Last week I began by observing that I don’t usually laugh when senior citizens fall down the stairs, but that I’d make an exception for Hillary.
This week I’d like to begin by noting that I don’t usually finding myself aching to punch a teenager in the face, but I’d make an exception for little David Hogg.
If you haven’t seen young master Hogg in the media lately, consider yourself fortunate. He’s one of the kids who go to Parkland High School in Florida, where a colossal failure of local government (and the FBI) allowed a red-flag-waving misfit the chance to shoot a bunch of kids in a gun-free zone. So naturally Hogg blamed the NRA and law-abiding gun owners, who had nothing to do with said shooting.
The “arguments” he makes are as threadbare and simple-minded and thoroughly debunked as you might expect, and at first I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He’s 17, with all of the obnoxiousness that most of us have at that age, a toxic brew of ignorance and unearned self-assurance. Until now, I’ve saved my ire for the dishonest MSM jerks who have been exploiting the Parkland kids, using them as puppets to spout the MSM’s own anti-gun and anti-conservative talking points.
But at some point the grace we should grant to kids who don’t know any better runs out. And that point has arrived. In countless appearances, he’s smeared everyone who appreciates the second amendment as evil child murderers, as well as accusing the NRA of desiring and profiting off of such murders.
It’s not his fault that he’s an adolescent. It’s not his fault that he has a Simpson Face Punchability Index (SFPI ™) of 9.8. It’s not his fault that his parents apparently dropped the ball on the old “don’t drop the F bomb every other sentence on national tv” moral training.
But he’s been spouting off for long enough now, and since he seems to lack any self-awareness, and is blessed with a young leftist’s immunity to self-reflection, someone should probably give him a good jab to the snout. Possibly followed by a right cross, delivered with just enough force to pierce his thick cloud of self-regard. And make his eyes water.
Ironically, if someone were to give him such a pummeling, he’d likely find himself wishing that he had some way to defend himself. Some sort of a device that could level the playing field. Maybe a device guaranteed to him by a crinkly old document written by a bunch of dead white male geniuses in the 18th century.
If only his cramped and bile-flecked world view allowed for the existence of such a device, and the right to use it for self-defense. (Cue Nelson Munch: HA HA!)
Well, Stormy was on tv last night, and the result was apparently not quite as earth-shattering as the MSM had hoped. I didn’t watch it – life is too short – but I read a couple of quick recaps of it today, and apparently Trump had a consensual one-nighter with a porn star in 2006.
That’s not a good thing. I’d like to go out on a limb here, and say that I wish that married presidents wouldn’t have one-nighters with porn stars.
Of course, I also wish that past presidents didn’t carry on strings of affairs, and use interns as humidors, and rape Juanita Broaddrick. And that presidents before that didn’t deflower teenagers while being married to Jackie O, and bully other teenagers into sex with his corrupt dirigible of a younger brother. And that that brother didn’t leave Mary Jo Kopeckne to die in a car. And I wish that the MSM wouldn’t cover up and downplay those sleazy actions, while waiting for a GOP prez to do something 1/100th that bad, and then pull their dresses over their heads and run around shrieking in feigned outrage until they ran into the nearest wall, leaving an ugly divot in the drywall and concussing their already pitifully weak and frail brains.
While I’m at it, I also wish that Hillary would tumble down a flight of stairs and land on David Hogg, and that the two of them would then careen into Elizabeth Warren’s teepee (we should never stop mocking her), flattening it and her.
But if wishes were horses, I’d have a ranch.
In the end, my guess is that Stormy’s wished-for Trump-killing scandal will turn out to be a tempest in a D-cup teacup (HA!). I like to imagine Anderson Cooper, Chris Matthews, Don Lemon et al sitting around in a dive bar, drunkenly singing the following lyrics:
“I walk around, heavy-hearted and sad/Night comes around, I’m still feelin’ bad/Rain pourin’ down, blindin’ every hope I had/This pitterin’, patterin’, beatin’ and spatterin’ drives me mad/Love, love, love, love/This misery is just too much for me.”
That verse, of course, comes from an old standard called “Stormy Weather.” Stick it, mainstream media.
And, I guess, don’t stick it anywhere else any more, Donald Trump.
I’d like to thank everyone in CO nation for your kind words about my aunt last week. I’m back home now, after the visitation and funeral, with a renewed sense of gratitude for my family.
The whole small town turned out; the visitation was packed, as was the funeral. During the funeral, the pastor preached on hope, and they played three songs: Johnny Cash singing, “I’ll Fly Away,” and my uncle Don singing two songs for Donna, which he had recorded for her on a little tape deck more than 20 years ago, a few years before his final sickness started.
Then the drive to a hilltop Illinois cemetery. (Lots of tombstones with names of my family and those related to us, plus a nearby grave over which a Cubs “W” flag – placed there two Novembers ago, over a man who never lived to see the World Series victory — snapped in a brisk March wind.) We pallbearers carried her to the spot next to Uncle Don, and some words were said, some Scripture recited, a few jokes were told. And then off to the VFW hall for a feast prepared by some ladies from the Baptist church. (Guess how many of the dishes were either gluten-free or vegan.) (Then guess a lower number than that.)
(Unless you guessed zero the first time.)
(In which case, bingo.)
(Quick: name that movie: “That’s a bingo! Did I say that right?” “Ya just say ‘bingo.'”)
I know that a few pharaohs and kings over the centuries have had some elaborate funerals, probably accompanied by the best singers in their respective lands, with some nice arrangements of Gregorian chants or pan flute recitals or whatever music was in vogue at the time.
But if you tell me that any of them had more moving singers than Johnny Cash and my Uncle Don, I’m going to call you a bald-faced Schumer.
Oops. Liar. Bald-faced liar.
On a happier note, we are still working on the house we’re hoping to move into next month. My youngest daughter is thrilled with her room, which is an anachronistic wood-paneled time capsule right out of Mad Men.
But she’s decided to recreate a wall-sized version of one of her favorite paintings, Van Gogh’s Starry Night, on one of those walls. She’s part-way through, and I’ve posted a picture of her at work – along with Cassie the Wonder Dog, who is supervising the production.