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.”
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…”
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.