In last weeks’ column, I took as my thesis the idea that people are idiots. Guess what? Over the past week, people didn’t get any smarter. So consider this Part 2 (of a potential 5,000-part series) on the same topic.
Exhibit A, in the “Public Transport” division: boneheads who have convinced themselves and the airlines that they require an “emotional support” animal to accompany them to whatever destination they are traveling to.
And before I get going on the details, trust me: these folks are not flying to the International Symposium on Particle Physics convention, or Mensa-fest 2018, or the Simpson Family Reunion. No. They are going to the Women’s March, or the Democratic National Convention, or the David “Kewpie Hitler” Hogg fan club meeting at the Hilton by the airport.
Anyway, as most disastrous trends in our recent history, this one started out with good intentions. Blind or physically disabled people needed the help of a smart, well-trained seeing-eye dog, so they were given permission to travel with their dogs. (FYI, Cassie “the Wonder Dog” Simpson briefly considered a career in the helping professions – assisting the blind, or sniffing out drugs carried by criminals, or giving a vicious and well-deserved mauling to this nation’s enemies as a military dog – before settling on a lucrative position as my faithful companion.) But immediately after the tiny number of people who legitimately needed a dog to travel with them got that permission, a horde of grifters and ne’er-do-wells and narcissistic scam artists followed hard on their heels.
Seeing-eye dogs were followed by support dogs and then by other support species. Which was already a bridge too far. I mean, how much support can your reasonably get from a cat, for crying out loud? I love cats, my family loves cats, we’ve got several. But no cat is ever going to pull a handi-capable senior citizen from a burning house, or run-down a fleeing Democrat voter with an armful of stolen loot, or sprint back to town to alert the police that Jimmy has fallen down the well.
Anyway, allowing other support species then devolved into perhaps the best indicator of modern American moral degeneration: the “emotional support animal.” Ugh. With 10 minutes of internet searching you can find stories about lost souls traveling with pigs, peacocks and monkeys, all of whom are supposed to be giving vital emotional “support.” If you can stand to learn more about this, read a recent Dallas News article on efforts of several airlines to curb the explosion of support menageries tromping onto every flight and turning them into a demented Noah’s Ark with spotty wifi.
I’ll mention just one specific example. A 39-year-old Kentucky resident named Carla Fitzgerald has recently traveled on multiple flights with her emotional support Indian Runner duck, which she named Daniel Turducken Stinkerbutt.
Where do I start with that? First, the only acceptable animal middle name is obviously “the Wonder Dog.” Second, that name you stuck one of God’s innocent creatures with is not cute – it’s really, really stupid. Other ducks are mocking your duck, and if he could get out of your clammy grasp, he’d gladly launch himself into the airplane’s jet turbines just to end his shame.
When I first read that story, I came to the detail that Fitzgerald was allowed to travel with her mortified duck because she had PTSD. For the briefest of seconds, I thought, “Ah, geez, if she’s a combat veteran, I don’t know if I can savagely mock her…” But then I read on: “…PTSD from a carriage accident years ago.”
A carriage accident? What the hell? Is this woman an upper-class 18th century lady whose vehicle suffered a broken wooden axle on the rutted path between Boston and Philadelphia? Was she taking a romantic horse-drawn ride around Central Park after Kramer had fed the horse something that made it gassy?
And her “accident” took place “years ago?” What’s the statute of limitations on carriage-accident-related trauma? Forty years ago I saw a Benny Hill skit where he dressed up like a highwayman and robbed a stage coach, leaving the female riders in only their 1970s-style underwear and garters, for some reason. Do I still get to drag my three-named platypus through first-class to an aisle seat in coach?
By the way, this might have to be a topic for a future column: the mission creep that has come to surround PTSD. If you ran over an IED outside of Kandahar, or were raped by the kind of animal that Lil’ Mike Dukakis gave weekend prison passes to, you legitimately have PTSD, and God bless you. If you had a bad experience in a spelling bee in 3rd grade, or someone called you the wrong pronoun, or you still can’t leave the house after the 2016 election, you don’t have PTSD. You have TWS (terminal wussiness syndrome), and need some SKA (swift kick in the arse) therapy immediately.
I know this is a hard issue for the emotionally mature, well-adjusted readership of CO nation to identify with. None of you reading this can likely imagine a circumstance in which you would ever find yourself calling Customer Support at Delta and saying the words, “Can I bring my therapeutic ocelot on Flight 3245 to Newark?”
Why not just walk up and down an airport concourse wearing a sandwich board proclaiming, “I have no pride, dignity or value to society. Please commit me to an institution where I can get the electroshock therapy that I so desperately need.”
Or, alternatively, you could just listen to me, as the entire world should: if you are too emotionally fragile to travel in public without your support macaque, please stay home and work on your issues.
Exhibit B, in the “International Division,” comes from France, where a hard-working business owner fell afoul of the local socialist labor laws. During the summer tourist season, the owner of a small French bakery made fresh bread 7 days a week. “Good for him,” you’re probably saying.
But that’s because you’re an American — who appreciates the free market and individual initiative and a strong work ethic — rather than a leftist French poke-nose bureaucrat who is congenitally unable to mind your own business.
Since the local laws forbid anyone – even business owners working in their own freaking business – from working 7 days a week, the local gallic Bernie Sanderses fined the baker the equivalent of $3600. For working. too. hard.
It’s hard to imagine a more perverse disincentive to the kind of behavior that any sane nation would want for their citizens. What can the end result of that kind of world view possibly be?
I’ll tell you: German soldiers sauntering down the Champs Elysees, angry antisemitic Middle Eastern immigrants taking over your suburbs and victimizing Jews and other natives, and the flight of every ambitious French man and woman to countries that have enough on their plate that they won’t bother themselves to be sure that nobody is working too hard!
Exhibit C. In the “academic all-star” division, we have Fresno State professor Randa Jarrar, whom a recent Daily Wire story reports had a unique reaction to the death of former first lady Barbara Bush. (You can Google the story and see a picture of Ms. Randa. If you don’t want to do go to that much trouble, or if you value your eyesight: think a much less attractive Carmen Miranda who has REALLY let herself go.)
Barbara Bush was a pretty uncontroversial first lady. Unlike other recent first ladies I could mention – scowling wookie, and CAW, CAW, CAW! – she was not an abrasive attention-seeker. She married a guy who became president and raised another president, and unlike other recent presidents I could name – “You didn’t build that.” And “Step into the oval office and I’ll show you a neat trick with a cigar” – both of them did a respectable job. She seemed like a no-nonsense person, and decent people around the world respectfully took note of her passing.
Not Randa Jarrar, who is described as “an award-winning novelist” (I’ll bet), and “executive director of RAWI, the “Radius of Arab American Writers.” By the way, what is “Radius” doing in this group’s title, as opposed to in a Geometry textbook, irritating our children, as it’s supposed to be? (And any group headed by Jarrar should probably have “circumference” rather than “radius” in its title.) (That’s right, a geometry/body mocking joke! Don’t tell me that I didn’t get anything out of Finite Math class.)(Though, now that I think about it, that joke is absolutely all I got out of Finite Math class.)
Also, while I’m at it, I don’t know if Randa’s group really understands how acronyms are supposed to work. Because “Radius of Arab American Writers” would form the acronym “RAAW.” Whereas “RAWI” might refer to “Random Assortment of Worthless Idiots,” for example. Or “Reprehensible A**load of Windbag Imbeciles.” Or even, “Repulsive Academic Wretches Incorporated.” And you wouldn’t even have to change the stationery, Kareem abdul Jarrar! You’re welcome.
Anyway, here are some quotes from tweets written by Repugnant Randa on the passing of a former first lady who never did anything to her: “Barbara Bush was a generous and smart and amazing racist who, along with her husband, raised a war criminal. F**k outta here with your nice words.” And “PSA: either you are against these pieces of s**t and their genocidal ways or you’re part of the problem. that’s actually how simple this is. I’m happy the witch is dead. can’t wait for the rest of her family to fall to their demise the way 1.5 million iraqis have. byyyeeeeeeee.”
You know what bothers me most about this nitwit’s tweets? Not the illiteracy of them. (Though, here’s a tip for Randa, if she is reading this, which she obviously is not: We start the first word of an English sentence with a capital letter. And “Iraqi” would also get a capital letter. And saying “byyyeeeeee” makes you sound like a dimwitted 7th grader.) (No offense, dim-witted 7th graders.) And not the black-hearted malice of them.
No, it’s what she said in a subsequent tweet, after she quite naturally got a lot of outraged blowback for her creepy comments: “sweetie i work as a tenured professor. I make 100K a year doing that. i will never be fired.” (“I” always gets capitalized. And you need a comma after “sweetie,” which also should be capitalized. And you had a pretty bad typo: you spelled “colossal douche” as “t-e-n-u-r-e-d p-r-o-f-e-s-s-o-r.” You’re welcome again.) She even had the gall to give her university president’s name and email address, daring her critics to contact him and complain about her.
The saddest thing is that she’s probably right – in modern academia, she’ll never be fired. She’s a far left, hate-filled minority member, and thus unfire-able, unless she commits a triple homicide in front of a roomful of witnesses. If you think I’m exaggerating, consider the case of Elizabeth Warren, a hate-filled leftist white lady with a mediocre mind who could not write or think her way out of a wet paper bag. On the merits, she couldn’t have gotten a job as an adjunct at a third-rate school like Fresno state. But stick a feathered warbonnet on her empty head and call her a Cherokee, and she gets a job and tenure at Harvard. (#never stop mocking)
So, Randa is a vile person, and it seems cosmically unfair that she will not suffer any consequences for her evil tweets. On the other hand, she has to go through life looking like that, and thinking like that, and listening to undergrads singing, “Help me Randa, help me transfer out of your class.” (My apologies to the Beach Boys, who did nothing to deserve any association with this hateful loon.)
And when she (finally) dies, she will not leave behind a husband and son who were presidents of the greatest country in the world, but only (I’m guessing) a couple of cats, who won’t even miss her.
Post Script: I drafted the bit on Randa Jarrar a couple of days ago. But in the last day or two, there are rumblings that Jarrar might actually suffer some professional consequences for her hideous tweets. I’ll believe it when I see it, but if it happens, I’ll be the first to congratulate the administration at Fresno State for taking action.
Now if we can just do something about the rest of academia…