Was Bill Ayers joking when he claimed to have written ‘Dreams Of My Father’? The man who helped launch Barak Obama’s political career, and is part of the Weather Underground Organization, “confessed” to his students at Montclair State University in New Jersey that he is the ghost writer behind Obama’s alleged autobiography.
After Ayers’ claims, the media spent years trying to accredit Obama as the author of his autobiography, and it eventually left Ayer’s comments lost in the subject of it all.
Jack Cashill, at American Thinker believes Ayers is telling the truth, and points out that nothing else that is credited to Obama’s name is as good, or even close to good, as ‘Dreams Of My Father’.
Especially, taking into account the awful follow up from Obama that was ‘The Audacity Of Hope’, named after the sermon delivered by Jeremiah Wright, Obama’s racist, liberation-theology spewing pastor at Chicago’s Trinity United Methodist Church.
So, why would Ayers call out his pal Obama on the matter?
Check out page 2 to find out.
Obozo lives a lie and needs to be arrested and hung and NOW
Didn’t he kill a cop?
He isn’t even a decent organizer,he is an agitator at best!!
Jean Overly -till he got caught! lol! His Kenyan granny said he was born there too
yep. after he denied on Megan Kelly’s show of being intimate with Obama
However, obama did write the homosexual love poem “POP” Pop
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;
I’m sure he’s 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 he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m 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 I’ve 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 shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.
— Barack Obama
hope your happy your grandchildren will pay for what you done
Please write his Obituary. ……Thanks! !!!
I read a lot and wouldn’t waste my time reading books by either of these rodents.
It doesn’t matter to me; your peas in the same pod. I can’t stand either one of you.