I shall always think of Martin Sheen as he appeared on our evening news here in New Mexico as he lifted the police tape to belly under and be arrested.
He came into fly-over country to go up the hill to Los Alamos to the National Laboratory where the Manhattan Project designed the atomic bomb.
Sheen appeared there at the police tape with a motley band of rent-a-riot gypsies to sing (ve-ery off-key) "The Lord's Prayer". When the news cam caught him going under the police tape his enormous belly was center-screen.
Yet this fat piece of crap is not found demonstrating in Russia, China, North Korea, India, Pakistan, France, England or elsewhere.
He would that Hirohito had the bomb, that Josef Stalin and Mao Tse-tung had the bomb, that the tens and hundreds of thousands of American soldiers been killed invading the Japanese mainland.
There is no consistency to his alcohol-destroyed synapse-firings: no bomb, perhaps no America in the face of a nuclear Soviet Union, hence no Hollywood free to thumb its nose at government, military, morals, patriotism.
And his "hero" is the diesel dyke who sent the Delta Force to place the shaped charge on the roof of the Concrete Room, blowing a concave hole down on twenty-plus women and children cowering there, blowing their brains out with concussion and chunks of concrete, turning them into twisted briquets with the hideous effects of the gas and the searing flame of that flammable methylene chloride additive.
Martin Sheen, a chancre drooling over the excrescent enabler of the traitor-rapist, the swamp thing with delirium tremens, Renocerous.
It's enough to gag a maggot.