Political Shenanigans, & a Brilliant Criminal comes up with the Perfect Defense (posted 8/23/19)

After a hectic couple of weeks at work, I finally have a few minutes to sit down and review what’s been happening in the world.

Aaaannnndddd… it’s a dumpster fire.  But an intermittently entertaining one.

I just now caught up to the most counter-intuitive news of the month, which blew up when it turned out that an investor in exercise equipment maker SoulCycle had given a fundraiser for Trump, and the tolerant left hit him with a torrent of abuse and boycott threats.

That’s not the counter-intuitive part.  Because there is nothing more intuitive than outraged leftists getting offended that someone who disagrees with them is investing or running a business or going out in public or expressing an opinion or breathing.

The counter-intuitive part is that Michael Moore (D-irigible) came out with a statement that he will no longer use SoulCycle.

Which gave me several thoughts:

1. Is Michael Moore actually self-aware enough that he’s making a self-deprecating joke? If so, that’s pretty funny, and thus the opposite of his usual insufferability.
2. If he actually did use Soul Cycle, sweet merciful crap! What would he look like if he had NOT been working out?  He looks like he’s always posing for a “before” and a “WAY-before” picture.
3. Is it possible that he was shorting Soul Cycle stock and then announced that he had been a customer, thus making a quick killing in the market? If so he’s got CO- or Silber-like investment chops.  (To go with all the pork chops! HA!)

 

The Trumpkin has been tweeting up a storm as usual, and he’s giving me a mix of agita and hiccups.  When he takes to late-night, serial tweeting, he reminds me of an 85-pound person firing an entire clip from a heavy machine gun on full auto.  The first bullet might hit his target, but after that it’s holes in the ceiling and upstairs neighbor’s exploding microwave and splintered door frames and glancing blows off the downstairs neighbor’s toupee and shattered shower tiles and RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

But just as I want to slap him, he lands a shot like a professional comedian.  Consider his comment when anti-Semitic nasty piece of work and jihad-enthusiast Rashida Tlaib pretended she wanted to go to Israel only to see her dear old granny who will likely be dead soon.  When Israel agreed to let her do so, she had a change of heart, and said, “No thanks, I’d rather hate Jews than see my grandma.”

Trump’s response, after rightly pointing out Tlaib’s hypocritical grandstanding: “The only real winner here is Tlaib’s grandmother. She doesn’t have to see her now!”

That’s some top shelf burn right there – I don’t care who you are.  Nicely done, prez – but please, more aimed shots and less “spray and pray!”

 

Elizabeth Warren continues to be a delight.  She recently repeated the race-baiting lie that Michael Brown “was murdered by a white police officer.”  But the Obama DOJ issued an exhaustive report four years ago, the key findings of which are that Brown was a large, violent, African-American male who was justifiably shot by a cop because Brown was assaulting him.

To me, the key parts of that story are “cop justifiably shoots attacking thug.”

To Grandma Squanto, the key parts are “black guy murdered by white cop.”  She ought to be ashamed of herself, and the violent, “Ferguson effect” backlash that racial arsonists like her helped to create.

Speaking of Warren-related atrocities, have you seen the video of her trying to dance earlier this week at an event in MN?  Yikes.  But before you laugh at her, consider that she may have been having a grand mal seizure brought on by a potent combination of political hatred and utter lack of skin pigmentation.

Also, although she may appear to the naked eye to be what scientists would call “an old cracker lady,” can you explain why it began to rain heavily as soon as she started to dance?

I didn’t think so.  #wemustneverstopmockingher

 

Old Joe Biden appears to be losing it.  He has confused recently-defeated Brit PM Theresa May with beloved but long-dead Brit PM Margaret Thatcher (peace be upon her), he’s stated that RFK, JFK and MLK died in the late 1970s, and he’s said that poor kids can be just as talented as white kids.   He also said that he prefers truth over facts, and chocolate over vanilla and Big Foot.  Then he called his wife “mommy” and asked her if the mailman has come yet, because he’s waiting for his order from the Columbia Record and Tape Club, which went out of business when the only thing Obama was president of was the Choom Gang.

And that was all before lunch on Wednesday.

Also, he’s got a double-digit lead over the rest of the Democrat Z-Team.  Sooooooo… good for him, I guess?

 

I mentioned a while back that I was going to write a zippy little political obituary for each of the Democrat candidate as they drop out one by one, and now I’ve got a challenge: What does one say about John Hickenlooper?  Other than, “Who?”

Okay, his goofy name was a little entertaining.  “Hickenlooper/Buttigieg” would have made for funny bumperstickers.

Other than that, he had more support than Eric Swallwell, but less than Marianne Williamson.  (And you can look that last sentence up in the dictionary, under “Damning with faint praise.”)

We salute you, Johnny Hickenlooper!  You are the radon of Democratic politics: your presence is colorless, odorless and impossible to detect.

 

Did you catch the Dimmest Cuomo’s ™ Master Class in “How to Ensure that You are Forever Stuck with a Nickname You Hate?”

I love that the big dope decided to fight what he sees as an anti-Italian stereotype by… wait for it… getting in a guy’s face, dropping a dozen F bombs and threatening to kick him down the bleeping stairs.  The only thing missing was a warning that if the other guy didn’t shut up, he’d soon be sleeping with the fishes.

We get it, Cuomo.  You can handle things.  You’re smart.  Not like everybody says, you’re not dumb.  You’re smart, and you want respect.

Now put on your Gilligan hat and go out to the boat, Fredo.  Rocko will be out in a minute.  Because that’s the way pop wanted it.

 

Finally, as regular readers know, some of my favorite stories are the ones about stupid criminals.  In the past, for example, I’ve written about oft-arrested rapper Yung Mazi, who bragged that he was bulletproof shortly before being shot to death, and about the robber who took four guns away from a TN homeowner whose house he was breaking into, only to get shot by the fifth gun the man had in the house.  (As one does, in TN.) (Go Vols!)

One great sub-genre of the stupid criminals story is the incredibly stupid denial to the cops.

For example, when a guy is pulled over and the cops find drugs or guns in his car, he always says they are not his.  Which is sometimes pretty plausible, if he hangs around with the kind of miscreants who are always leaving their guns or drugs lying around.

If the gun or drugs are under his seat, maybe less so.

The funnier ones are when the cops find the contraband in one of his pockets, and he says something brilliant like, “These aren’t my pants!”

Well step aside, army of idiot criminals (and, coincidentally, large slice of the Democrat voting base), because you have officially been topped.

I give you the story of young Ms. Ashley Beth Rolland, 23, who was recently arrested in Louisiana.  A man with whom she’d been staying for a week accused her of theft, and the cops picked her up and searched her.  They found, and I quote, “a clear plastic bag with approximately 1 gram of meth and $6,233 in cash.”

Did they find that stuff in her car, you ask?  They did not.

Did they find it under her seat?  No. (But… sort of.)

Did they find it in her shirt pocket?  Nope.

Because this is a family column, I’m going to say that they found it… secreted in her person.

And yes, the operative pronoun here is not “on,” it is “in.”

Not as in, “I’ve got a song in my heart,” or “Deep down inside, I’ve got a little something called grit.”

I mean, “in” as in, “Let’s play a spirited round of ‘Democrat President and Young Intern.’  Today’s episode: “Where Did I Leave my Cigar?”

When you look at Ms. Rolland’s booking photo, I think you’ll be surprised.  She’s pretty attractive, with a rough-around-the-edges Olivia Wilde vibe to her.  At the risk of being look-ist, I would not have expected that.  If you showed me a lineup of mug shots and asked which of these gals is most likely to be carrying a mortgage down-payment on her, without the benefit of a purse or pocketbook, I would not have picked out Rolland.

All that being said, Ashley Beth Rolland is not a hero because of her crime.  She’s a hero because of her brilliant response to the accusations of the cynical police.

When the female officer had… I’m going to say “extracted” … the contraband, Rolland said that “the illegal drugs were not hers, and she did not know how they got there.”

How would you like to be her defense lawyer?  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury… um… this is not what it looks like.  Well, maybe it is.  But you know how some people don’t trust banks?  Well my client REALLY doesn’t trust banks.  So….”

Avenatti/Rolland 2020!