Since my last piece for CO, a lot has gone on around stately Simpson manor. As our national political in-fighting has gone in a more frustrating, “a pox on both houses” kind of a direction, I’ve turned toward tending my own garden, metaphorically speaking. I’ve done a few home maintenance projects, took the girls for a visit with their grandmother, etc. And a few days ago, I went to an oral surgeon to have a troublesome molar removed.
By the way, for all of you CO readers out there who may be studying or practicing the black arts of dentistry, here’s a little advice. When you are part way through the process of removing a pesky molar that has roots that somehow extend down into the lower abdomen, do NOT say, “This one is stubborn, so I’m going to cut the tooth in half and then remove it in pieces.”
That information helps no one. Especially when the patient has a powerful imagination, so much so that – numbed though half of his jaw and face may be – he can imagine the vertical sawing through of the tooth, and the violent removal of jagged pieces with what must have been pliers and a very, very small jackhammer.
Anyway, long story short, I survived the kind of violent molar-cide that would have killed a lesser man. And for 48 hours afterward, I had the pronounced jawline swelling that made my already excellent Godfather impression even more eerily accurate. Though now that I think about it, the effect was more like Michael after that corrupt police captain punched him in the face, and he had to have his jaw wired shut. (If you didn’t get those references, for shame. Stop reading this and watch Godfathers I and II immediately.)
And now, thanks to the wonders of anesthetic and Percocet, I’d like to follow in the footsteps of one of my idols, Thomas Sowell, and present a few Random Thoughts:
First, a toast. To the inventor of Percocet, who ranks behind only Jonas Salk, Les Paul and the inventor of scotch as a benefactor of mankind. Hear hear, and well done, Frederick J. Percocet!
Second, a symbolic groin kick to the national GOP leadership. In my last CO piece I offered 5 options to vote for the Hypocrite of the Year, a list that included such lowlife weirdos as CNN, a Florida woman who left her kid in a broiling car and then complained that the cop car she rode in was too hot, and the national Democrats. And the mostly conservative and wise CO readership voted about 95% for you, the leaders of the GOP.
After years of pretending to want to repeal the freedom- and health-care-degrading disaster that is Obamacare, you’ve revealed your utter fecklessness. (Seriously, you people are completely and utterly lacking in even the tiniest morsel of feck.) And now most of you seem determined to achieve the worst of both worlds, by producing a non-repeal that keeps many of the worst features of O-care, and calling it a repeal. When that monstrosity inevitably fails, the corrupt media will not point out that it was originally a leftist creation. They’ll call it Trumpcare and use its failure as a way to smear you, and an excuse to move on to the wasteful morass of mediocrity and rationing that is national health care.
Speaking of which, can there ever be a better illustration of nationalized health care than the tragic Charlie Gard story? I know that that kid was almost certainly going to die no matter what happened. But his parents had hope, and they had raised enough money to take him to the states, where a competent doctor proposed a treatment that offered at least a chance of improvement.
But the arrogant health care bureaucrats at the British NHS would not let the parents take their own child out of the hospital to try to save or prolong his life. Instead, they forced the parents to go through protracted court proceedings, arguing that they had a right to their child while that child’s life slowly slipped away.
Think about that. The parents didn’t need money or anything else from the State. They just wanted to take their own kid to another doctor who offered to treat him. And they had to beg for that chance, while the State kept their son from them until it was too late.
And for everybody who mocked Sarah Palin for coining the phrase “death panels?” I hope that you will one day have a stubborn molar that needs to be removed, but that you end up in a NHS hospital that is running short of anesthetic and Percocet. And that instead of having the stoicism and strength of ten men – like a certain writer for a great web page whom I could mention – you have the general wussiness and low pain threshold of a Cryin’ Chuck Schumer.
And when you cry out, “But you said that if I liked my Percocet, I could keep my Percocet!” I’m just going to laugh at you. And tell you that there’s a 3-month wait for Percocet. But that you can have this pair of rusty pliers and tiny, tiny jackhammer if you’d like.
Finally, I’ve discovered the purest distillation of a certain kind of misanthropically deranged feminism that you’ll ever see. Please google “Jody Allard,” and read her article called, “I’m Done Pretending Men are Safe (even my sons),” and prepared to be dazzled by her contemplative open-mindedness. Allard is a feminist writing about how horrible men are (surprise, surprise), with the added twist of calling out her two young sons as potential rapists, too.
After first throwing her boys under the gender bus in an article for the Washington Post, she writes this follow-up article in which she reports that even though her sons are “good boys,” they aren’t “safe.” In fact, she cluelessly shows that she’s not just a sexist, but a racist too, by proclaiming, “White people aren’t safe, and men aren’t safe, no matter how much I’d like to assure myself that these things aren’t true.”
The kindest compliment that she can manage is to say, “My sons won’t rape unconscious women behind a dumpster, and neither will most of the progressive men I know.”
Gee thanks, mom. Love you too.
And by the way, you’re probably asking yourself, does that imply that non-progressive men will obviously be raping women behind dumpsters pretty much every weekend, and on alternating Tuesdays?
Yes. Yes it does.
At one moment in her written Rohrschach test of a screed, Allard almost achieves a tiny flicker of self-awareness, but then fights it off: “I love my sons, and I love some individual men. It pains me to say that I don’t feel emotionally safe with them, and perhaps never have with a man, but it needs to be said because far too often we are afraid to say it. This is not a reflection of something broken or damaged in me…”
NO, of course not! You’re doing great, just the way you are. You just keep doing you, and I’m sure your boys — Norman Bates Allard and Ted Bundy Allard — are going to turn out just fine.
Or maybe that’s just the Percocet talking.
Anyway, read the whole thing for yourself. And then raise your kids in the exact opposite way that she is raising hers, and you’ll be fine.