Rumbling along the baby blue highways of this or some other great nation early on a bright Sunday morning accompanied by the stirring gospel sounds of the Blackwood Brothers coming from the ham radio the campaign uses to stay in touch with a veritable army of grass-fed supporters in the Ukraine, I smiled, once again thrilled at the total lack of interest in my stealth campaign for POTUS.
“There Is Power in the Blood” brought back memories — "times were hard and things were bad” when I, a befuddled, perhaps even a mightily puzzled, boy being dunked in a horse tank by Brother Randolph while his wife, Sister Randolph, looked on. (A subject of considerable confusion among we lads on the back row: the preacher’s wife called, even by the preacher, “Sister” Randolph.)
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