Posted on 09/16/2010 8:57:21 PM PDT by This Just In
Whats Behind David Frums Attack on Dinesh dSouza and Mr. Newt?
Posted By Jeff Dunetz On September 16, 2010
Newt Gingrich stirred up a big of a controversy Friday night just by commenting on an article in Forbes Magazine by Dinesh DSouza. The premise of the article is many of Obamas positions were influenced by his dad.
What then is Obamas dream? We dont have to speculate because the President tells us himself in his autobiography, Dreams from My Father. According to Obama, his dream is his fathers dream. Notice that his title is not Dreams of My Father but rather Dreams from My Father. Obama isnt writing about his fathers dreams; he is writing about the dreams he received from his father.
Whether you agree with it or not this is not a terribly, outlandish position, many of us can say that we were influenced by our fathers dreams. I certainly carried many of my fathers dreams into the next generation. Gingrich felt the DSouza article was incredibly insightful.
Citing a recent Forbes article by Dinesh DSouza, former House speaker Newt Gingrich tells National Review Online that President Obama may follow a Kenyan, anti-colonial worldview.
Gingrich says that DSouza has made a stunning insight into Obamas behavior the most profound insight I have read in the last six years about Barack Obama.
What if [Obama] is so outside our comprehension, that only if you understand Kenyan, anti-colonial behavior, can you begin to piece together [his actions]? Gingrich asks. That is the most accurate, predictive model for his behavior.
(Excerpt) Read more at bigjournalism.com ...
Not so loud, Lancey, you'll break Glenn Reynold's (Instapundit's) heart...
Cheers!
David Frum is a scum-sucking piece of liberal trash who assisted in the transformation of the Canadian “Conservative” Party into an entity which is politically to the left of the US Democratic Party. I’m glad he’s your problem now.
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
Im sure hes unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but hes still telling
His joke, so I ask why
Hes so unhappy, to which he replies
But I dont care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror Ive been saving; Im laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that Ive got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; cause
I see my face, framed within
Pops black-framed glasses
And know hes laughing too.
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