Best of 2017, Part 3 (posted 1/13/18)

In September, Stately Simpson Manor was threatened by a hurricane. (We came through almost unscathed, after a pretty stressful 48 hours or so.) But the nasty weather made me think of global warming, which made me think of the instructive (and hilarious) failure of GW doomsayers. I recounted two recent examples:

“Exhibit A. In July of 2016, a bunch of global warming alarmists – “adventurers, sailors, pilots and climate scientists” — went on what was supposed to be a two-month trip around the North Pole. According to their website, their mission was to demonstrate, “that the Arctic sea ice coverage shrinks back so far now in the summer months that sea that was permanently locked up now can allow passage through.”

Cue the great South Park sketch: “Aannnndddd, they’re stuck.”

An article in Real Climate Science summed up their situation in this quote, which I am not making up: “They are currently stuck in Murmansk, Russia because there is too much ice blocking the North East passage the team said didn’t exist in summer months.”

I know what you’re thinking. If only they had had something other than shaky computer climate models and bong-hit-induced deep thoughts to guide them! If only there had been some historical precedent from which they could have learned!
Which brings me to…

Exhibit B. Two and a half year earlier, a group of scientists, their assistants and “adventure tourists” were sailing in the Antarctic, also intending to document the ravages wrought by our horrendous global warming crisis.

By the way, what’s with these “adventurers” and their choice of adventures?! I was never a particularly adventurous young man. But when I imagined going on an adventure, I thought of scenarios like, “So I’m in a Turkish bath in Monte Carlo, with two gorgeous Bosnian co-eds, the American ambassador to Greece, and Sean Connery, and we’re all kicking around the idea of knocking over a casino.”

Do you know what I was NOT thinking of? “So I’m stranded on an ice-encrusted trawler near Murmansk, with my extremities blackened by frost bite while a blocky Women’s Studies prof explains how global warming often manifests itself by freezing people to death.”

But back to our story. This adventuresome crew was sailing on a Russian-operated ship called the Mika Brezhinski. (Just kidding. It was actually called the Akademik Shokalskiy. But when I think of things that are thick and sluggish and ineffectual, I can’t help but think of Mrs. Morning Joe.)

Anyway, our intrepid crew on the Mika had set sail from Australia at the end of November (i.e. summer in Australia), bound for Antarctica, where they expected to lounge about in beachwear, demonstrating how our SUVS are boiling our precious environment, or something.

Guess what happened to their ship?

If you guessed that the ocean got too hot and they were all scalded to death, you are not paying attention.

In fact, it got stuck in the ice that they were shocked to find.

But wait! There’s more hilarity.

While the global warming alarmists were spending Christmas day stuck in the ice, mourning the death of Gaia instead of celebrating the birth of Christ, they had high hopes. Because the cavalry was on the way, in the form of a Chinese ice-breaking ship called the “Snow Dragon.”

Until the Snow Dragon got stuck. In the ice. The ice that it was designed to break.
But never fear, because a second Chinese ice breaker named the Aurora Australis was on its way. (And by the way, if that’s not a good stripper name, I don’t know what is. “Gentlemen, welcome to the main stage… Aurora Australis! She’s from Down Under, and she just wants to break… your… ice. Make it rain, make it snow, it’s all the same to Aurorrrrrrra.”) This ship was bigger and more powerful than the Snow Dragon, so it would make short work of the–

Annnnnddddd, it’s stuck.

Actually it didn’t get stuck. But the captain had to turn back from rescue attempts, because his ship was on the verge of getting icebound, too.

Oh, Chinese icebreaker boats. You had one job…

Anyway, the global alarmist knuckleheads were eventually – tragically – rescued.
And two and a half years later, the next group sailed for sunny Murmansk, undeterred.”

In October, Florida Congressdope Frederica Wilson briefly got herself into the news, by attacking Trump for allegedly bungling a condolence call to an army widow:
“I’ve spent the last 15 minutes – which I will never get back – looking through the debris field of Wilson’s political record. And from that I learned two things: 1. She is a far-left loon whose presence in Congress speaks very poorly of the constituents who elected her. And 2. She apparently inherited an extensive hat collection from a wealthy cowboy pimp.
I’m guessing that her parents were really hoping for a boy who would one day drive cattle from Topeka to Dallas. To assuage their disappointment when she was born, they nailed her with the name “Frederica,” stuck a ridiculous baby cowboy hat on her empty head, and foisted her upon the voters of Florida’s beleaguered 24th District.

Seriously, look at her hat pictures. In fact, pull up a split screen of a few lovely ladies in the reproductive organ headgear from January’s march, alongside one of Wilson’s garish hats. If you could look up the phrase “opposite of a thinking cap” in the dictionary, those are the pictures you would see.

If there is no such cliché as “a half-gallon brain in a 10-gallon hat,” I would like to invent that now, and apply it to Wilson.

But not satisfied with eavesdropping on a condolence call and then trying to score political points off of it, she steered into the stupid skid, releasing this tweet: “ I still stand by my account of the call b/t @realDonaldTrump and Myesha Johnson. That is her name, Mr. Trump. Not “the woman” or “the wife.”

Hilariously enough, the mother’s name is actually “Myeshia” Johnson.

I am not making that up. In a snotty, three-sentence tweet meant to excoriate Trump for not using the grieving widow’s proper name, Hopalong Bonehead GOT THE GRIEVING WIDOW’S NAME WRONG.

Ugh. To complete the empty barrel trifecta, Wilson gave an interview afterwards, an excerpt of which appeared on Bret Baier’s show. Wilson said, “Let me tell you what my mother told me when I was little. She said, ‘The dog can bark at the moon all night long. But it doesn’t become an issue until the moon barks back.’”

Cut back to Bret, wearing the same confused expression that my Aussie shepherd gets when I try to explain to her that Frederica Wilson is in congress.

By the way, I would bet my life that Cassie ‘the Wonder Dog’ Simpson would make a much better representative than Wilson. She doesn’t have much foreign policy experience, but she is a strict constructionist on Supreme Court nominees, and she is very tough on crime, having protected our house from burglars for over three years now.

Plus she’s up to date on all of her shots – which, judging from that little barking moon story, I’m guessing that Frederica Wilson is not.

If it didn’t mean moving to the 24th district, I would create an exploratory committee tomorrow. The first ad would feature my beautiful girl at attention – her one brown eye and one blue eye staring soulfully into the camera — behind a chewed-up, bedazzled cowboy hat, with the slogan, “Cassie Simpson – Who’s a good girl? Not Frederica Wilson!” Tagline: “My name is Cassie Simpson, and I approve this—WOOF!”

As fall turned to winter, the unfolding Perv-alanche (hat-tip to an astute CO reader) sex scandal story gave me hours of endless fun. (Although thanks Roy Moore, for giving the hypocritical left their own talking point during this mess.)

“After watching the reports of the rampant sexual misbehavior of our moral superiors in Hollywood and the corporate and political worlds, I’ve come to realize that I might be the only adult male who HASN’T been routinely groping my colleagues and subordinates over the last 30 years. (No one in HR told me that that was an option. And now that I’m deliriously happily married, my wife informs me that it is still not an option. So, great timing on my part.)

First, thanks again, prominent celebrities and high-profile social leaders, for giving us lowly deplorables such a smorgasbord of world-class examples of hypocrisy we can use to instruct our children on how NOT to live.

To my hypothetical son: “This is a picture of Kevin Spacey. If he invites you to his house for a sleep over, NOPE!”

To my very real daughters: “Girls, do you see this picture? What’s that? No, that is not an unshaven, overweight Gollum. Well, it is. But it‘s also Harvey Weinstein. If he should invite you to discuss an acting role over lunch, you can only meet him in a public place. And your mother has sewn you a burka, which I have modified with an unbroken coil of wire connected to a car battery, which will function as your own personal electric fence. Also, here is some bear mace, and a taser. And your krav maga instructor will be here at 2:00.”

Perhaps my favorite example of “left-on-left” crime was the picture of Ellen Degeneres drooling over Katy Perry’s chest from about 4 inches away, which she wisely sent out as a tweet with the hilarious caption, “Happy Birthday, @KatyPerry! Time to bring out the big balloons!”

(By the way, I am so non-tech savvy that I have never thought about getting an “@” tag for myself. But if it’s not taken, I wanted to request “@hilariousgenius.” One CO reader called me that last year, and I really like the sound of it. Wait, this just in: my 15-year-old tells me that I have to be on Twitter or Instagram to actually use that, and I don’t know what either of those are. So I guess I can’t just go to work and request that everyone address me as “@hilariousgenius?” Fine. Forget I said anything.)

Anyway, pointing out double standards like Ellen Degeneres’ is way too easy. It’s not even like shooting fish in a barrel. It’s like shooting a large fish in a one-gallon bucket, if the fish had the lowest IQ in his school (HA!), and he was sleeping in the bucket. And I had a new shotgun that came with a five-year no-miss fish-shooting warranty.

And yet, I’m going to point out that double standard anyway. Can you imagine if a male tv-show host had posed with Katy Perry, staring deeply into her cleavage, accompanied by a double-entendre so tired that it would have embarrassed even creepy old Hugh Hefner? How do you think that guy’s career would be going right about now?

Because I am nothing if not a strict empiricist (I originally wrote “rigid empiricist,” but in this context, I took the high road with a tasteful word choice edit. You’re welcome.), I put this hypothetical to the test. Yesterday, for Halloween, I went to my office dressed as a combination of Harvey Weinstein, Ben Affleck, Kevin Spacey and Ellen Degeneres. (It was a very complicated costume, and no one got it.)

As soon as I came in the door, I slapped my secretary on the behind, took a selfie while motorboating an intern in a low-cut top, and then wedgied a row of sales reps who had dressed up as Little Bo Peep, slutty nurse and Lady Gaga, respectively.

So I’m unemployed, and my trial date is December 12th.”

And then it was December, and I came across a story from the always-heartwarming Middle East:

“In other peace-on-earth-related news, have you heard about what happened to the Miss Iraq contestant at the Miss Universe International Beauty Pageant? (And yes, that is a thing. And yes, there is a Miss Iraq. And no, she does not have a Saddam-esque mustache, you xenophobic jokesters.)

Well, she took a picture with Miss Israel, and put it on Instagram, captioned, “Peace and love from Miss Iraq and Miss Israel.” (By the way, Google that picture. If you say that your religion requires that either of those young women should be forced to wear beekeeper outfits whenever they go outdoors, I am going to violate CO’s rules about no profanity on this site.)

When the citizens of Iraq saw that photo, they said, “What a sweet sentiment. We love to see Miss Iraq and Miss Israel getting along so well together. We can learn a lot from them.”

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

HA! That is not what happened at all. In fact, here’s what happened, according to a story posted on MSN (I know, but still): “Miss Iraq, Sarah Idan, and her family had to flee their homeland after receiving death threats over a photo she posted online last month.”

I know, pick your jaw up off the floor. You’re probably thinking, “Maybe the photo she posted was of her being baptized in a Christian church. Or of her wearing an “Islam Sucks” t-shirt. Or of her chowing down on a big pork sandwich.”

Nope. It was the “peace and love” pic that caused her co-religionists to get their chadors in a bunch.

Her hot Israeli friend in the picture explained that in Miss Iraq’s home country, “people made threats against her and her family that if she didn’t return home and take down the photos, they would remove her title, that they would kill her.”

So remember this when you gather around your Christmas tree or Hannukah bush or festivus pole: we can never judge, and no culture is better than any other.”

But the rest of December was pretty great. Trump and the GOP passed a tax cut which did everything but cure cancer. (In addition to cutting corporate and personal tax rates, it killed the Obamacare mandate, and trimmed the deductability of state income tax, which should bring well-deserved tax payer outrage down on the heads of the blue state pols who have been financially punishing their citizens for years.)

The economic numbers and growth stats came in that confirmed how much better an economy does when politicians encourage (instead of punishing) working and earning. (Shazam!) For the year, Trump has cut something like 22 federal regulations for every new one imposed, EPA functionaries are retiring like they’ve suddenly developed allergies to sloth and malevolence, and Nikki Haley is bringing hot, hot justice to the scoundrels at the UN.

There are definitely storm clouds on the horizon as we head into mid-term season in 2018, but 2017 was a better year than many of us had reason to expect when it began.

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