Since my last column four days ago, I’ve spent 3 months suffering from this pinched nerve thing.
Apparently there is a nerve that goes from the base of your skull, down your neck, across your left shoulder and down into your left hand, and if something goes wrong with it, you experience a pain cocktail made up of equal parts deep, throbbing ache, and sudden, stabbing agony.
Also nausea, and a left arm so numb it could be confused with the skull of AOC.
My wife has been great, driving me to a meeting with my primary care doc and to a CT scan, while I was laid out across the back seat biting down hard on a leather belt. Because that’s the way they did it in old Westerns when some gunfighter dug a bullet out of your side with a bowie knife that had been heated up over an open flame.
I helpfully explained to her that the pain was just like what she felt when giving birth to our daughters, only a hundred times worse. It seemed like she almost lost a little bit of respect for me for a minute there, but that was probably just the Oxycodone playing tricks on me.
Oh yeah, did I mention that I’m taking Oxycodone? Along with muscle relaxers, steroids, and that stuff they tranquilize horses with?
Before you ask, yes I realize that it’s not good to combine booze with a fistful of narcotics, so I haven’t touched any Knob Creek 9 since this affliction befell me.
Because it sounds way better to say, “I’ve given up bourbon for lent,” than to say, “I’ve taken up Oxy for lent.”
Anyway, enough about me, and the soul-testing trials that I am too stoic to yammer on about. Here are a few comments about events in the news that I’ve observed, between trips to urgent care and the pharmacy:
So far the much-deserved and long-delayed beating we’re giving to the Iranian mullahcracy seems to be proceeding nicely. Trump clearly has no interest in long, drawn-out foreign adventures in nation building, and we should all be wishing him godspeed in Iran.
Of course, the first Democrat shrieking about a “forever war” and a “quagmire” has already started. And that was on Monday!
Remember how Obama started a bombing campaign in Libya without asking for permission from congress, Reverend Wright or Michelle, and it went on for 7 months, and no Democrat so much as muttered, “no war for oil” in a wee, small voice?
But when there’s a GOP president, “forever war” equals “three-day weekend.”
After the IDF took out the Ayatollah and 40 of his best friends at the breakfast bar last Saturday, I thought it would be very hard to top that achievement. But then on Monday, the second string gathered together to elect the new top dog. (Which is a huge insult to dogs, obviously.)
Annnnddddd… apparently the Israelis had been following those weirdos on Linked in, and knew where and when the meeting would be taking place. Because just as the votes were being tallied, some warheads arrived and dropped the entire building onto the assembled Ayatolli in the first ever celebration of a new Jewish holiday I’m calling… wait for it… Squash Hashanah.
You’re welcome. I’m here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.
My second favorite detail of that story – after squash hashanah – is that those dopes called themselves the “Council of Experts,” which sounds like something a third-rate screenwriter would come up with when the coke has just run out and the studio is demanding a completed draft by tomorrow morning.
Apparently “Council of Incompetents” and “Council of the Clueless” were already taken.
It’s getting so you can’t tell the leadership in Iran without a scorecard, and every score card looks like everybody’s March Madness brackets after a couple of 16 seeds somehow make it into the Final Four. Most of the first string was taken out in the 12 Days War. Then the Ayatollah and most of the second string was taken out last Saturday.
Then the third string learned a lesson about voting: The good news is that at least they didn’t have to deal with any hanging chads when examining the ballots. The bad news?
Exploding chads.
So then I’m scrolling through my feed last night, and I see a story about how many of the IRCG and Iranian police aren’t showing up for work.
Unexpectedly!
One other feel-good story was that we’ve apparently sunk most of the Iranian navy already. We sent the most recent frigate to the bottom via a torpedo from a submarine. The story about that mentioned that it was the first such sinking since WWII, which doesn’t really make sense to me.
I know that we mostly use subs as a means of launching missiles nowadays, but what’s wrong with an old-school torpedo? I mean, our subs are obviously still carrying them right? So torpedoes aren’t broken.
I might be just an old softie, but I’d like to think that some day in the near future I’ll open my laptop and read about how our navy has taken out a Somali pirate ship with a good, old-fashioned torpedo.
Am I saying that I hope it turns out that that pirate ship will have been carrying Ilhan Omar and her brother-cousin-husband, and the entire faculty of the Somali Learing Center?
I’m not NOT saying that.
In other news, Kristi Noem is out and Markwayne Mullin is in at DHS, and I think that is for the best. Trump’s staffing picks have definitely been stronger in his second term than they had been in his first term. His only weak picks this time around have been Bondi and Noem, and Bondi has been more inconsistent than terrible.
And to be fair to them, they were each at least three standard deviations better than Biden’s choices of Mayor Pete, Que Mala, Alejandro “The Border is Secure” Mayorakas, or his two confused cross dressing appointees, to name just a few. (You know things are bad when the best defense of Richard/Rachel Levine is, “Sure, he is a disordered gender-dysmorphia-sufferer, but at least he’s not a recidivist luggage thief, too.”)
From all I’ve seen, Mullin looks great: serious, focused and disciplined. The only strike against him is the way that he violates Simpson’s Rule of Eccentric Names. “Mark” and “Wayne” are both fine names, but putting them together gives famous three-name killer echoes (John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Wayne Gacey). And you can’t just jam two names together to make one first name.
Finally, in Texas, Jasmine Crockett got stomped in her Dem primary, and you’d have to have a heart of stone not to laugh at that. Someone needs to put together a video montage of her lowlights, and it needs to end with her reaction on election night, when she made her pouty little concession snarl.
Sorry, I meant “concession speech.”
Or did I?
Her tone-deafness was perfect. After literally years of her party throwing tantrums and insisting that anyone who questioned the integrity of elections was an insurrectionist threat to democracy, Crockett questioned the integrity of her election.
Because of course she did.
She somehow managed to blame her loss in a Democrat primary – where the voters were 100% Democrats – on… Republicans! (You thought I was going to say “racism,” didn’t you?)
She claimed that the GOP made sure that the voting hours were the previously scheduled voting hours. So that the Democrats voting for her opponent were able to vote, but her voters were prevented from voting for her.
Because: voting hours?
“Unfortunately, this is what Republicans like to do,” Crockett said. (And by “this,” she meant, “tricking Democrats into voting for Democrat candidates during the previously scheduled voting hours.”) (I just read that last sentence out loud, and now Cassie the Wonder Dog is staring at me with her head comically cocked at a 38-degree angle to one side.)
“And, so,” continued the race-baiting, low-IQ gal whom we won’t have to kick around any more, “they specifically targeted Dallas County, and I think we all know why. I can tell you now that people have been disenfranchised.”
We’re going to miss you, Jazzy.
Or, to put it in words I know you’ll understand, “Don’t axe for whom the bell tolls. That b***h be tollin’ for ya’ll, girl!”
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