Subject: Best Pro-Gun Argument Ever…
Subject: Best Pro-Gun Argument Ever…
Subject: Fwd: Fw: This guy thought this one out, it’s a little lengthy but worth the read….
I Am the Democratic, Republican Liberal-Progressive’s Worst Nightmare.
I am a White, Conservative, Tax-Paying, American Veteran, Gun Owning Biker.
I am a Master leatherworker. I work hard and long hours with my hands to earn a living.
I believe in God and the freedom of religion, but I don’t push it on others.
I ride Harley Davidson Motorcycles, and drive American-made cars, and I believe in American products and buy them whenever I can.
I believe the money I make belongs to me and not some liberal governmental functionary, Democratic or Republican, that wants to share it with others who don’t work!
I’m in touch with my feelings and I like it that way!
I think owning a gun doesn’t make you a killer; it makes you a smart American.
I think being a minority does not make you noble or victimized, and does not entitle you to anything. Get over it!
I believe that if you are selling me a Big Mac or any other item, you should do it in English.
I believe there should be no other language option.
I believe everyone has a right to pray to his or her God when and where they want to.
My heroes are Malcolm Forbes, Bill Gates, John Wayne, Babe Ruth, Roy Rogers, and Willie G. Davidson, who makes the awesome Harley Davidson Motorcycles.
I don’t hate the rich. I don’t pity the poor.
I know wrestling is fake and I don’t waste my time watching or arguing about it.
I’ve never owned a slave, nor was I a slave. I haven’t burned any witches or been persecuted by the Turks, and neither have you!
I believe if you don’t like the way things are here, go back to where you came from and change your own country!
This is AMERICA …We like it the way it is and more so the way it was …so stop trying to change it to look like Russia or China, or some other socialist country!
If you were born here and don’t like it… you are free to move to any Socialist country that will have you. I believe it is time to really clean house, starting with the White House, the seat of our biggest problems.
I want to know which church is it, exactly, where the Reverend Jesse Jackson preaches, where he gets his money, and why he is always part of the problem and not the solution?
Can I get an AMEN on that one?
I also think the cops have the right to pull you over if you’re breaking the law, regardless of what color you are, but not just because you happen to ride a bike.
And, no, I don’t mind having my face shown on my driver’s license. I think it’s good…. And I’m proud that ‘God’ is written on my money..
I think if you are too stupid to know how a ballot works, I don’t want you deciding who should be running the most powerful nation in the world for the next four years.
I dislike those people standing in the intersections trying to sell me stuff or trying to guilt me into making ‘donations’ to their cause…. Get a job and do your part to support yourself and your family!
I believe that it doesn’t take a village to raise a child, it takes two parents….
I believe ‘illegal’ is illegal no matter what the lawyers think!
I believe the American flag should be the only one allowed in AMERICA !
If this makes me a BAD American, then yes, I’m a BAD American.
If you are a BAD American too, please forward this to everyone you know….
We want our country back!
I hope this offends all illegal aliens.
My great, great, great, great grandfather watched and bled as his friends died in the Revolution & the War of 1812. My great, great, great grandfather watched as his friends died in the Mexican American War. My great, great grandfather watched as his friends & brothers died in the Civil War. My great grandfather watched as his friends died in the Spanish-American War. My grandfather watched as his friends died in WW I. My father watched as his friends died in WW II.
I watched as my friends died in Vietnam, Panama & Desert Storm. My son watched & bled as his friends died in Afghanistan and Iraq. None of them died for the Mexican Flag. Everyone died for the American flag.
Texas high school students raised a Mexican flag on a school flag pole, other students took it down. Guess who was expelled…the students who took it down.
California high school students were sent home on Cinco de Mayo, because they wore T-shirts with the American flag printed on them.
Enough is enough
This message needs to be viewed by every American; and every American needs to stand up for America ..
We’ve bent over to appease the America-haters long enough. I’m taking a stand.
I’m standing up because the hundreds of thousands who died fighting in wars for this country, and for the American flag.
If you agree, stand up with me. If you disagree, please let me know. I will gladly remove you from my e-mail list.
And shame on anyone who tries to make this a racist message.
AMERICANS, stop giving away Your RIGHTS !
Let me make this clear! THIS IS MY COUNTRY !
This statement DOES NOT mean I’m against immigration !
YOU ARE WELCOME HERE, IN MY COUNTRY, welcome to come legally:
1. Get a sponsor !
2. Learn the English LANGUAGE, as immigrants have in the past !
3. Live by OUR rules !
4. Get a job !
5. Pay YOUR Taxes !
6. No Social Security until you have earned it and Paid for it !
7. NOW find a place to lay your head !
If you don’t want to forward this for fear of offending someone, then YOU’RE PART OF THE PROBLEM !
We’ve gone so far the other way . . . bent over backwards not to offend anyone.
Only AMERICANS seems to care when American Citizens are being offended !
WAKE UP America ! ! !
If you do not pass this on, may your fingers cramp !
Made in the U. S. A. & DAMN PROUD OF IT!!!!!
Written by RON GRELL ……….and forwarded by all of us who agree …..
Picture from : http://stargazerdobermans.com/USMCDevilDogs.html
Heroes of the Vietnam Generation
By James Webb
The rapidly disappearing cohort of Americans that endured the Great Depression and then fought World War II is receiving quite a send-off from the leading lights of the so-called 60’s generation. Tom Brokaw has published two oral histories of “The Greatest Generation” that feature ordinary people doing their duty and suggest that such conduct was historically unique. Nine million men served in the military during Vietnam War, three million of whom went to the Vietnam Theater. Contrary to popular mythology, two-thirds of these were volunteers, and 73 percent of those who died were volunteers. While some attention has been paid recently to the plight of our prisoners of war, most of whom were pilots; there has been little recognition of how brutal the war was for those who fought it on the ground. Hanoi’s recent admission that 1.4 million of its soldiers died on the battlefield, compared to 58,000 total U.S. dead. *** Those who believe that it was a “dirty little war” where the bombs did all the work might contemplate that is was the most costly war the U.S. Marine Corps has ever fought – five times as many dead as World War I, three times as many dead as in Korea, and more total killed and wounded than in all of World War II. ***Harvard College , which had lost 691 alumni in World War II, lost a total of 12 men in Vietnam from the classes of 1962 through 1972 combined. Those classes at Princeton lost six, at MIT two. The media turned ever more hostile. And frequently the reward for a young man’s having gone through the trauma of combat was to be greeted by his peers with studied indifference of outright hostility.
Chris Matthews of “Hardball” is fond of writing columns praising the Navy service of his father while castigating his own baby boomer generation for its alleged softness and lack of struggle. William Bennett gave a startling condescending speech at the Naval Academy a few years ago comparing the heroism of the “D-Day Generation” to the drugs-and-sex nihilism of the “Woodstock Generation.” And Steven Spielberg, in promoting his film “Saving Private Ryan,” was careful to justify his portrayals of soldiers in action based on the supposedly unique nature of World War II.
An irony is at work here. Lest we forget, the World War II generation now being lionized also brought us the Vietnam War, a conflict which today’s most conspicuous voices by and large opposed, and in which few of them served. The “best and brightest” of the Vietnam age group once made headlines by castigating their parents for bringing about the war in which they would not fight, which has become the war they refuse to remember.
Pundits back then invented a term for this animus: the “generation gap.” Long, plaintive articles and even books were written examining its manifestations. Campus leaders, who claimed precocious wisdom through the magical process of reading a few controversial books, urged fellow baby boomers not to trust anyone over 30. Their elders who had survived the Depression and fought the largest war in history were looked down upon as shallow, materialistic, and out of touch.
Those of us who grew up, on the other side of the picket line from that era’s counter-culture can’t help but feel a little leery of this sudden gush of appreciation for our elders from the leading lights of the old counter-culture. Then and now, the national conversation has proceeded from the dubious assumption that those who came of age during Vietnam are a unified generation in the same sense as their parents were, and thus are capable of being spoken for through these fickle elites.
In truth, the “Vietnam generation” is a misnomer. Those who came of age during that war are permanently divided by different reactions to a whole range of counter-cultural agendas, and nothing divides them more deeply than the personal ramifications of the war itself. The sizable portion of the Vietnam age group who declined to support the counter-cultural agenda, and especially the men and women who opted to serve in the military during the Vietnam War, are quite different from their peers who for decades have claimed to speak for them. In fact, they are much like the World War II generation itself. For them, Woodstock was a side show, college protestors were spoiled brats who would have benefited from having to work a few jobs in order to pay their tuition, and Vietnam represented not an intellectual exercise in draft avoidance, or protest marches but a battlefield that was just as brutal as those their fathers faced in World War II and Korea.
Few who served during Vietnam ever complained of a generation gap. The men who fought World War II were their heroes and role models. They honored their father’s service by emulating it, and largely agreed with their father’s wisdom in attempting to stop Communism’s reach in Southeast Asia.
The most accurate poll of their attitudes (Harris, 1980) showed that 91 percent were glad they’d served their country, 74 percent enjoyed their time in the service, and 89 percent agreed with the statement that “our troops were asked to fight in a war which our political leaders in Washington would not let them win.” And most importantly, the castigation they received upon returning home was not from the World War II generation, but from the very elites in their age group who supposedly spoke for them.
Dropped onto the enemy’s terrain 12,000 miles away from home, America’s citizen-soldiers performed with a tenacity and quality that may never be truly understood. Those who believe the war was fought incompletely on a tactical level should consider
Significantly, these sacrifices were being made at a time the United States was deeply divided over our effort in Vietnam. The baby-boom generation had cracked apart along class lines as America’s young men were making difficult, life-or-death choices about serving. The better academic institutions became focal points for vitriolic protest against the war, with few of their graduates going into the military.
What is a hero? My heroes are the young men who faced the issues of war and possible death, and then weighed those concerns against obligations to their country. Citizen-soldiers who interrupted their personal and professional lives at their most formative stage, in the timeless phrase of the Confederate Memorial in Arlington National Cemetery, “not for fame of reward, not for place or for rank, but in simple obedience to duty, as they understood it.” Who suffered loneliness, disease, and wounds with an often-contagious elan. And who deserve a far better place in history than that now offered them by the so-called spokesman of our so-called generation.
Mr. Brokaw, Mr. Matthews, Mr. Bennett, Mr. Spielberg, meet my Marines. 1969 was an odd year to be in Vietnam. Second only to 1968 in terms of American casualties, it was the year made famous by Hamburger Hill, as well as the gut-wrenching Life cover story showing pictures of 242 Americans who had been killed in one average week of fighting. Back home, it was the year of Woodstock, and of numerous anti-war rallies that culminated in the Moratorium March on Washington. The My Lai massacre hit the papers and was seized upon by the anti-war movement as the emblematic moment of the war. Lyndon Johnson left Washington in utter humiliation. Former Secretary of the Navy James Webb was awarded the Navy Cross, Silver Star, and Bronze Star medals for heroism as a Marine in Vietnam.
Richard Nixon entered the scene, destined for an even worse fate. In the An Hoa Basin southwest of Danang, the Fifth Marine Regiment was in its third year of continuous combat operations. Combat is an unpredictable and inexact environment, but we were well led. As a rifle platoon and company commander, I served under a succession of three regimental commanders who had cut their teeth in World War II, and four different battalion commanders, three of whom had seen combat in Korea. The company commanders were typically captains on their second combat tour in Vietnam, or young first lieutenants like myself who were given companies after many months of “bush time” as platoon commanders in the Basin’s tough and unforgiving environs.
The Basin was one of the most heavily contested areas in Vietnam, its torn, cratered earth offering every sort of wartime possibility. In the mountains just to the west, not far from the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the North Vietnamese Army operated an infantry division from an area called Base Area 112. In the valleys of the Basin, main-force Viet Cong battalions whose ranks were 80 percent North Vietnamese Army regulars moved against the Americans every day. Local Viet Cong units sniped and harassed. Ridgelines and paddy dikes were laced with sophisticated booby traps of every size, from a hand grenade to a 250-pound bomb. The villages sat in the rice paddies and tree lines like individual fortresses, crisscrossed with the trenches and spider holes, their homes sporting bunkers capable of surviving direct hits from large-caliber artillery shells. The Viet Cong infrastructure was intricate and permeating. Except for the old and the very young, villagers who did not side with the Communists had either been killed or driven out to the government controlled enclaves near Danang.
In the rifle companies, we spent the endless months patrolling ridgelines and villages and mountains, far away from any notion of tents, barbed wire, hot food, or electricity. Luxuries were limited to what would fit inside one’s pack, which after a few “humps” usually boiled down to letter -writing material, towel, soap, toothbrush, poncho liner, and a small transistor radio.
We moved through the boiling heat with 60 pounds of weapons and gear, causing a typical Marine to drop 20 percent of his body weight while in the bush. When we stopped we dug chest-deep fighting holes and slit trenches for toilets. We slept on the ground under makeshift poncho hootches, and when it rained we usually took our hootches down because wet ponchos shined under illumination flares, making great targets. Sleep itself was fitful, never more than an hour or two at a stretch for months at a time as we mixed daytime patrolling with night-time ambushes, listening posts, foxhole duty, and radio watches. Ringworm, hookworm, malaria, and dysentery were common, as was trench foot when the monsoons came. Respite was rotating back to the mud-filled regimental combat base at An Hoa for four or five days, where rocket and mortar attacks were frequent and our troops manned defensive bunkers at night. Which makes it kind of hard to get excited about tales of Woodstock, or camping at the Vineyard during summer break.
We had been told while training that Marine officers in the rifle companies had an 85 percent probability of being killed or wounded, and the experience of “Dying Delta,” as our company was known, bore that out. Of the officers in the bush when I arrived, our company commander was wounded, the weapons platoon commander wounded, the first platoon commander was killed, the second platoon commander was wounded twice, and I, commanding the third platoons fared no better. Two of my original three-squad leaders were killed, and the third shot in the stomach. My platoon sergeant was severely wounded, as was my right guide. By the time I left, my platoon I had gone through six radio operators, five of them casualties.
These figures were hardly unique; in fact, they were typical. Many other units; for instance, those who fought the hill battles around Khe Sanh, or were with the famed Walking Dead of the Ninth Marine Regiment, or were in the battle of Hue City or at Dai Do, had it far worse.
When I remember those days and the very young men who spent them with me, I am continually amazed, for these were mostly recent civilians barely out of high school, called up from the cities and the farms to do their year in hell and then return. Visions haunt me every day, not of the nightmares of war but of the steady consistency with which my Marines faced their responsibilities, and of how uncomplaining most of them were in the face of constant danger. The salty, battle-hardened 20-year-olds teaching green 19-year-olds the intricate lessons of the hostile battlefield. The unerring skill of the young squad leaders as we moved through unfamiliar villages and weed-choked trails in the black of night. The quick certainty when a fellow Marine was wounded and needed help. Their willingness to risk their lives to save other Marines in peril. To this day it stuns me that their own countrymen have so completely missed the story of their service, lost in the bitter confusion of the war itself.
Like every military unit throughout history we had occasional laggards, cowards, and complainers. But in the aggregate, these Marines were the finest people I have ever been around. It has been my privilege to keep up with many of them over the years since we all came home. One finds in them very little bitterness about the war in which they fought. The most common regret, almost to a man, is that they were not able to do more for each other and for the people they came to help.
It would be redundant to say that I would trust my life to these men. Because I already have, in more ways than I can ever recount. I am alive today because of their quiet, unaffected heroism. Such valor epitomizes the conduct of Americans at war from the first days of our existence. That the boomer elites can canonize this sort of conduct in our fathers’ generation while ignoring it in our own is more than simple oversight. It is a conscious, continuing travesty.
From: Floyd Subject: Visit to the Oval Office
Story by: Bruce Vincent
Stepping into the Oval Office, each of us was introduced to the
President and Mrs. Bush. We shook hands and participated in small talk.
When the President was told that we were from Libby , Montana , I
reminded him that Marc Racicot is our native son and the President
offered his warm thoughts about Governor Racicot. I have to tell you, I
was blown away by two things upon entering the office. First, the Oval
Office sense of ‘place’ is unreal. The President later shared a story
of Russian President Putin entering the room prepared to tackle the
President in a tough negotiation and upon entering, the atheist muttered
his first words to the President and they were “Oh, my God.”
I concurred. I could feel the history in my bones. Second, the man that
inhabits the office engaged me with a firm handshake and a look that can
only be described as penetrating. Warm, alive, fully engaged,
disarmingly penetrating. I was admittedly concerned about meeting the
man. I think all of us have an inner hope that the most powerful man in
our country is worthy of the responsibility and authority that we bestow
upon them through our vote. I admit that part of me was afraid that I
would be let down by the moment — that the person and the place could
not meet the lofty expectations of my fantasy world. This says nothing
about my esteem for President Bush but just my practical realization
that reality may not match my ‘dream.’
Once inside the office, President Bush got right down to business and,
standing in front of his desk, handed out the awards one at a time while
posing for photos with the winners and Mrs. Bush. With the mission
accomplished, the President and Mrs. Bush relaxed and initiated a
lengthy, informal conversation about a number of things with our entire
small group. He and the First Lady talked about such things as the rug
in the office. It is traditionally designed by the First Lady to make a
statement about the President, and Mrs.Bush chose a brilliant yellow
sunburst pattern to reflect ‘hope.’ President Bush talked about the
absolute need to believe that with hard work and faith in God there is
every reason to start each day in the Oval Office with hope. He and the
First Lady were asked about the impact of the Presidency on their
marriage and, with an arm casually wrapped around Laura, he said that he
thought the place may be hard on weak marriages but that it had the
ability to make strong marriages even stronger and that he was blessed
with a strong one.
After about 30 or 35 minutes, it was time to go. By then we were all
relaxed and I felt as if I had just had an excellent visit with a
friend. The President and First Lady made one more pass down the line of
awardees, shaking hands and offering congratulations. When the President
shook my hand I said, “Thank you Mr. President and God bless you and
your family.” He was already in motion to the next person in line, but
he stopped abruptly turned fully back to me, gave me a piercing look,
renewed the vigor of his handshake and said, “Thank you — and God bless
you and yours as well.”
On our way out of the office we were to leave by the glass doors on the
west side of the office. I was the last person in the exit line. As I
shook his hand one final time, President Bush said, “I’ll be sure to
tell Marc hello and give him your regards.”
I then did something that surprised even me. I said to him, “Mr.
President, I know you are a busy man and your time is precious. I also
know you to be a man of strong faith and I have a favor to ask of you.”
As he shook my hand he looked me in the eye and said, “Just name it.” I
told him that my step-Mom was at that moment in a hospital in Kalispell
, Montana , having a tumor removed from her skull and it would mean a
great deal to me if he would consider adding her to his prayers that
day. He grabbed me by the arm and took me back toward his desk as he
said, “So that’s it. I could tell that something is weighing heavy on
your heart today. I could see it in your eyes.This explains it.”
>From the top drawer of his desk he retrieved a pen and a note card with
his seal on it and asked, “How do you spell her name?” He then jotted a
note to her while discussing the importance of family and the strength
of prayer. When he handed me the card, he asked about the surgery and
the prognosis. I told him we were hoping that it is not a recurrence of
an earlier cancer and that, if it is, they can get it all with this
He said, “If it’s okay with you, we’ll take care of the prayer right
now. Would you pray with me?” I told him yes and he turned to the staff
that remained in the office and hand motioned the folks to step back or
leave. He said, “Bruce and I would like some private time for a prayer.”
As they left he turned back to me and took my hands in his. I was
prepared to do a traditional prayer stance — standing with each other
with heads bowed. Instead, he reached for my head with his right hand
and pulling gently forward, he placed my head on his shoulder. With his
left arm on my mid-back, he pulled me to him in a prayerful embrace.
He started to pray softly. I started to cry. He continued his prayer for
Loretta and for God’s perfect will to be done. I cried some more. My
body shook a bit as I cried and he just held tighter. He closed by
asking God’s blessing on Loretta and the family during the coming
months. I stepped away from our embrace, wiped my eyes, swiped at the
tears I’d left on his shoulder, and looked into the eyes of our
president. I thanked him as best I could and told him that me and my
family would continue praying for him and his.
As I write this account down and reflect upon what it means, I have to
tell you that all I really know is that his simple act left me humbled
and believing. I so hoped that the man I thought him to be was the man
that he is. I know that our nation needs a man such as this in the Oval
Office. George W. Bush is the real deal. I’ve read Internet stories
about the President praying with troops in hospitals and other such
uplifting accounts. Each time I read them I hoped them to be true and
not an Internet perpetuated myth. This one, I know to be true. I was
there. He is real. He has a pile of incredible stuff on his plate each
day — and yet he is tuned in so well to the here and now that he
‘sensed’ something heavy on my heart. He took time out of his life to
care, to share, and to seek God’s blessing for my family in a simple
man-to-man, father-to-father, son-to-son, husband-to-husband, Christian-
to-Christian prayerful embrace. He’s not what I had hoped he would be.
He is, in fact, so very, very much more.
NOTE: If you decide to forward this story… please do not add to it.
Let Mr. Vincent’s encounter stand as he wrote it.
O! say can you see by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming.
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
‘Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war’s desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
When our land is illumined with liberty’s smile,
If a foe from within strikes a blow at her glory,
Down, down with the traitor that tries to defile
The flag of the stars, and the page of her story!
By the millions unchained,
Who their birthright have gained
We will keep her bright blazon forever unstained;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave,
While the land of the free is the home of the brave.
Every year for the past few years, I’ve noted the annual Al Sharpton Suck-Up — the annual grievance-mongering convention held by the race hustler’s non-profit “National Action Network.” It’s a purported grass-roots activist network that only seems to surface in the news once a year when Democrat leaders — and at least one RNC chairman — show up to the convention to pay homage and kiss Sharpton’s ring.
Biggest non-shocker of the year: The “National Action Network” is a fiscal mess, delinquent on taxes, and has run afoul of campaign finance laws. The NY Post reports:
An accounting firm hired by Al Sharpton’s National Action Network found the civil-rights group in such financial disarray that it flunked its record-keeping — and may not even survive, The Post has learned.
The scathing critique was spelled out in a hard-hitting internal audit of NAN’s books, a copy of which was obtained by The Post.
“The organization has suffered recurring decreases in net assets — and has been dependent upon advances from related parties and the nonpayment of payroll tax obligations — to maintain continuity,” the firm KBL concluded in an April 2 audit of NAN’s 2008 financial records, the most recent available.
The audit, which was submitted to NAN’s board of directors, warned, “These circumstances create substantial doubt about the organization’s ability to continue.”
KBL said it was “unable to form an opinion” on the accuracy of NAN’s financial figures “because of inadequacies in the organization’s accounting records.”
In 2008, federal prosecutors decided to drop a criminal probe into the finances of Sharpton and NAN. But Sharpton — who also has a lucrative syndicated radio show and a speech-making and consulting business — agreed to pay back more than $2 million in overdue personal and NAN taxes.
The audit said NAN still owed $1.348 million in delinquent city, state and federal taxes and penalties at the end of 2008. The IRS has filed dozens of liens against NAN over the past decade, including one as recently as April of this year.
Last year, the Federal Elections Commission slapped Sharpton with $285,000 fine, in part for illegally using NAN funds to cover the costs of his 2004 presidential campaign.
Thanks to Sharpton’s race shield, NAN has engaged in financial monkey business for years with impunity.
Yes, monkey business. Sue me.
Heh. JWF on Sharpton’s money troubles: “This ought to qualify him as a financial adviser to his pal Obama.”
Michelle Malkin Face book page http://bit.ly/cX9MGa