May was something of a down month politically, but I still found a few things to amuse myself, starting with a great Planned Parenthood faux pas:
“Planned Parenthood tried to do a little PR work recently, as they are wont to do. But they picked an odd holiday to make their appeal: Mother’s Day. The fine folks at PP are oblivious to many things – basic biology, ethics, maternal instinct, irony – but does no one down there realize the value of timing? Would they suggest wishing all of your British friends a Happy Independence Day? Or all of your friends who are struggling with alcoholism a Happy St. Patrick’s Day? Or all of your ISIS friends a joyous Yom Kippur?
The head of PP sent out a tweet that began, “Nothing says, ‘I love you, Mom!” like…” And I stopped reading. Because all I could think of was “…a child.” Oops.
Later in May, the Democrats had a national convention in CA, and hilarity (predictably) ensued:
“No matter what kind of new trouble Trump or the GOP can get themselves into, and no matter what kinds of wild exaggerations the MSM can bring to bear on said trouble, there is one political constant that we can all count on: the Democrat party (new slogan: “When they go low, we go much, much lower.”) is behaving horribly. If it’s not Carlos Danger sexting the toddlers at a local daycare, or Nancy Pelosi losing her place three times per cue card, or DNC lead vulgarian Tom Perez swearing like he’s just got the lead in a Tarantino movie, it’s the California Democrat state convention.
On Saturday, 20 May, some of the sophisticated convention attendees began a rousing chant of “F*** Donald Trump.” And because those sweet-tempered lefties are always sensitive about not excluding the differently abled, they accompanied the chant with a visual aid for the hearing impaired, in the form of upraised arms and extended middle fingers. (Do you know the most calorie-burning and yet easiest gig ever for a sign language interpreter? Translating for the CA Democratic convention. You start out with the gestures for, “Hello, Sacramento!” Then you paste a wild-eyed look on your face and flip the bird maniacally for 13 minutes. Then you sign, “Here’s Maxine Waters,” and circle your temple with one forefinger in the universal symbol for “cuckoo” for 11 minutes. Then you introduce Tom Perez, and alternate between bird flipping and pelvic thrusting and grabbing your crotch like vintage Michael Jackson and sneering like Sid Vicious at a meeting with the Pope. Then you hammer your check and go home and take a long, hot shower. But you can never wash off the shame.)
I know what you’re thinking: well, you can’t blame the state party if a tiny group of trouble-makers in the back of the room gets picked up on a hot mike, and inadvertently exposes what they’d meant to express only privately.
Au contraire, mon frere. This wasn’t a handful of stoners on the fringes. This was a huge group of attendees front and center, during the convention in their most important state, being lead in the chant by outgoing CA Democrat chairman John Burton, with elected officials on the stage laughing along with the high-brow bon mots.
And how did the AP write up the story of the profane chant, you are probably not wondering, because you already know? That’s right: “In a sign of the vigor of the party’s distaste for the president….” Ah yes. “Vigor” and “distaste.” The report does manage to admit that Burton is “known for his blunt and profane manner.” You don’t say.
Stay classy, Sacramento.
On the last day of May, I was cheered by the news that another leading jihadi bit the dust:
In happy international news, an ISIS chief cleric who called himself “the Grand Mufti” – probably because “Grand Kleagle” and “Exalted Cyclops” were already taken, and his real name was Turki al-Bin’ali – caught an air strike in the face on May 31st.
I would like to renew my call that instead of a respectful moment of silence, we greet this kind of news with a few moments of raucous and celebratory noise. I’m recommending a garage band playing the first 45 seconds of the Beastie Boy’s “Sabotage,” followed by the open to “Stranglehold,” followed by my dad’s 1972 Gran Torino with the pedal floored, and then a wood chipper working through a cedar tree.
(“Hey Martin,” I can almost hear you asking, “what dad joke did you tell your 15-year-old-daughter about this international incident that made her roll her eyes and slap her forehead and mimic the dry heaves?” Since you asked so nicely: That’s one Turki who didn’t make it until Thanksgiving. Boom!)
One news source called al-Bin’Kaboom “one of the most visible ISIS preachers.” Am I the only one who sees the irony in a group who forces their women to wear tarps in public being done in because their Grand Mufti was too visible?
I am? Fine. Moving on…”
In June, Hillary made the media rounds with her various theories on why she lost the election. “Many commentators have noted that by now Hillary has blamed nearly every person or group on earth for her sweet, sweet loss. (Piggish men, insufficiently feminist women, Russians and Comey and Bernie, etc.) But this time she added a new culprit: Macedonians. Let’s savor her schadenfreude-tastic quote:
“So this was different because [the Russians] went public, and they were conveying this weaponized information and the content of it, and they were running, y’know there’s all these stories, about y’know, guys over in Macedonia who are running these fake news sites, and you know I’ve seen them now, and you sit there and it looks like you know sort of low level CNN operation, or a fake newspaper.”
First, there’s no such thing as a “low level CNN operation.” You cannot get lower than CNN without being subterranean. CNN is a low level CNN operation.
Second, “weaponized information?” You mean, facts and things that you and your creepy circle of co-conspirators wrote and said, right? They released things that you said and did, and you’re calling that “weaponized information?” Ohhh-kay.
Third, something goes horribly wrong, and you look around for scapegoats. I get it. Blaming others is always tempting, and often entertaining. For example, when my oldest daughter was toddling around at about age 2, I taught her a verbal trick. In the middle of any conversation, I could point to her and ask, “Who do we blame for that?” And she’d look at me with her enormous brown eyes and say, “The Democrats.” That’s the kind of Norman Rockwell moment that makes the diaper changing and future college expenses all worthwhile. And my lefty in-laws were mortified. So, win-win.
Anyway, enough about my fantastic parenting tips. We were discussing Hillary’s blame game.
There’s hilarious, well-adjusted Simpson-style blaming, and then there’s grim, sociopathic Hillary-style blaming. But she outdoes even herself when she uncovers the sinister Macedonian cabal.
Move over, Jews and Global Warming, because there’s a new scapegoat in town. And it’s the Macedonian Menace. (If this were an old timey radio show, I’d insert a scary organ sting here.) (That reminds me: Anthony Weiner. Boom!) (Admit it: you read “insert scary organ sting” and you beat me to the Weiner reference. You’ve officially sunk to my level, God help you.)
By now, it’s easier to identify groups whom Hillary HASN’T blamed for her loss. By my count, that list comes to: the ancient Etruscans, the Hapsburg Empire, the Hottentots, and Hillary Clinton.
One other note: Did you hear what kind of conference she was speaking to? A tech conference. Hillary Clinton, who set up a server in her back bedroom — using open-source software, with a hardline strung out her window and across country to the Russian embassy, installed by Boris and Natasha Badanov — was invited to speak at a tech conference.
Were there no Amish people available?”
One other great event also happened in June: Pajama Boy Jon Ossoff – the Democrats’ “Great Gender-Non-Conforming Hope” lost in Georgia, after having soaked up millions in donor dollars. And again, because I am not a better person, I derived great glee:
“A couple of weeks before the election, when several polls showed Ossoff up around 7 points, one lefty blog commenter crowed that June 20th was going to be like Sherman marching through Georgia again.
Yes. Exactly like that.
Except if this time, when Sherman sat astride his horse at the head of the Union column and gave the command to begin the march, his horse immediately slipped in the mud and broke a leg, pitching Sherman into a puddle. And in the puddle was a deadly snake, which then bit Sherman in the face, causing him to flail about in death throes that then spooked all of the other horses, causing them to charge off in all directions, throwing their riders and trampling infantrymen. And sending an ammo wagon full of black powder careening into a mess tent, where a cooking fire set off a gigantic explosion which killed all the Union soldiers. And then Robert E. Lee marched on Washington unopposed, conquered it, and renamed it Jefferson Davis-ville, and the Democrats won the Civil War, and so we’d still have slavery, which they were quite fond of.
Because for the Dems, June 20th was just like that. Only much, MUCH funnier.”
I also mentioned that the Dems shouldn’t have been so shocked at Ossoff’s loss, pointing out that I predicted that back in April, when I wrote that after not winning a majority in the primary, “he’ll likely lose to the GOP nominee in June.”
“Did you get that? “He’ll likely lose,” said Mr. Non-Expert, Non-Professional Pollster me (along with a lot of other people, of course.) To discern that, I didn’t have to go to Georgia, or talk to any Georgians. The sum total of my Georgia-related knowledge is pretty thin: “Sweet Georgia Brown,” is a catchy tune, as is “Georgia on My Mind;” peaches are tasty; the Falcons had a good year, and trying to take I-75 through downtown Atlanta anytime other than between midnight and 4 a.m. is a mistake. That’s it.
So how was I able to see what brainiacs like Nate Silver and savants like Rachel Maddow couldn’t? I’ve been pondering that question for almost a week now, and I’ve come up with an answer, in the form of The Simpson Face Punchability Index (SFPI) (copyright right now, by me).
Human faces can elicit strong reactions. We’ve all known some guy who gets in a lot of fights, not because of his actions, but because people just don’t like his natural expression. And we’ve all known unfortunate women who have been stricken with the heartbreak of resting b**ch face.
I’ve taken those facts, and through a proprietary process of rigorous thought and research, arrived at the conclusion that all human faces can be assigned a punchability value on a scale of 1 (a face that even a sociopathically violent person would be disinclined to punch) to 10 (a face that even a Buddhist monk so committed to nonviolence that he goes out of his way to avoid stepping on a bug can barely restrain himself from punching.)
For example, I have a pretty low SFPI. I’m not very attractive, but small children and animals are drawn to me, I always got along well with my girlfriends’ parents, and strangers regularly ask me for directions, even though I am never the least bit helpful with directions. On the other hand, thin-skinned, humorless leftists really REALLY want to punch me, so I can’t be a 1 or 2. Thus, my SFPI is 2.5.
This is not a partisan issue, either. Rush Limbaugh and Ted Cruz both have SFPIs of 8, while Trey Gowdy is an 8.5 – and I like all of them! By contrast, NY Senator Kirsten Gillibrand, North Dakota Senator Heidi Heitkamp and actor John Cusack all are 2s, even though they all could objectively use a good pummeling. Trump and Hillary are both 7.5s, which is what made the November contest so close.
Because I know you’re curious: the highest SFPI ever recorded was Harry Reid, with a 9.9. If Gandhi and St. Francis were walking down a hallway and Dingy Harry were walking the other way, Gandhi would set him up with a left jab, and Francis would put him down with a right cross. And Harry’s mom, if she were inexplicably still alive at age 125, would high five both of them. (I think that that mysterious eye injury that Harry had during his last year in office came from his own fist, when he saw himself in the mirror and couldn’t avoid the sudden instinct to punch himself.)
Anyway, I know that you see where this is going. Karen Handel is the PTA mom or sweet, quietly competent lady who does your taxes; her SFPI is 1.5. Jon Ossoff is the Eddie Haskel kid that annoys everybody, and even his girlfriend won’t let him drive when they are going anywhere; his SFPI is 8.5.
Thus, $30 million thrown into a small district on his behalf could only get him to within 4 points.
Now I sit back and wait for the nation’s pollsters to come to me, offering millions of dollars for access to the Unified Field Theory of politics that is the Simpson Face Punchability Index©. Bring your checkbook, Nate Silver, or continue to embarrass yourself.”
In July, I came across a great “my favorite feminist” story:
“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.”
In August, my favorite story involved an airline, and the sexual preference of their seatbelts:
“Royal Dutch Airlines (slogan: “We’re not just wooden shoes and open-air heroin markets. We have airplanes, too!”) decided that the best way to entice people to fly with them was to tout their hyper- extra- super-gay friendliness. So they created an ad that features three sets of rainbow-colored seatbelts.
On top – no offense – is a pair of what might be called “female” seatbelts. (Those are the ones with the handle that you pull on to release the belt in case you’ve crashed into a rocky outcropping 7 miles from Denver at 350 mph and are now experiencing discomfort, and would like to exit the plane in an orderly manner.)
In the middle is a pair of what might be called “male” seatbelts. (Those are the ones that you would usually shove into the “female” ones – no offense – until you hear a satisfying click. Or a less satisfying click, if both of you are tired and your mother-in-law called with some advice during supper and your boss has been on your back at work and won’t those freaking kids ever shut up and go to sleep so I can concentrate on what I’m doing here?!)
On the bottom – no offense – is one “male” piece and one “female” piece.
The tag line: “It doesn’t matter who you click with. Happy #Pride Amsterdam”
As many commentators pointed out, the flaw in the ad is so obvious that even Paul Krugman could spot it: only one set of those seatbelts actually work, and this ad undermines its point hilariously.
If CO produced videos – and really, why doesn’t he? – this would be a prime candidate for a response ad. Here’s the scenario: The pilot announces that there is turbulence ahead, so he (or she – no offense) turns on the “fasten seatbelt” sign. Everybody with heterosexual seat belts (no offense) snaps them on, and lives happily ever after.
Everybody with the “alternative lifestyle” seat belts rattles and pokes and bonks them together ineffectually, and then increasingly frantically, until the turbulence hits, throwing them all violently about the cabin, breaking limbs and fracturing T-3 vertebrae hither and yon.
Tag line: “Lufthansa. We could not care less who you sleep with. And our seatbelts work.”
Up next: In the last third of the year, 2017 gets better and better.