We’re already halfway through December, but I’ll confess that I’m having a tough time getting into the Christmas spirit, and I’m sure that you regular members of CO nation know why: Idris Elba was recently named as People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive for 2018.
Which means that I was unfairly passed over. AGAIN! And that’s after I spent the entire year following a strict regimen: I cut down to no more than 3 servings of ice cream per day; I spent 15 minutes four days a week practicing my smoldering, partially-raised-eyebrow look in the mirror; I never skipped leg day.
And still I was edged out by a guy whose name sounds like a sub-tropical disease that can only be treated by an extensive course of antibiotics and months of physical therapy.
You know, I’ve never really understood the kind of emotional pain that some women feel, as described in the old saying, “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”
But now I understand. Because I am living through the male equivalent: “Always a hilarious genius, never People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.” If Christmas weren’t coming, I don’t know how I’d get out of bed in the morning.
Leaving aside my personal pain, my spirits have recently been lifted by the knowledge that America is apparently officially out of problems.
I know that some of you just choked on your egg nog. “Out of problems?” I can almost hear you yell. “The Democrats are about to take over the House, Mitchell Trubisky’s shoulder thing might still be going on, and Bush 41, Stan Lee and the guy who invented Sponge Bob are dead, while Nancy Pelosi and Ruth Bader Ginsburg are still plugging away, healthy as a couple of octogenarian oxen!”
Those are all good points. But the Congressional gavel was held in Pelosi’s dessicated mummy hands before, and the nation survived. And the Bears having signal-caller issues is not exactly unprecedented. In fact, if you consult the New Testament, I think you’ll find that Christ himself warned that, “The poor – and uncertainty at the quarterback position in Chicago – shall be with you always.”
But if we are not out of problems as a nation, how can you explain the following 3 stories, which no culture with actual problems could ever trouble itself with:
1.The charming, witty and harmless seasonal song, “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” has become the subject of annual controversy. What an earlier era saw as a light-hearted and flirtatious duet, the censorious kill-joys on the feminist left see as an ominous ode to rape.
By the way, here is the chorus from every top 10 rap song of the last 10 years:
“Ima f*** you up and your [n-word] beeyotch too
Ima f*** you up and your [n-word] beeyotch too
You betta [anatomically impossible transitive verb], you [expletive] [N-word] ho.”
Those lyrics are fine. But, “This evening has been (Been hoping that you’d drop in)/ So very nice (I’ll hold your hands they’re just like ice),” is terribly offensive, and rapey.
Lunatic censors also point to the female singer slyly asking,”What’s in this drink?” as evidence that the male singer is about to roofie and ravage her.
Which answers the age-old question: Can humorless leftist scolds tell the difference between Bill Cosby and Bing Crosby?
Sadly, they cannot.
Before you object that frivolous complaints about one inoffensive song don’t prove much, consider
- The story of the Princeton a capella singing group — which despite being the least threatening collection of males since the court eunuchs of ancient Babylon — are apparently also a part of rape culture.
It seems that the Tigertones have for a number of years been singing a song originally featured in the Disney film, The Little Mermaid. The song is called, “Kiss the Girl,” and it features a singing crab urging a handsome prince to kiss a mermaid who obviously wants to be kissed.
Because nothing communicates evil patriarchal oppression like a crustacean with a Jamaican accent urging a white Idris Elba-figure to try for first base with a mythical half-woman/half-fish creature.
3. Our good friends at PETA have finally addressed another scourge of modern American life: insufficiently sensitive animal-related idioms.
I am not making that up. They issued a press release suggested that we replace offensive sayings like, “Bring home the bacon,” with “Bring home the bagels.” Or “take the bull by the horns” with “take the flower by the thorns.”
Yes, their ideas are idiotic. But this could be a fun parlor game for us to all play: let’s draw animal-related sayings out of a hat, and then come up with a PC reason to object to them. I’ll start:
“a horse of a different color” – Somehow, I’m sure that that’s racist
“don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” – Obviously classist, because who but the evil 1% could afford to give horses as gifts? Plus, why should any human have the right to “own” an animal? Plus I suspect that there is a subliminal Stormy Daniels joke in their somewhere.
“sly as a fox” – Are you suggested that other animals are stupid? I mean, “mentally handicapped.” I mean, “mentally handi-capable.” You know what I mean!
Don’t get me wrong: I love animals. In fact, I’d rather spend time with some particular animals – Cassie the Wonder Dog, most other dogs, even our three indifferent cats – than with many people. People like the PETA officials who came up with this ridiculous list. If I met one of them on the street, I’d be tempted to beat them like a rented mule. No offense.
So I rest my case: if we have time to worry about innocent songs and animal metaphors, America is out of problems.
But you know who is not out of problems? Europe.
You might have heard that snooty Macron is having a touch of trouble with mobs of violent protestors trying to burn Paris to the ground every weekend for the last month. Hilariously, the trouble started because the lefty elites who run France decided to inflict a 47 euro-per-liter gas tax on everyday French people, all in the name of stopping global warming. Which it definitely will not do.
By the way, I made up the “47 euro” amount, because I refuse to look up the ridiculous made-up money that the EU-nuchs have chosen as their currency.
Brief diversion: I love the names of money that different countries come up with. America did it best (obviously) with the dollar. (I know: it was originally some kind of Spanish word. But we took it and improved it. You’re welcome, Spain.) You can pay top dollar for something; you can bet your bottom dollar on something. Clint Eastwood made a fine film with the super-cool title “Fistful of Dollars.”
My second favorite foreign currency name is the Polish “zloty.” Partly because I love the Polish people, and partly because I love anybody sticking a “z” and an “l” together in any word. Also, can the zloty be subdivided into 100 groszy, you ask? You bet your bottom dollar it can.
My favorite foreign currency name? The Vietnamese “dong,” obviously. Mostly because of how fun it would be to be an adolescent boy in Vietnam, constantly referring to your money and snickering because adults couldn’t do anything about it.
Also, if “Fistful of Dollars” was re-made for a Vietnamese audience, it would have a hilarious title. And Stormy Daniels would star in it.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the collapse of Europe.
So you may have heard that another European gunman attacked another Christmas market, this time in Strasbourg. He killed at least 3 and wounded 11. Which means that it’s time to dust off my timeless favorite quiz game: Guess that Murderer!
Question 1: Just before opening fire on his innocent victims, the killer screamed a blood-chilling phrase at the top of his lungs. Was that phrase:
- Onward Christian soldiers!
- Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made it OUT OF CLAY!
- That government is best which GOVERNS LEAST!
- Allahu Akbar!
Question 2: What was the closest variant to the killer’s name?
- Francois D’Orleans
- Sven Nordstrom
- Jim-Bob Thompson
- Ahmed Yemeni Mohammed bin Sulamein
Cheer up, Europeans. You may have to deal with bi-weekly terror attacks, but at least you aren’t forced to live with species-ist idioms like “cat’s pajamas” or “bees knees.”
Okay, rather than ending a column during this Christmas season on such a dour note, I will leave you with my two favorite recent feel-good stories.
First, Elizabeth Warren’s representatives reportedly started talking with Beta O’Rourke’s people recently, causing rumors that they may be contemplating a joint run at the presidency in 2020. Which would be just perfect: a fake Hispanic Irish-American guy teaming up with a fake Indian WASP lady (#wemustneverstopmockingher) on the same ticket.
I can’t think of a picture that better sums up the phoniness of the Democratic party in 2018.
Second, a judge has ordered Stormy Daniels to pay Trump’s legal fees, racked up (HA!) to defend himself against the defamation suit which a court threw out as frivolous.
To repeat, for the record: I didn’t vote for Trump in the primary, and voted more against Hillary than for him in the election. I don’t like the way he has acted with women in general, and with ol’ Equine Visage in particular. I wish he’d stay off twitter, and that he could maintain his aggressive counter-punching with about 90% less boorishness.
But you’ve got to give credit where credit is due. He had an affair with a porn star, then paid her $130,000 to keep her mouth shut about it. When she did not keep her mouth shut (I haven’t seen any of her films, but I understand that that is not a-typical behavior for her), he ended up winning a judgment against her for $292,052.
Do you realize what that means? He had sex with a woman who is a professional at having sex for money, and SHE ended up paying HIM $162,052.
That’s right, lefties who say that Trump is a failed businessman: he had a one-night stand with a porn star, and made a tidy profit on it!
Top that, Idris Elba!