As I write this, the Democratic debate is going on. I’ve not watched any of it yet, because life is short, and I value my stable blood pressure and my sunny outlook on life.
But I will watch the “highlights” (and yes, you may take those quotation marks as ironic) later, because I love my country, and one of these knuckleheads may be elected to lead it, and I probably should find out what they said. But not until after I’ve had some scotch, and some smart people I trust have had a chance to dig through that small mountain or manure to find the closest thing to a pony in there. I’m looking at you, CO, and other prominent COers, and also Ben Shapiro and Andrew Klavan and Steven Crowder, and anyone else who is willing to take one for the team, and watch the interminable yammerings of the dementia of Democrats who are vying for leadership of the free world.
In the meantime, I am going to share with you what I’ve learned in the last week.
First, I learned about the meniscus. Which, contrary to what I believed a week ago, is neither an ancient Greek philosopher and satirist (that was Menippus), or the comically elongated snout of some ridiculous-looking vertebrates (that’s the probiscus).
It is, in fact, a small bit of cartilage in the human knee, and its main function is apparently to turn an athletic, deceptively youthful-looking middle-aged man with catlike grace and agility into a pathetic, Bernie Sanders figure, hobbling around as if he is in his late 100s.
I partially tore the meniscus in my right knee, is what I’m saying.
The origin of the problem was likely over a month ago, when I spent my first day in London walking around 17 miles, after which my knee was strangely sore, and stayed that way for the last 6 weeks. I would have brought it up during that European trip, but I spent part of that time hearing one of my traveling companions, a 93 year-old Kiwi whom I may have mentioned earlier, tell how he landed in Sicily, fought his way up through Italy, eventually climbing a Bavarian alp so that he could drink Hitler’s wine and pee in his bathtub.
After hearing that, I somehow didn’t want to say, “I walked up a flight of stairs in the Tower of London, and now my knee hurts.”
So, I did as my father before me — and his father before him – did. I sucked it up, and did not complain or cry to my godfather that Mr. Woltz is never going to give me that part, and I don’t know what to do. Nope.
I acted like a man, and did not seek treatment until a minor problem became much worse.
Then, after I spent a month transforming from an Olympic athlete into Abe Vigoda, my loving wife lovingly slapped me on the back of the head, and lovingly said, “You’re walking like Bernie Sanders, you moron. Go see a doctor.”
So this week I did. And now I’m scheduled for some PT, and a steroid injection into my knee, and some time in a rakishly fashionable knee brace that drives the ladies crazy, no matter how much I insist that I’m happily married, and keep your hands to yourselves, and my eyes are up here!
The moral of the story is that I’ve always known that we take some of the best things in life for granted. The love of a good woman. The forgiveness of a benevolent God. The second amendment, which gives me the sacred right to shoot Beta O’Rourke in the face if he ever bursts through my door, his gangly arms flailing, hollering about taking my guns away.
To that list, I am now adding a pair of painlessly functioning knees.
Also, the blissful ignorance I lived in until last week, when I thought that Meniscus was an ancient Greek philosopher with a comically elongated nose. Good times, gone too soon.
Speaking of excruciatingly painful things that degrade one’s quality of life, how about that Democrat town hall on climate change last week? Which, if I’m not mistaken, ended only this afternoon, just in time for the Dems to get together and torture us with another debate.
Actually, the town hall was 7 hours long, yet somehow managed to feel longer than the war in Afghanistan.
I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t watch that whole thing, either. On account of my above-mentioned appreciation for the shortness of life, and the value of healthy blood pressure.
But I did watch some excerpts, and yikes!
First of all: 7 hours. Of politicians talking! About climate change?! Which average voters rank near the bottom of urgent issues.
Second, their proposals sound like something that a team of political consultants would work around the clock to come up with as part of a list of positions NOT likely to win anyone any votes.
We can’t eat cheeseburgers, or fly in planes, or use straws that don’t turn into a cardboard-paste choking hazard after three sips. Our utility bills need to be at least $1000 a month. And if we drive a car, it must be an electric-powered Smart Car. (Which made me think: if I had the choice of hobbling to work on one crutch with a shredded meniscus, or have two healthy knees but be forced to drive there in a Smart Car, which would I choose?)
(I’m thinking!)
Consider some of the damage the Dem candidates did to themselves:
Klobuchar (the only Hillary left in the race, now that Gillibrand is gone) said that she’d get rid of all coal plants.
Grandma Squanto (#wemustneverstopmockingher) saw heap big trouble with nuclear plants, which she would ban.
Spartacus said that he’d ban offshore drilling, and fossil fuels generally.
Which, taken together means that we better get used to running our power grid on good intentions, wishful thinking and narcissism. Plus solar for a few hours on sunny days, and windmills when it’s breezy. Great.
Joey Gaffes said that the Green New Deal is just peachy, and “deserves a lot of credit.” Forty-eight seconds later he noted that 85% of the problem is caused by other countries, which (he did not say, but which is obvious) the Green New Deal would not affect at all. Hearing that, God reached His invisible hand down and touched Joey’s plug-ridden, liver-spotted head. And his left eye filled up with blood, and he said, “Goodnight, Tokyo!” then waved and walked off stage, and over to a young camerawoman, and put his hands on her shoulders, and softly kissed her neck until she ran screaming from the hall.
Which, spoiler alert, was nowhere near Tokyo.
Not to be outdone, Kamala “bury her in a Y-shaped coffin” Harris promised that one of her first acts as president would be to abolish the filibuster and ram through the Green New Deal. Also, Trump is a fascist dictator because he likes to act unilaterally.
Bernie Sanders reached the intellectual high point of his 14 decades in public life, when he answered a question from Anderson Cooper about whether he’d reverse Trump’s decision to let people decide what kinds of lightbulbs they want to buy.
Bernie said, and I am not making this up – Google it if you don’t believe me – and I quote, “Duh!”
Pastor Pete covered himself in glory, too. He said, “This [fighting climate change] is the hardest thing we will have done — certainly in my lifetime. This is on par with winning World War II. Perhaps, even more challenging than that.”
And he knows what he’s talking about, because he’s guided South Bend through 3 heavy snow storms, and the Great Garbage Strike of ’17! Move over, Eisenhower, Pistol Pete is in town to save the day!
The only thing he’s right about is that the GND will outstrip WWII in at least one way: it’s going to be a hell of a lot more expensive!
Ugh. The big Democrat winner of the night was Eric Swalwell, who was spared the indignity of embarrassing himself by his wise choice to drop out of the race in total humiliation a month earlier.
Avenatti/Swallwell 2020!
Martin Simpson 