With just days left before the election, Donald Trump slips in the polls, and suffers two weeks of terrible news coverage about his debate performance, alleged tax avoidance, fat-shaming a pageant contestant and then dismissing his own “locker room talk” about sexual assault in 2005. Now, he says that GOP lawmakers backing away from his toxic personality lets him campaign with more authenticity — “the shackles are off.” Liberty-loving commentator Scott Ott (host at BillWhittle.com) joins Dave Williams on KLIF-570AM (Dallas) to talk about the news, and its impact. Click the play button below to listen to the interview, recorded October 12, 2016.
A new Gallup poll shows that 51% of Democrats still trust the mainstream media, but only 14% of Republicans do. (30% of Independents.) The average is at an historic low of 32%. Scott Ott talks with Dave Williams on KLIF-570AM in Dallas about the impact of our distrust of journalists.
Hillary Clinton said she used a private email server for simplicity and didn’t want to carry more than one phone. The FBI now says she not only carried multiple phones and iPads, but lost 13 Blackberries and a laptop with thousands of un-examined emails. Scott Ott joins Dave Williams on KLIF-570AM (Dallas) to talk about the latest on the hunt for the White House, and for truth in campaigning.
If you want to kill Black people there are easier ways than becoming a cop – much easier.
The easiest of all, statistically speaking, is to just be a Black person who lives near, or with, other Black people. That’s how the majority of the annual Black body count happens. Of course, if you were born non-Black, that avenue may be closed to you (barring rapid advances in racial-reassignment therapy.)
The next easiest way to kill Black people is to accept and believe the teachings of Mohammed. Find yourself a literalist Imam who preaches the Koran as it is, and stoke your murderous passion via the wide variety of jihadi fomentation and instruction sites on the Internet. The majority of perforated, shattered and shredded bodies from Muslim terror attacks each year are brown and black. If the rigors of the Five Pillars of Islam require more discipline than you’re willing to exert — no matter. Most of Mohammed’s bloody devotees live a double life anyway, cursing the infidel while sharing his passions. The road to Muslim martyrdom is often paved with intoxicants, sex and pornography.
These are the relatively-easy ways to kill Black people.
[To hear audio podcast of this essay, scroll down and press Play button.]
However, becoming a police officer to satisfy your gory bigotry is ridiculously difficult. It requires years of preparation, training and schooling – all the time surrounded by the most decent, devoted protectors of human life and civil society among us. Should you manage to run that gauntlet, and earn a badge, you’ll then be subjected to rigorous oversight and endless second-guessing by activists, politicians and internal affairs, not to mention your own supervisors, partners and colleagues. As you follow this path, hoping to “kill you some Black people,” you’ll have to daily place yourself in the line of fire – approaching armed suspects and obvious criminals who can easily “get the drop” on you. In some neighborhoods you’ll patrol, a fair portion of the populace will view you as an existential threat to their lives and their illicit businesses. You’ll have to live every day in fear for your own life, sometimes longing to hear the sound of your house key in the lock at the end of the day, and knowing that even then you’re a target.
Would you endure all of this to get a chance to bag a Black person under circumstances that would allow you to be exonerated by a review board, a district attorney, a grand jury, a judge and perhaps jury of your peers?
“But, but, but,” says the activist or politician, “they usually are exonerated. Black people die at the hands of police, and police don’t go to jail.”
Well, that could mean one of two things:
The system is corrupt, with cops, prosecutors, citizen witnesses, judges and juries all protecting murderers, or
The vast majority of police gunfire is triggered in circumstances that warrant deadly force.
I’m not suggesting all cops are virtuous. No, they’re human. They make mistakes, like you and I do. They sometimes do wrong things, and have biases…like you and I do. The consequences of their mistakes or lack of self-control can be deadly. They should come under enhanced scrutiny because of their weighty responsibility to a society that proclaims equal justice under law.
But it is beyond absurd for activists and politicians to characterize cops as racially-motivated killers on the hunt. Loose words of condemnation from the president, or a mayor, a journalist, or a celebrity, stoke the flames of rage in unstable minds.
Last night in Dallas, snipers from lofty perches triangulated police officers who were providing protection to participants in a rally against police violence. (Notice, the cops guarded your right to protest their actions.) In the withering fusillade that followed, 11 officers fell, at least five mortally wounded. According to the Dallas police chief, during negotiations with a suspect who ultimately died, the shooter said he wanted to kill White people because of police shootings of Black people.
President Obama spoke words of grief, comfort, and praise for the police…but too late. He, and his fellow travelers on the Left have spent years now questioning the judgment of the cop on the street, stoking racial fears – making our urban neighborhoods more dangerous for police and civilians alike – playing into the hands criminals who increasingly run our cities like brutal fiefdoms in the midst of tribal wars.
Five police funerals.
Five grieving congregations of friends and family.
Six wounded guardians of the peace who will repeatedly replay those moments when Hell rained from above.
But perhaps worse than that: In Dallas last night, words became bullets that felled the rule of law.
The FBI won’t recommend charges against Hillary Clinton for her “extremely careless” use of an unsecure private email server to send and receive classified information. An abortion of justice? Perhaps — but Scott Ott tells Dave Williams and Amy Chodroff on KLIF-570AM (Dallas) that Republicans should embrace what FBI Director James Comey did to eviscerate Clinton’s various lies. Listen to the interview by clicking the play button below.
What’s the antidote to the panic fostered by the media over Great Britain’s looming departure from the European Union? Conservative leadership. Scott Ott explains why during this segment with Dave Williams on KLIF-570AM in Dallas (6/27/2016). Dave and Scott also dig into the latest Trump-Clinton poll numbers, and react to Republican thought-leader George Will’s announcement that he’s quit the GOP.
In the wake of the Orlando terror attack, President Obama says that hate is the problem. If that’s true, then what’s the answer? On this episode of Scott Ott Podcast (#49), we grant the Left their premises and examine the logical conclusions.
When Staff Sargent Jim McMaster hit the beach at Normandy for the second time, he was near 90 years old. He never thought he’d see that beach again.
In early June 1944, he thought that beach might be the last place he ever saw. He was just 20 years old then. In the coming weeks, he would watch many men die. He caught some grenade shrapnel in the belly, the brunt of which killed another man, and earned a Purple Heart. He lost a chunk of his knee to a Nazi machine-gunner while leaping from a burning tank in which two men died. But he survived through the war’s end.
The only reason he could find that he remained alive was the faithful prayer of his Christian mother, who miraculously received all four of her soldier boys back from battle — from Europe and Korea — alive.
The Normandy invasion started for Jim McMaster in a field of English wildflowers where he had gone on bicycle with one of Mrs. Short’s four daughters. McMaster was housed in the Short family home in England during the run-up to the invasion. The girls had become like sisters to him. The roar of a jeep interrupted the sylvan setting, and Jim’s buddies yelled it was time to go. He jumped in, and headed to the house to grab his gear and his gun, always ready.
When time came to leave the ship, and board the landing craft, Jim and his fellow soldiers put their hands on the rail and vaulted over. But a guy next to him must have been left-handed, because he threw his legs in the wrong direction, kicking McMaster’s wrist, sending him sprawling on the deck. His brand new wristwatch got kicked into the English Channel.
It was D-plus-4, June 10th, when McMaster hit the beach at Normandy, but the Nazis had not surrendered, the churning chilled English Channel was not a placid pond, and the mines and obstacles still capsized Allied boats — sent men to the bottom, anchored by 75 pounds of gear.
As the pilot of the landing craft brought the motor to idle, McMaster looked out of the boat. They were too far out. The water, too deep.
“What are you doing?” he yelled.
“This is where you get off,” the pilot said.
“To Hell we do,” McMaster said. “Take us in further.”
The pilot refused, until McMaster put his hand on his sidearm and said, “Take us in.”
When the ramp went down, the cold water was still near shoulder deep. McMaster plunged in and immediately felt a new weight on his back, an arm around his chest. He was about to throw an elbow and tell the freeloader to get his own ride to the beach, when he saw that she was a nurse. He carried her in until she could walk for herself.
After the invasion, they kept in touch by letter, until her letters stopped coming. The Nazis had bombed her Red Cross mobile hospital.
For years after the war, Jim McMaster had a recurring dream. He saw his Army buddies who had died in battle. They were young — just boys, really. But he was an old man. He recognized them. But they didn’t know him.
Back in the states, McMaster went on to start, lead and coach little league baseball and football leagues and teams, and even a scout troop. Thousands of boys learned from his leadership. As it happens, he also wound up with custody of his four grandsons, bringing them up as his own. One became an airline pilot, after flying helicopters and A-10 jets for the Army and Air National Guard. His name was Jim Ott, but he held his Pop in such high esteem, that as an adult, he and his wife and children all changed their last name to McMaster.
Young Jim brought his Pop back to Normandy. They walked among the endless rows of cross-shaped headstones, and out onto the beach. The pictures of that day show an emotion on the tough old man’s face one rarely, if ever, saw back in the states.
Oddly enough, the second time he hit the beach at Normandy, McMaster was also armed. He had managed, unintentionally, to get through airline security in the U.S. and France with a pocket knife.
There on the beach at Normandy, Staff Sargent Jim McMaster, buried his knife in the sand. It wasn’t a great loss, he would say. After all, he had already left his youth on that beach.
He took a pebble and put it in his pocket. It was a memorial of a place for which he needed no memorial — a place for which he was a memorial.
She places the stems in the green plastic vase, and lightly pushes the blooms around until six colors work together. She approaches the stone, careful to avoid treading on the area directly before it. She pushes the spiked end of the vase into the rain-softened soil next to the stone. Her fingers flit across the petals, making slight adjustments, until she brings unity from diversity again. It pleases her to do so. She groans faintly as she stands straight. She steps back to take in the picture. A stone. Brightly dying flowers. Green grass.
Around her, perfect rows of identical stones radiate out, so it seems, from this one. As if they all come together at this point.
“It’s a shame the children can’t be here. Busy lives. They have grown children of their own, lives of their own.”
“I wonder what it would have been like to raise those children with you? To sit next to you at graduation, holding your hand? To see your face when your son said they had named the baby after you? To grow old with you? To trade places, leaving you to stand talking to a stone in a field of stones?”
“It’s a national holiday, you know. We’re remembering the sacrifice of all of them.”
“But I didn’t know the others. I knew you.”
“And I can’t remember the sacrifice. It’s not in the past yet. Because you’re gone, the sacrifice lives on. For me, it’s not a national holiday. It’s your day. It’s my day.”
“Sixty two years I’ve come on this day to say these hard words. It takes me all year to recover the strength to say them again.”
“And just in case I don’t make it back next year…”