Month: January 2019

This new year is not even a month old, and already I feel like I’m six months behind on mocking the boatload of ridiculous goofballs who are so far infesting 2019.

To start with, I have four thoughts about Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.  And I know what you’re thinking: that may be a half dozen more thoughts than she has, about anything at all.

First, I understand the impulse behind the “AOC” moniker.  Because I totally agree – with all right-thinking Americans – that saying “Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez” is a colossal waste of syllables.  I get it — “LBJ” and “JFK” were acceptable shortcuts – but I don’t like it.

It’s one thing for an ambitious and bombastic rapper to call himself the Notorious BIG.  It’s another thing for sad, leftist fan-boys and fan-girls to call ancient far-left justice Ginsburg “RBG.”  And even a third, more ridiculous thing to call the ex-bartender AOC.

In fact — if you’ll allow me the first rambling diversion of 2019 — I’m not thrilled with extra names, either.  John Wayne… that’s a fine cowboy actor.  But John Wayne Gacy was terrible.  As was Lee Harvey Oswald, and Henry Lee Lucas.  Jerry Lewis did some decent work with Dino, but Jerry Lee Lewis is the kind of guy who’ll elope with his 13-year old cousin.

John Booth, he’s a guy you can play poker or golf with.  But John Wilkes Booth?  That’s a homicidal Democrat who’ll kill a Republican president who just freed the slaves.

Come to think of it, one-namers are usually pretty unstable, too: Cher, Madonna, Prince.   And don’t get me started on name-repeaters like Sirhan Sirhan, or Boutros Boutros-Ghali.

Where was I?  Oh yeah.  She-Guevara and her cutesy initials nickname.

Ugh.  I guess I’ll end up referring to her as AOC.  But I’d like CO nation to know that when I use those letters, I’ll be thinking, “Annoying, Obtuse & Callow.”

Second, I initially agreed with whoever it was who said that AOC was the left’s Sarah Palin.  That comparison had a ring of truth, as both are attractive, female pols who burst on the national scene suddenly, and who soon proved themselves to be gaffe prone, and less than the deepest of thinkers.

But the more I thought about it, I realized that that comparison gives AOC too much credit, and Palin too little.  Whatever else you think of Palin, she paid some political dues before her national debut; she entered politics by getting elected to a city council, and then won a mayoral race, and then became a state Governor, before McCain picked her as his VP running mate.   Sure, she’s not exactly Disraeli when it comes to brilliant public speaking, but some of her most famous gaffes were actually invented by Tina Fey, and the rest were picked up on and emphasized by a relentlessly hostile media.

Compare that to AOC, whose entire pre-election cv comprised a brief role as “hot dancer #4” in a rooftop video shot during college, and a stint as a bartender.  Reports that she was less than a world-class mixologist cannot be confirmed, though anecdotally, if you ordered a rum and coke from her you were equally likely to get a tequila and hydrogen peroxide, or a gin and rubbing alcohol.

On the other hand, as a political thinker, she makes a hell of a bartender.

Third, it’s ironic to me that leftists have flocked to her at least in large part for the most anti-feminist of reasons: because she is young and attractive.  After all, is she saying anything that Bernie Sanders isn’t?  Or that Hugo Chavez didn’t?  Or that the grizzled guy with the hygiene issue and the methadone habit at your local library who talks to himself isn’t?

No.  But those cheekbones, and that red lipstick!  I see her dancing in that rooftop video, and I find myself thinking, “Maybe a 70% top tax rate isn’t so bad.  I mean, look at her little black skirt…”  Then my wife clouts me across the back of my head, and I come back to my senses.

I think Ogden Nash said it best:  “It’s always tempting to impute/Unlikely virtues to the cute.”

And here’s a sobering thought for those who are beguiled by her fresh face: Ashley Judd and Alyssa Milano were both pretty attractive not that long ago.  But their bilious thoughts seem to be seeping to the surface, and transforming them into haggard, aged-before-their-time harpies who are becoming as unpleasant on the outside as they are on the inside.

Fourth, Annoying-OC is a potent combination of someone who thinks stupid thoughts, and then says them stupidly.  In her case, she’s got a teenie/valley-girl delivery that the MSM has somehow managed not to notice.

In recent interviews, she made Ta-nehisi (gesundheit) Coates, a whitey-hating African-American pseudo-intellectual look like Immanuel Kant, and she made Anderson Cooper look reasonable.  She sprinkles “like” into her sentences, and she talks about people being at the “tippy top” of income earners.  She whined about how unfair it was to get too concerned with being “factually and precisely, semantically correct,” when we should be concerned with being “morally right.”

Because when I’m looking for moral instruction, I skip Aquinas and Augustine and Christ, and look for a youngster who can’t get a drink order straight.

Speaking of not being a slave to factual, precise correctness, in one recent tweet, she alluded to $22 trillion in military spending that “could not be traced, documented or explained.”  Some pedantic critic pointed out that that’s more money than the military has spent from the time of George Washington to George W.  But I guess he’s morally wrong.

There are so many things that she needs to – but cannot – explain.  Such as how we can possibly go to 100% non-polluting cars within 10 years.  And where she would get the $32 trillion required to pay for her Medicare-for-all proposal for only one decade.  And why table 2 ordered a pitcher of Bud Light, but she gave them a bottle of liquid soap and a Pez dispenser.

She complained about the way Trump “manufactures crises” — I give her a point for getting the plural of “crisis” right, but deduct a point for parroting a stale leftist talking point – but within two weeks made news by announcing that the world is going to end in 12 years if we don’t stop climate manbearpig.  Also, people in Alabama have ringworm because the government hasn’t taken over healthcare.  Stupid Trump!

But AOC is not the only mockable lefty out there.  Not when Nancy Pelosi is doddering around the House.

My favorite moment so far this year was when Trump waited until the Dem leadership and their entourage were on buses heading for the airport for the greatest vacation getaway ever, and then he said that they couldn’t use the airplanes because of the government shutdown.

Ouch!  If Nancy’s withered head didn’t contain enough Botox to kill a former-first-lady-sized Clydesdale, I’m sure she would have had a very angry expression on her almost lifelike face.

As part of my “Look on the bright side for 2019” resolution, I feel compelled to point out that one stop on the Dems’ itinerary was to have been Egypt, and that could have been a disaster.  Because if Pelosi had visited the pyramids and some locals had seen her, there was a very real risk of a panicked stampede, among cries of, “The curse is alive! Flee! The mummy walks among us!”

My second-favorite moment of the year is a tie between Chuck-and-Nancy’s disastrous PR debacle/American Gothic recreation as they woodenly responded to Trump’s wall speech, and Lizzie Warren’s catastrophic home video (#wemustneverstopmockingher).

In a “what was she thinking?” moment, Warren followed in the footsteps of the hip kids these days by attempting a selfie video.  The whole thing was artificial and painful, but the best moment was when the highly educated Paleface Powhatan attempted a white working-class accent, saying, “I think I’m a gonna get me a beer.”

On the bright side, she did manage to open and drink from the bottle without breaking it and accidentally stabbing herself in the neck with the jagged edge and then covering the camera with arterial spray before bleeding out on the floor.

On the other hand, not since another phony old white lady  (CAW CAW) attempted a black accent (“Ah don’t feel no ways tah-rd, I come too fa-uhr…”) has an ethnic group been so defamed by an outsider.

I feel terrible for American Indians right now.  I don’t know which is worse: Liz Warren pretending to be one of them, or the fact that that creepy old non-Vietnam vet fraud who slandered the Kentucky high school kids at the March for Life IS one of them.

For me, the last third of 2018 was marked by three politically significant stories.  One was mostly bad, and the other two were very, very good.

The bad is obvious: the November election.  Sure, it wasn’t all bad.  Some egregious leftists narrowly lost (Beta in TX, whitey-hating racists for governor in GA and FL, quasi-animated wax figure Bill Nelson for Senate in FL).  The GOP picked up a few Senate seats.  Some entertainingly boneheaded Dems who are going to provide tons of future embarrassment for the left won (I’m looking at you, She-Guevara Googly Eyes).

But it was mostly bad, with Dems picking up over 40 house seats, and winning narrow Senate victories in red states that ought to be ashamed of themselves.  So enough about that.

Because my new’s years resolution is to be Mr. Sunny Side, I’m going to focus on two columns I wrote about the two best stories from late 2018: Lizzie Warren’s heap big DNA disaster, and Brett Kavanaugh’s triumph over the leftist orcs in DC and the media.

I wrote about Warren’s PR stunt/Hindenburg test-flight as the “act of unintentional self-immolation by the albino Apache herself.

Obviously, Trump was living in her empty, blonde head rent-free, or she never would have taken a DNA test in such a transparently desperate move to establish her Cherokee bona fides in the first place.  But once she took the test and found out that she is overwhelmingly white, the only rational path was obvious: swear the DNA tester to secrecy, destroy the results and start screaming about misogyny, or any other non-Indian-related bogus leftist talking point.

But no one has ever accused recent Democratic presidential contenders of being slaves to rationality.

So Warren compounded the problem.  She poured gasoline on the fire, steered into the skid, and made a terrible-PR mountain out of an embarrassing genetic molehill.

She produced a campaign-ad style video during which she talked to various members of the Warren family about how the old folks all used to wax poetic about their Indian ancestry.  If you’ve seen that video, you may have noticed something about the people in it: every last one of them is incredibly white.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I mean, unless you are a Democrat who wants to be president.

Anyway, she managed to act smug as the DNA tester confirmed that she does indeed have “some” Indian ancestry.  If by “some,” you mean “the same ratio as I have of stellar dust from ancient comet strikes in my backyard, as compared to regular old earth-dirt.”  And I’d expect all of my neighbors to mock me if I started calling my backyard “the Lawn of Tranquility.”

Of course the sweetest irony comes from knowing that Lizzie could only have thought that she’d get away with such a laughable claim if she knew that the dishonest MSM would cover for her.

 

And for about half a day, they tried, coming out with multiple variations of headlines touting “the strong proof” that her DNA test gave to her claims of uber-Cherokee-osity.

But within minutes, people who can do math started to point out that she is likely somewhere around 99.9% white, along with several other fun facts.  Such as that she likely has many more times as much DNA from at least one white male ancestor who helped round up the Cherokee for the Trail of Tears.  (Cue the sad trombone/peacepipe.)

And that the average white American has something like 8 times as much Indian DNA as Liz has.  Despite the fact that, according to extensive research that I just now completed, most of them have never contributed even ONE recipe to Pow Wow Chow!  You can look it up.

And that’s not all of the crab bisque that Lizzie now has on her face.  Because she hadn’t just been claiming that some distant ancestor 6 to 10 generations back was a Cherokee.  She was claiming that her own mother was so obviously Indian that her grandparents wouldn’t accept her into their family, so her parents had to elope.

During my afore-mentioned research, I covered the back of an envelope with my own mathematical calculations, and I’ve arrived at the following conclusion:  Liz’s mom was not 6 to 10 generations back.  She was roughly one generation back.

So at most, one of that woman’s grandparents’ grandparents’ parent MIGHT have been at least part Indian.  At worst, one of THAT person’s grandparents’ grandparent MIGHT have been an Indian.

But since the DNA test actually used DNA samples taken from central and south Americans, that magical Indian ancestor may have actually been a Brazilian snake-wrangler, or a syphilitic conquistador, or an alcoholic member of the lesser Spanish nobility who was forced to go to the New World to try to dry out, and also because his continually passing out in the soup bowl was proving embarrassing to King Ferdinand.

And yes, there is as much scientific evidence to support the syphilitic,snake-wrangling,hard-drinking dinner-disruptor theory as there is to support the “I’m-a-blue-eyed-Delaware-Cherokee” theory of Elizabeth Warren.

But the Mendacious Mohawk was not ready to give up yet.  In a post-disaster interview she said that she released the DNA results because, and I quote, “I am an open book.”

Yes.  And that book is called The White Pages.

She also fell back on the oldest of ploys used by people who have made some issue all about themselves.  She said, “This isn’t about me.”

No, it isn’t.  It’s about your ancestors.  Your very, very, VERY white ancestors.

She also said that she released the results because, “I see now that confidence in government is at an all-time low.  And I believe that one way we try to rebuild confidence is through transparency.”

Even better than that, in your case: translucency!

And so, I tip my hat to you, Elizabeth Warren.  After I have done my best for almost a year to mock you at every turn, you have put my feeble mockery to shame with your own towering act of self-be-clownery.

I am tempted to say that this whole charade boomeranged on you.  But I have too much respect for the aboriginal people who invented the boomerang to engage in such a gross act of cultural appropriation.

So I will just say, “Liar, liar, deerskin dress on fire.”

Now please tell me where I can go to contribute to your 2020 presidential campaign.”

 

The other great story was Kavanaugh’s escape from the slanderous lefty mob who almost succeeded in Borking him.  After following his tortuous path, I wrote a final, relieved column after his confirmation:

“Can you picture the joy around stately Simpson Manor today?  After several weeks of being furious and worried and depressed as a manifestly good man was demonized and smeared, I started to enjoy a trickle of good news this past week.

First, Creepy Porn Lawyer’s client turns out to be a singularly unconvincing loon selling a story that dozens and dozens of upper class girls were gang raped over a period of months by dozens of upper class boys in a suburb of DC, and no one ever reported it.  When she gave four names of people who supposedly witnessed this, one denied it, two couldn’t be reached, and one was dead.

It’s a cliché for a reason: when your best witness is a dead guy, pull the fire alarm and run out of the court room.

Next, Ramirez turns out to be a partisan hack selling a story that she was black out drunk at a party, and there were genitals, and she wasn’t sure whose they were until she spent six days talking to her leftist hack lawyer, who – when not chasing ambulances – also specializes in helping people “recover” decades-old genital-related memories.

By the way, I went to high school and college with a ton of girls, and I tragically got to see almost none of them naked.  But if there’s a way I can go to the offices of Soros & Alinsky Esq.  and “recover” some memories in which I was actually bombarded by parade floats filled with female nudity, I’m in.

In fact, if I could please “recover” a memory of when 1983 Nena went to my senior prom with me, and sang “99 Luft Balloons” before coming home to the luxurious apartment I never had and having her lusty Germanic way with me, I’d pay double.  Throw in that time I ravaged late 1970s Farrah Fawcett, and I will sign over my 401K.

Where was I?  Oh yeah: Ramirez’s story collapsed like a house of imaginary cards.

At the same time, Ford’s story grew weaker too.  All of the witnesses she named said they didn’t know what she was talking about.  Her story that she was terrified of flying was undermined by the fact that she has 500,000 frequent flier miles.  Also, for the last six years she has had a summer job as a wing-walker on an old biplane in a barnstormer act in Branson, Missouri.

Next up, the MSM was on the case, and dug up perhaps the most damning anti-Kavanaugh account yet.  It turns out that Brett Kavanaugh – when he wasn’t drugging high school girls and defending his pimping turf in vicious running gun battles with Bishop Don “Magic” Juan (Google him) – was also involved in a donnybrook in a bar near Yale.

That’s right.  He allegedly threw ice at a guy.  You may remember it from all of those “The Cube Heard Round the World” stories that dominated the headlines in 1985.

This was the last straw for my wife, who is, as many of you know, of Norwegian descent.  Until then, she had been trying to keep an open mind.  But when she heard about the ice throwing allegations, she was triggered.

Because, as she explained to me in a tearful conversation, the Norwegian people have long been tormented by racial slurs from their less blonde, less attractive, shorter, swarthier neighbors.

Growing up, she had heard it all:  Tundra Monkeys.  Glacierbacks.  Frosties. Fjord-billies.  Svens.

But the most painful of all was the “I” word:  Ice-chuckers.

(By the way, don’t kid yourself: Lizzie Warren has heard those same, hateful words.  She might say that she’s been called “squaw” or “wigwam whacko,” but she’s got “fjord-billy” written all over her.) (#wemustneverstopmockingher)

So the anti-Kavanists lost my wife.

My spirits were rising as the FBI report came back the only way it possibly could, given that the alleged bad behavior happened at an undetermined location, in an unknown year, and with no corroboration. And also was totally made up.

Then Cocaine Mitch called for a cloture vote, and Lindsay Graham’s evil twin continued to dazzle us all.  When a bunch of entitled know-nothing college kids at a genteel event at the Atlantic started booing him, he snapped, “Oh, boo yourself.”

Which, for the old Lindsay Graham, would have been the equivalent of jumping to his feet, roaring, “DIE  COMMIE SCUM!” and spraying the crowd with small arms fire from a belt-fed weapon.

Also, when some embittered termagant harassing him in a hallway called out, “If he would take a polygraph this would all be over,” Lindsay came back with a professional-quality retort, which I am not making up.  He looked back over his shoulder without missing a beat, and said, “Why don’t we dunk him in water and see if he floats.”

Boom!

Finally Friday comes, and Susan Collins speaks on the Senate floor in that shaky, Kate-Hepburn-in-a-bumper-car way that has always driven me nuts, but is now just adorable.  After a 45-minute speech laying out the manifest reasons to be disgusted by the left’s smear campaign (reportedly written by her lead staffer, Harold Obvious), she supports Kavanaugh.

Twelve seconds later, Joe Manchin shoulder-rolls to the nearest microphone, gives a clavicle-snapping forearm shiver to the septuagenarian who was explaining that we should always believe all women, and grabs the mike, shouting, “Me too!  Me too!  I’m voting for Kavanaugh too!”

So I grab the front paws of a startled Cassie the Wonder Dog and dance her around my living room, singing, “Oh Happy Day,” but replacing the line, “When Jesus washed my sins away,” with, “When Lindsay cleared the goons away!”

To vicariously experience that with me, google “Ray Charles sings Oh Happy Day,” and watch the video.  It was just like that, except with a lot less dashikis, and one confused and excited Aussie shepherd.

So Saturday comes, and I DVR the usual half-dozen college football games, but also the coverage of the Kavanaugh vote and aftermath on all 6 networks.  I am going to slowly work my way through all of that video between now and Christmas, savoring every profanity-filled chant and misspelled sign and red-faced tantrum from the hordes of lefty louts who descended on Washington to celebrate “Political Impotence Fest ’18.”

In the meantime, I’ve got my snacks arranged around me in my recliner.  I’m having a foot-long schadenfreude sandwich with a side of Cheetos (because the Dems tried to cheat, get it?), and I’ll be washing it down with a flagon of Leftist Tears, vintage 2016.

With ice. Delicious, never-been-thrown ice.

That reminds me: Just-ice Kavanaugh.

Ha! Crank it up!    “Oh happy day…”

 

0-0-0

That was 2018, through my sarcastic eyes.  Next up: my first column of all-new material in this target-rich environment of 2019.  To read past columns, or to gaze in wonder at the Christmas picture of Cassie the Wonder Dog, go to Martinsimpsonwriting.com.

 

As we headed into the summer, I was shocked to find that the MSM was not happy with the way Trump referred to immigrants:

“You probably haven’t heard about this – because CNN has been obsessed with covering nothing but the historically low black and Hispanic unemployment rates, and the strong economic numbers, and the way Mueller and McCabe and Comey and John Brennan and Clapper and Peter Stroke and his unattractive mistress have all been exposed as a cabal of sleazy perjurers who need to be jailed immediately – but Trump called some immigrants “animals.”

No, really.  He did.  I flipped back and forth through half a dozen channels for the better part of two days, and had it confirmed over and over again.  Apparently, he described as “animals” the following groups: hard-working Mexican single mothers, saintly Guatemalan priests, impeccably dressed Ecuadorian honor students, Costa Rican abuelas who are bravely fighting stage three breast cancer, adorable Chilean first-graders, and Salvadoran first responders who specialize in rescuing adorable Salvadoran kittens who get stuck in an especially sticky species of Salvadoran trees.

Of course, as it turned out, Trump was referring to members of MS-13, a merry bunch of sociopaths who divide their time between beheading innocent teenagers and competing in round robin “who can get the most hideous tattoos” tournaments.

My favorite MSM idiot in this story – in a very crowded field — is someone named Ana Navarro.  Ms. Navarro clambered onto her high horse to say how contemptible it was that anyone would ever refer to any human beings – no matter what they’d done – as “animals.”

Then, because God loves us and has a real grudge against Ana Navarro, 8 million Americans immediately Googled “Ana Navarro” and “animals” and “hypocritical beeyotch” (maybe that last one was just me), and came up with this tweet of hers from 2016:  “Should Donald Trump drop out of the race? Yes. He should drop out of the human race. He is an animal. Apologies to animals.”

Move over, “Boy who Cried Wolf,” and “The Scorpion and the Frog,” because I have a new favorite Aesop’s Fable: “How the CNN Horse’s Ass got Hoof-in-Mouth Disease.”

 

Later that month, I had the chance to rant about a pet peeve of mine that involves actual pets – “the 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.

 

Speaking of listening to me, in June I read about leftist bullies in Colorado forcing a Christian baker to make a cake for the wedding of two hateful gay activists, and introduced what should become a bedrock principle of our democracy: “Mind Your Own Business You Totalitarian Jerks” (or MYOBYTJ):

“And I wouldn’t just apply it to religion, either.   For example, I dislike smoking; it’s expensive, and makes your clothes stink, and it caused the deaths of my mother-in-law and a favorite aunt in the last 6 months.  If someone wanted to open a bar or restaurant in my town that allowed smoking, I wouldn’t go there.

But you know what else I’d do?  I’d mind my own freaking business!  If a smallish town has 6 bars, why couldn’t one of them allow smoking?  No one who objected would have to work there, or eat there, or drink there, and most people wouldn’t.  If enough people voted with their dollars and stayed away, the bar would close.  But not because some crybullies forced them out of business.

I know that smoking is not good for you, but that’s not the point.

You know what else isn’t good for you?  Ice cream.  Riding a motorcycle.  Women half your age.  Many other women.  Many men, too.  Playing the lottery.  Cocaine.  Red meat.  Electing delusional white ladies to the Senate from Massachusetts. (#wemustneverstopmockingher)  Really loud music.  Stepping in to defend a weak person against a bully who’s much larger and stronger than you are.

Half the juice in life is negotiating your way around and through those things.  For example, I once had a good meal at a steakhouse with a woman who wasn’t good for me (despite a cuteness of almost Nikki Haley-esque proportions), and then took her back to her apartment on my motorcycle, where she fed me some ice cream.

But just when I was about to do some things that would have left me with terrible regret (and possibly some soft-tissue injury) she pulled out some cocaine and said, “Let’s snort this, and then buy a lottery ticket and vote for Elizabeth Warren.”

Of course, I jumped up in righteous outrage and tossed some clothes at her and said, “Put your clothes on and get out of my apartment!”

And she said, “Those are your clothes, and this is my apartment!”

To which I wittily replied, “Oh, yeah.”  The next thing you know, I’m making a dignified (if pantsless) retreat, while she is screaming from the second floor landing like a crazy person, “Elizabeth Warren is a Native American role model!”

And I’m screaming back at her, “She’s as Indian as Ingemar Johanssen!”

“Who is that?”

“Google him!” I yelled.

“You better stop mocking Elizabeth Warren, and I mean it!”

“NEVER!” I screamed, as I roared away into the night, having learned a valuable lesson.

 

In July, one of my least favorite Obama administration officials – in a very crowded field – Jeh Johnson drew my ire afresh:

“You may remember him as Obama’s DHS secretary.  I remember him primarily as the man with the most annoyingly spelled name since Brett Favre.

Call me old fashioned, and a traditionalist.  And even ruggedly handsome, if you must.  But I am not one to go along with a society’s insane agreement to pronounce names incorrectly.  “F-A-V-R-E” features an “R” that comes after the “V” – therefore, “Fav-ruh.”  But all of sports media agreed to call him “Farve.”  The same thing happened with Cub shortstop Shawon Dunston (1985-2002), when everyone agreed to pretend that that “O” was not there, and call him “Shawn.”

But not me.  I could accept “Shawn” or “Sean,” but not “Shawon.” So I spent the better part of two decades talking about “Sha-won” Dunston and Brett “Fav-ruh.”  And people around me continually stared at me with what I choose to interpret as quiet admiration for my fidelity to the rules of English pronunciation.

Which brings me to Jeh Johnson.  In a sane world, his first name would have to rhyme with “meh” – which coincidentally enough, matches the emotion that the mention of his name should inspire, in even the best-case scenario.

But no.  “Jeh” wants to be called “Jay.”  And our sheep-like media just go along with it.  But we have a spelling for “Jay.”  It’s “Jay.”  I could even accept “J” for a first name, because that would be almost cool, and how else could you pronounce “J?”

But come on.   Pilots in trouble do not make frantic “Meh Deh” calls on the radio. I don’t sing “Oh Happy Deh” in church on Sundeh.

Where was I?  Oh yeah.

So Chris Wallace interviewed Jeh on the subject of the morality of separating children from their parents when those parents illegally cross our borders.  Wallace pointed out that this was Obama’s policy, and that such hideously inhumane and cruel proceedings went on for years, with nary a peep from our debased, Jeh-humoring media.  Until Trump became president, and then separating children became the new Holocaust.

If you want to watch an example of a politician dancing around his obvious culpability while acknowledging nothing, watch that interview.  When Wallace asked him for a solution to illegal immigration, Jeh said, “We can’t have catch and release…”  Even though that’s what Jeh and his boss did.

And he said, “We did not want to go so far as to separate families.”  But that’s what Jeh and his boss did.

You almost get the sense that Jeh and his fellow leftists wants us to forget that Trump inherited the child-separation policy – the very one that the lefty mobs now claim to be so offended by – from Obama.

I have only one response to that: Not to-deh, Jeh.  No weh.

 

 

As another year has come to an end, I want to continue the tradition that I began last year, of doing a Dave Barry-esque look back at my favorite moments of the past year, as I commented on them in various columns.  Especially since CO’s site has continued to grow – over 23,000 followers now, and counting! — I know that many of you may not have caught these musings the first time around.  For those of you who did, I hope they bring back fond memories of mockery from days of yore.

So I give you “2018 Retrospecticus, Part 1: January – April”

2018 started on a high note, with me making a resolution to be more patient with people who disagree with me.

That resolution lasted until January 16^th, when a gaggle of reporters – and those mopes really put the “gag” in gaggle – interrogated Trump’s doctor for an hour.  The president had taken a physical along with a mental acuity test, and I wrote about the resulting press conference:

“The travesty started with the doc stating that Trump’s health is “excellent” and that he has “no mental or cognitive issue whatsoever.”  For a normal bunch of humans, that would elicit a “no story here” reaction, followed by a few perfunctory follow-up questions (“How about that cholesterol, though?”) and an early break for lunch.

But for this bunch of hacks, it was the opening salvo to a 21-gun salute of stupid.

They spent an hour asking variations on the same few questions (“But he might be crazy, right?” “Can you definitively rule out that he’s nuts?” “How many chicken nuggets is Trump short of a Happy Meal?” “But what about the dozens of leftist hack ‘doctors’ who have diagnosed Trump as a paranoid schizophrenic without ever having been in a room with him?)

The “mental acuity” test was a highlight of the circus.  The reporters thought it was a trap they were going to spring on Trump, but it turned out to be a rake that kept whapping them in their empty, coconut skulls.

Usually, I’m very content with my lot in life.  I married up, I’ve got two world-class daughters, I’ve got a good career and a small real estate empire, and the strength of 10 men, because my heart is pure.  My mental acuity is off the charts, and I own a dog who is the envy of the entire canine community.

But I think I would give all of my earthly possessions to have been in that doctor’s place at that press conference:

Reporter: “Why did you give him a mental acuity test in the first place?  Were you worried about that?”

Doctor Me: “Thanks for that inane question, you dolt.  Actually, he asked to be given that test.”

Reporter: “Is that because he is worried about his mental acuity?”

Me: “No.  It’s because he knows that a bunch of you soul-less hacks have been smearing him as mentally unfit.”

Reporter: “So how did he do?”

Me: “He got a 30.”

Reporter (beside himself with glee): “30%?!  That’s awful!”

Me: “Not 30%, you moron.  30 out of 30.  Put your shoes back on, Acosta – that’s 100%.”

Reporter:  “But this test doesn’t mean that he’s psychologically healthy, necessarily.  It only measures acuity, right?”

Me: “You can’t even spell ‘acuity,’ can you?”

Reporter:  “A – Q –”

Me (slapping my forehead):  “Idiots.”

Reporter: “Hey!  These are legitimate questions.  The people have a right to know about their leaders’ health!  We’re just doing our jobs!”

Me: “Like when you ignored Hillary Clinton’s bi-weekly near-death experiences during the campaign?  She had to wear Coke-bottle Mr. Magoo glasses for a while to help prevent seizures, and you never mentioned it.  She collapsed into the side of a limo like the sniper victim in Saving Private Ryan, and you ignored it.”

Reporter: “That wasn’t—”

Me: “During every other speech she went on a coughing jag like a chain-smoking octogenarian in a TB ward!  Nancy Pelosi slurs her speech like Chelsea Handler on the last night of Mardi Gras, and Frederica Wilson’s hat collection is clear prima facie evidence that she’s clinically insane!  And you’ve never asked any questions about any of them, have you?”

Reporter: “But—”

Me: “Shut up.  We’ve administered that same mental acuity test to some of the congressional Democrats.  Would you like to know how they scored?”

Reporter (in a wee, small voice): “no.”

Me (flourishing a print-out):  “Chuck Schumer got half a point.”  (looking over my glasses at the reporters)  “You get one point for spelling your name correctly.”

Reporters: “I don’t think we—”

Me: “The rest of the Democrat leadership scores didn’t make any sense to us, so we consulted a variety of experts.  Finally, a zoologist recognized that their calibrated scores were equivalent to those of several animal species.”

Reporters: “Oh, come on!”

Me: “According to these results, Elizabeth Warren has the mental acuity of a platypus.  And not the brightest platypus, either.  Fourth quintile platypus at best.  The kind of platypus that – if platypi had developed a tiered university system – would be trying to get her gen ed requirements out of the way at a community college with the hope of transferring to a weak state school.   Also, little known fact: the platypus is not a Native American species, even though the slower ones pretend that they are.”  (We must never stop mocking Elizabeth Warren.)

Reporters: “We don’t see what this has to do with—”

Me: “Nancy Pelosi?” (pause for effect)  “Third quintile racoon.”  (uncomfortable murmuring in the room)  “Dick Durbin?”  (no one will meet my eyes)  “Second quintile marmoset.”

Reporters: “What’s a—”

Me: “We had to re-test Frederica Wilson twice, before someone found a botanist who confirmed that she has the acuity of an unspecified deciduous tree.”

Reporters (after a long, shamed silence): “But still, what about Trump’s weight?  That’s not good, is it?”

Me: “That’s it.  Everybody line up.  I’m going to give a Three Stooges’ style sequential face-slap to the whole rotten lot of you!”

And, scene.”

By the way, one commenter noted that “Fourth Quintile Platypus” would be a fine name for a punk band, and I can’t disagree.

In February … Elizabeth Warren gave us all a Valentine’s Day present by revisiting her fairy tale genealogy at a speech to an American Indian group.

“This story has been extensively researched – and extensively debunked – and the smart thing would have been for Warren to let that old story get older.  But “smart” is not the Nordic Cherokee’s strong suit.

She used fake Indian ancestry to get an affirmative action job at Harvard, and launch her academic and later political career.  And she contributed a few alleged Indian recipes for Oklahoma Crab Bisque to a cookbook called (I’m not kidding) Pow Wow Chow.  (This clever recipe would definitely fool anyone who has never seen a crab, or been to Oklahoma, or is otherwise unable to look up either crabs or Oklahoma.)

But that’s done.  It’s in the past.  Or it would be, if she wasn’t stupid enough to bring it up again in front of the National Congress of American Indians!

Look, Liz, you’ve got to face facts.  You’re the least convincing Indian since Cher put on a bedazzled loincloth with a ginormous headdress and sang Half Breed.  (Watch that on Youtube right now, if you haven’t seen it.)  Or since an entire cast of buckskin-wearing vaguely ethnic extras made the tv show F-Troop (Youtube.  Right now!)  Larry Storch, who was supposed to be a white soldier, was a more convincing Indian than you.

Remember Iron Eyes Cody, the Indian who cried over litter in commercials? (Youtube, I tell’s ya!)  He was not an Indian.  He was an Italian guy named Vito Lucchese Siciliano, or something like that.  But at least he had dark skin and dark eyes, and changed his name to “Iron Eyes.”

You’re blonde, and blue eyed, and you look like a New England WASP who is none too pleased that the help is getting a little chatty as she dusts the cherry wood harpsicord that great-great-great-grandfather brought over with him on the Mayflower.   And your name is ELIZABETH!  First it was Elizabeth Herring, and then you married some sap named Warren.

And you know what no librarian has ever said, when surrounded by a semi-circle of bright-eyed four-year olds, on a faded carpet near the circulation desk?  “Gather round, kids, and I’ll tell you story of when the noble Sauk Herrings went on the war path against the fearsome Chickasaw Warrens!”

You’re a doddering old white lady, Liz, and you’re as phony as a Clinton wedding vow, and we will never stop mocking you.

 

In March… Planned Parenthood had a busy month.

“First, they supported the “March for our Lives,” gun-grabbing extravaganza.  Savor the irony: a Planned Parenthood event supporting children’s lives.

On a related note, mark your calendars for April: don’t miss the “National Socialist March for B’Nai B’rith,” on the fifth, the “Silicon Valley Amish Tech-stravaganza,” on the tenth, and the Bill Clinton “Promise Keepers,” rally on the 18th.  (Free “Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery” keychains to the first 200 people through the doors!)

Not satisfied with that shameless stunt, P-squared also took a brave stand on Disney princesses.  A Pennsylvania PP affiliate tweeted earlier this week – and I am not making this up, because no one could – the following:  “We need a Disney princess who’s had an abortion.”

Yikes.  That’s definitely what I wanted I wanted to hear from my daughters, when they were little: “Daddy, remember when Cinderella used to like that shiftless drifter, and then her belly started getting big, but by the time it was time for her to meet Prince Charming, she was skinny again?”

“Yes, honey,” I would never say in a million years, “she had to do that so that she could self-actualize, and marry up, and then slowly reveal her moral vacuity and make the Prince’s life a living hell until he prayed for the sweet release of death.”

“What’s ‘vacuity’?” my daughter would ask, and I’d say, “Look it up in the dictionary.  It’s next to the picture of Elizabeth Warren.”

“Should we ever stop mocking her?” my innocent daughter would ask.

And I’d say, “What do you think, Sweet Pea?”

And she’d look down at her shoes sheepishly, and mumble, “Never?”

And I’d say, “Never, ever, ever.”

 

But Planned Parenthood wasn’t through tweeting yet.  It also called for “pro-choice,” “Illegal immigrant,” “union worker,” and – wait for it – “trans” Disney princesses.

Yes.  A “trans” princess.  Because nothing brings a fantasy story alive like having a prince climb up the side of a tower using Rapunzel’s thick, lustrous beard.  Or like having the prince wake Snow White with a kiss, only to notice as her eyes flutter open that she has morning wood.

Nice job Planned Parenthood!

 

In April… I noticed a small story that struck me as emblematic of the bad behavior of elected leftists that is doing so much to worsen our civic culture.  The culprit this time was a Houston councilwoman named Kellye Burke:

“This upstanding citizen shares a last name with conservative genius of yesteryear Edmund Burke, so I’m predisposed to like her.  But it turns out that her last name is absolutely the only thing she shares with Burke.  For example, she spells her first name with a comically misplaced “e.”

Now maybe we shouldn’t judge her for that, because her parents might have stuck her with that spelling.  But she could have changed it.  “Kelly” is a fine name.  Kelly is the kind of girl who’s a lot of fun on a first date, and she smells nice, and she kisses you for just long enough when you’re dropping her off, and a few months later you take her home to meet mom and dad.

“Kellye,” on the other hand?  As soon as she gets off the main stage, she’ll be going to the Champagne Room, where you can buy her a watered-down drink for $47, followed by a lap dance during which she tells you how she is working her way through community college, and last fall she co-starred in a movie with Stormy Daniels.

Anyway, Kellye recently went into a little store called – I am not making this up – Tiny’s Milk and Cookies.  (I’m so hoping that “Tiny” is a good-natured 300+ pounder who gets a kick out of his/her ironic nickname, and I’d bet you that that place has some darn good cookies, which Tiny has perfected after long, exhaustive process of trial and error and taste-testing.)

At Tiny’s, Kellye sees four teenage girls, who are in line waiting – again, not making this up – to buy cookies for their church group.  Of course, they were wearing Antifa and “I’m With Her” t-shirts.

HA!  I kid.

One of the girls was wearing a Trump “Make America Great Again” t-shirt.

So naturally, “Wrong E” Kellye did what any mentally stable, enlightened leftist adult would do.   She walked up to them and screamed, “Grab them by the p—sy, girls!”  The girls were startled, and tried to laugh it off, but, “Nevertheless, she persisted!”  (Get it?  There’s the required Elizabeth Warren reference.  NSM) (i.e. Never Stop Mocking.)

Then, according to one of the girls’ fathers, “She yells it again.  At that point the girls were getting kind of scared, and then the woman starts going, ‘MAGA! MAGA! MAGA!’ while shaking her fist.”

Someone in the shop reported the woman to the cops, and when they investigated and cited her, they found out that she was a city councilwoman.  She was charged with a Class C Misdemeanor.

I think I know what the “C” stands for.

Next up: the best of May – August.  And in the meantime, please enjoy the 2018 Christmas portrait of Cassie the Wonder Dog.  Her favorite gift was a copy of Charles Krauthammer’s essays, which she has given a two-paws-up rating.