ended it.

Every night, for the rest of his life, Ernie lied down in the grass, alongside his wife, and said the same thing, before closing his eyes, and falling asleep.