The Impeachment Hearings Fiasco (posted 11/25/19)

I must be honest with all of you: I have not watched a minute of the impeachment-palooza live.  As part of my painstakingly developed and richly rewarding philosophy of “life is too short to focus on petty Schiff,” I’ve devoted most of the last two weeks to my usual stuff: being a world-class husband and father, making the world a better place, taking long, meditative walks with Cassie the Wonder Dog.  That kind of thing.

But I have watched some nightly excerpts from the hearings, and I have to admit that – in small doses – it was pretty entertaining.  But also, pretty sobering.  Because these people are the elected representatives of a great nation, yet these hearings were one bearded lady short of a freakshow.  And not in a good way.

Not since a gallant young Joey Gaffes faced off against the dreaded gang bangers Bran Flake, Corn Pop and Sugar Smack has a fight been so over-promoted, and ended up being so lopsided.  On one side, there were Adam “Mr. Mackey” Schiff (mmmkay?), a cavalcade of witnesses to nothing, and the entire MSM.  On the other side, there were Jim Jeffords and a handful of competent GOP questioners.

It was as if Mike Tyson in his prime got into the ring with Stephen Hawking in his prime.  Only if instead of being a genius trapped in a wheelchair and suffering from a terrible disease, the guy in the wheelchair had been a hateful moron.  And you can guess which side was Mike Tyson just by counting the number of times a GOP questioner asked the simple question, “Can you identify a single impeachable crime that you know that Trump committed?” only to receive the answer, “No.”

Ouch.  If you look up the meaning of the phrase, “If it were a fight, they would’ve stopped it,” in the dictionary, you’d find a reference to these hearings.

It’s difficult to isolate the worst aspect of the hearings, but no list would be complete without the dim-witted, bug-eyed Ring Master, Adam Schiff.

Like most of you, I tend to associate Adam Schiff with the number 2.  Sure, the familiar Number 2 pencil reference is obvious.  But perhaps the more relevant connection is between the “evidence” that Schiff came in with and the kind of number 2 that Nancy Pelosi’s voting base has coated the sidewalks of San Francisco with.  Because Schiff really had nothing.

A low point might have been reached when Schiff looked straight into the camera and insisted that he does not know the identity of the whistleblower/leaker.  Everyone in Washington knows the identity of the whistleblower, and everyone in the country knows that Schiff knows the identity of the whistleblower.  Not since Bill Clinton pointed his bony finger at the camera and angrily insisted that he had not had sexual relations with that woman have I seen someone lie so blatantly, and so unconvincingly.

Another low-light came when someone named Holmes was testifying.  (I don’t know who he is, except that his first name is most definitely NOT Sherlock.)   He had some sweet second-hand gossip about conversations that some guys had about Trump’s Ukraine phone call.  He said that one of the other guys was – and I quote —  “nodding knowingly, as though he’d been briefed on it,” and went on to say that all of the nodding gave Holmes the “clear impression” that everyone obviously thought that Trump was quidding and pro-ing, with a heavy does of quo-ing in there too.

That is really part of the official transcript now: nod interpretation, and the consequent impressions given by such portentous nodding.  That’s considered “evidence” in an effort to impeach an American president.

Would I be out of order to suggest that sometimes people mis-interpret non-verbal signals from other people?

In fact, despite my well-known reputation as an astute observer of humanity in all its forms, even I have mis-read a signal or two in my time.  For example, at a party in high school I was convinced that a young woman was winking at me in a seductive manner, though it tragically turned out that she just had something in her eye.  And a boyfriend who outweighed me by 35 pounds.  I was also quite convinced that a different young lady had a crush on me, only to find out later that she was in fact a lesbian, who thought of me as a brother.  (When I asked her whether she meant the kind of ruggedly handsome brother who might be the rare guy who could turn her from her lesbian ways with his potent combination of charm and sex appeal, I was not pleased by her answer.)

On the other hand, I was once certain that yet another young woman I fancied did not care for me at all, until she approached me at a party and slapped my behind while whispering something in my ear that would have made me blush, were I not a worldly, man-about-town sophisticated type.  Because this was years before I’d been enlightened by the #metoo movement, and therefore didn’t realize that I’d been the victim of a traumatizing sexual assault, I responded by immediately leaving the party with her.  On the way out, I held the door open for her, and returned the gesture.  Because I am a gentleman.

Where was I?  Oh yeah.  Anti-Sherlock is sure that Trump is a traitor, because one time this one guy winked, and nodded, and tapped the side of his nose while raising his eyebrow.  So, treason, I guess?


While some of the specific moments were entertaining, there is no getting around the monumental absurdity at the center of this impeachment process: The Dems’ original intention had been to weaken Trump politically – and maybe get rid of him completely — by layering all kinds of sinister interpretations onto Trump’s executive-privilege-protected phone call with the Ukrainian president.  Then Trump wrong-footed them by releasing a transcript of the call.

Any intelligent partisan hacks would have then folded up their tent and gone on to the next pseudo-scandal.  But not these geniuses.  They forged – and I do mean “forged” — ahead, and after months of laying the groundwork, they started impeachment hearings in which many witnesses argued for many hours about interpretations of that sinister phone call.  A phone call that – I know that I don’t need to remind you, because you don’t have a Biden-esque attention span – WE ALREADY HAVE THE TRANSCRIPT OF!  OH! OOHHHH!

Sorry about that.  I forgot that I had my Sam Kinison filter turned on.

It really was amazing to watch.  It was as if I drove up to some buddies in a new vehicle, got out, and they immediately began arguing:

Buddy 1: I think Martin’s new car is a sweet Lexus.

Buddy 2: I’m pretty sure that it’s a Chevy Volt.

Buddy 1: No way.  I heard that it has 4 doors!

Buddy 2: My impression is that it’s a 2-door.

Me: Guys, it’s right behind you.  Just look at it.  It’s a Ford F-150.

Buddy 1: I heard from a guy who’s dating the best friend of a secretary at the dealership that Martin’s car is a midnight blue Japanese luxury sedan.

Buddy 2: I asked a guy in the hallway if it was a white Chevy Volt, and he pointed his finger at me like it was a gun, which gave me the clear impression that it is.

Me: Guys, turn around.  It’s a red F-150.

Buddy 1: I know my cars, and sources of mine have been to the Lexus plant in Tennessee, so I know my Lexuses.

Buddy 2: You may know Lexuses, but do you know anything about Chevy Volts?  Because to the best of my recollection, that’s what Martin’s car is.

And then, because in my hypothetical example Sam Kinison is still alive, and staying at my house for some reason, he jumps off of my porch, slams my two friends’ heads together, and screams, “IT’S RIGHT BEHIND YOU, YOU IDIOTS!  JUST TURN AROUND AND LOOK AT IT!  LOOK AT IT!!!  OH, OHHHH!!”

And, scene.


It just went on and on.  Sondland was supposed to be the star witness — after earlier “star” witnesses turned out to be “homeless schizophrenics mumbling to themselves about how their ex-wives are possessed by demons” witnesses – and he was forced to reveal maybe the most damning detail in the whole debacle.  He was asked, “What did Trump actually say he wanted?”  He had to admit that Trump said, “I want nothing.  I want no quid pro quo.”

Again, in a sane world, the only reasonable response to that would have been, “Good night folks.  We apologize for putting you through all of this, but you can all go home now.  Don’t forget to tip your waitress.”

But in a world with a Democrat-controlled House, what followed was 6 hours of speculation that what Trump REALLY meant by “no quid pro quo” was actually “yes, give me that quid pro quo.”


How did the MSM cover this giant nothing-burger, served on a zero-bun, with a side of zilch fries and garnished with some zip-lettuce?  (Also, I’d like nada for the drink.  And hold the substance.)

They went out of their minds, and began spitting out breathless military metaphors and Armageddon-level hysteria.  Everything was a “bombshell” or an “IED” or a “devastating attack.”  The testimony was explosive, the president’s defenses are crumbling, his supporters are abandoning ship, our constitution is being sexually assaulted, and today was a turning point and a tipping point, and the beginning of the end.  Schiff was galloping down Pennsylvania on a pale horse, and death was riding with him!!  DEATH, we tells ya!!

Over THIS.  Over repeated rounds of, “Do you know of any crime the president committed?”  “No.”  Over speculative interpretations of third-hand innuendo from anonymous sources who everybody knows are partisan hacks.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I didn’t vote for Trump in the primaries, and he’s far from my dream candidate.  But compared to THIS motley collection of stooges, hacks and partisan hatchet men, Trump is looking better and better.

To summarize, the smartest leftist comment of the entire week came from Eric Swallwell, and that didn’t come from his mouth.


Avenatti/Swallwell 2020!

Elections, Sports, Pandering & the Stupidest Statement of the Year (posted 11/15/19)

Well, the elections last week certainly didn’t go the way I would have liked.  Kentucky elected a Dem governor, and Virginia’s state government went solidly Dem, too.  I can’t pretend to have followed these elections real closely.  As part of my “life is too short to spend too much of it on following politics” philosophy, I try to restrict my political attention span to those issues which might directly affect me (national elections and those in my home state and town).

What little I’ve read suggests that the GOP KY governor was very unpopular  (MSM message: It’s a referendum on Trump!), and the VA elections have been increasingly shaped by a burgeoning population of immigrants, and government workers in the DC ring counties (MSM message: It’s a referendum on Trump!)

(By the way, the only election that was NOT a referendum on Trump, according to the MSM: that time when Trump won the presidency.)

But I wish my fellow citizens in VA good luck with their choice.  And because they don’t have my sweet, prognosticating wizard hat —  which I keep in my climate-control hat-storage unit, between my high school football helmet on one side and my Martacus-style Roman centurion helmet on the other – I’d suggest that they look to Detroit, Baltimore and San Francisco for a preview of their bright future under leftist governance.

In other words, stock up on your fecal shovels and those inversion table things that allow you to be suspended upside down, so that your wallet and all of your change will fall out on the ground, to be snatched up by your greedy local pols.

(By the way, I saw the Fecal Shovels open for the Sex Pistols in 1975.  Killer show!)


In sports news, the World Series was played a week or two ago.  Unfortunately, since they scheduled it during football season, I had to miss all of the games.  Still, the late, great Charles Krauthammer was one of my heroes, and he loved the Washington National, so I’m glad that they won.

Speaking of blindingly obvious left-wing media bias – and though you didn’t know we were speaking of that, we were — how about that MSM coverage of the World Series?  It seems that Trump went to see one of the games, and received a lot of booing, along with some cheering.   So naturally, Brian Stelter ran and leapt into the “Giant-Dishonest-Human-Thumb-mobile,” raced it across town to CNN headquarters, and sprint-waddled in front of the cameras to gleefully crow about Trump’s getting booed.  The rest of the MSM – Squinty, Snarly, Butch-Cut, and even Dan Rather, who’d wandered into a coat closet in a Radisson and started babbling into a coat hanger that he thought was a microphone – followed suit.  They could barely contain their excitement.

Several days later, the Nationals win, and go to the White House, and one of their star players puts on a MAGA hat and makes the kind of fawning, pro-Trump speech that all of the other athletes aimed at Obama for 8 solid years.

The total number of minutes that the entire MSM devoted to the pro-Trump baseball story?  Think of AOC’s IQ.  Then subtract 27.

That’s right: zero.


And on the topic of zeroes, Kamala Harris seems to have stabilized her support in the primaries.  But don’t worry: she’s got a plan to get herself back up into the 2s and 3s.  And then — if Deval Patrick is flying with Michael Bloomberg on his private jet, and that jet ingests a flock of Canadian geese and then plunges into a high school gym in Iowa where all of the other Democrat candidates are debating, and the jet fuel ignites and burns the gym to the ground – Kamala Harris will be ready to make her move!

Her latest exploitative publicity stunt was to appear on MSNBC’s ironically named program “Live” (reaching an audience in the dozens) in the wake of a high school shooting in CA to push for a gun law that would have had no effect whatsoever on the shooting that she was there to exploit.  But at least she made a cogent, clear-headed, logos-filled argument on the topic.

HA!  I kid.  She made the kind of cringe-inducing fallacy-laden emotional screed that we’ve come to expect from her: “I have looked at autopsy photographs. I have hugged the parents of murdered children. This has to stop being a partisan issue, an intellectual issue, an ideological issue. I dare the people that stand on circumstances. I dare them to look at the autopsy photos of their babies, I dare them, and then vote their conscience.”

How many kinds of wrong are there in that short quote?  Let me count:

  1. She’s looked at some gross autopsy photos, which I guess proves that she has a higher tolerance for the grotesque than the rest of us. But I think we already knew that, because during the crucial part of the job interview that got her her first high-profile political job, she looked at the naked body of creepy old Democrat power-broker Willie Brown.  So… yikes.
  2. She said she doesn’t want this to be an intellectual issue. You don’t say.
  3. She also hates when gun control becomes a partisan or ideological issue. If only the evil, deplorable, Nazi right-wingers could just stop with their fascist partisanship!!
  4. If I weren’t so emotionally mature, I’d double-dog dare her to look at all of the autopsy photos of people killed by criminals because they lived under arrogant far-leftists who restricted their access to a handgun that they might have used to defend themselves.

But I am too emotionally mature for that.  So I’ll just quietly continue working on my draft of a haiku to commemorate that happy day when Kamala drops out of the race.


Finally, though the impeachment circus has barely begun, it’s already produced at least one towering, brain-dead quote for the ages.  I refer, of course, to the work of Illinois Democrat congressman Mike Quigley.  If you were watching the hearings with the sound off to prevent yourself from instinctively plunging any handy sharp instrument into your ear drums, he’s the one who looks like Garrison’s Keillor’s dim-witted second cousin.

When Adam “Mr. Mackey” Schiff (Mmmmkay?) had called his first two “star” witnesses, and all of their “evidence” turned out to be fifth-hand or worse (“I heard from a S’Barro’s janitor who got it from an Uber driver who once drove Donald Trump’s accountant’s secretary’s step-mom that Trump was out to get Joe Biden.”), Sophocles Quigley leapt in to shore up the case.

Thus spake the Quigler:  ““Hearsay can be much better evidence than direct evidence.”

“YES!” said O.J. Simpson.

“Exactly!” said Harvey Weinstein.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” said Bill Cosby

“It’s like Vernon Jordan said, I never had sexual relations with that woman!” said Bill Clinton.    Then Hillary smashed a lamp over his head, screaming, “If it weren’t for you and the Macedonians, I’d be president right now!  CAW, CAW!!”


In any sane world, the people running and covering this circus would be mortified by the kind of naked partisan stupidity represented by Quigley’s statement.  Listen to it again,  and contemplate how long it would take you to come up with something as intensely stupid as “Hearsay can be much better evidence than direct evidence.”

This is the best I can do, and none of these are even close:

A plastic blow-up doll can be much better than a real woman.

A vegan soy patty can be much better than a hamburger.

A soccer match can be much better than a football game.

Jeffrey Epstein definitely killed himself.


Clearly, we are not living in a sane world anymore.


Avenatti/Quigley 2020!

No More Beto to Kick Around, Hillary Considers Another Canter around the Political Track, & More Insanely Great Fallout from the Hero Dog Story (posted 11/4/19)

Before I get started, I have to mention the head-dress-wearing elephant in the room: Grandma Squanto has proposed a health care plan that will cost $52 trillion (with a “T”!) over 10 years, without costing middle-class families one extra penny in taxes!

Read that again.  Now consider that the ENTIRE US GDP last year was the highest it has ever been.  And it was 18.6 trillion. So the Indigenous Magician (#wemustneverstopmockingher) is going to spend 2.8 years’ worth of our total GDP in 10 years, without it costing a single penny from about 2/3 of the population.   She says that that’s a promise!

Also, eat all the ice cream and cake you want, and never gain a pound.  And if you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor.  And the check is in the mail, and I will respect you in the morning, and this horse is a sure thing in the 5th race at Pimlico.

I can only conclude that Lizzie no longer identifies as an Indian princess.  She now identifies as a Nigerian prince, and she has a multi-million dollar account that she will happily transfer to you, if you can just send her $3200 first, to pay the taxes on your windfall.



Sad news about Beto O’Rourke giving up on his presidential bid, isn’t it?  Remember when he appeared on the cover of Vanity Fair with an accompanying gushy profile story, and was a Kennedyesque young firebrand who was going to parlay just barely losing to Ted Cruz into skateboarding his way into the White House?

And then… we saw him.  And listened to him.  And it turned out that he was pushing a typical 50-gallon barrel full of far-left snake oil – government control of everything, skyrocketing taxes, no borders, and we’ll confiscate your guns, thank you – and that he was a phony Irish rich kid with a fake-Hispanic name.

Plus, we noticed that he’s a twitchy weirdo, and basically just a conglomerated jumble of odd physical and verbal tics.  He jumps up on tables for no reason, and he has trouble modulating the volume and speed of his speech.  He randomly over-gestures like one of those wacky inflatable arm-waving tube-man things that desperate retailers put up outside of their tire store or mattress outlet or vaping emporium when they want to goose foot traffic.

After the most enthusiastic young progressives’ first-date-with-Beto afterglow wore off – and (I’m just speculating here) their blood alcohol and THC content dissipated — they looked into the mirror and said, “Yikes!  Let’s take another look at the Indian white scold lady, and the 1000-year-old socialist crank, and the judge-y little gay teenager, and the old man who told Corn Pop to get off his lawn.”

So on Friday, Beto called it quits.   In keeping with my pledge to you, I’ve written a haiku to commemorate his exit from the race:

Skateboarding doofus,

Empty-headed arm waver,

You will not be missed.


But cheer up, progressives.  Because Hillary is considering throwing her feedbag back into the ring!

Sorry, “hat.”  She’s thinking of throwing her hat back in the ring.

And why not? When polls show that almost half of Americans don’t mind seeing Trump investigated for a possible impeachment, and the Dems are convinced that he’s a Hitlerian threat to our democracy and is in the midst of the worst first term since Bush caused 9/11, or something… and yet those same polls show that he’s either neck-and-neck with or leading the “strongest” of the current Dem candidates?  Maybe it’s time for a little of the old Clinton shock-and-CAW again!

I mean, she’s tanned, she’s rested, she’s freshly shod.  She’s got a clear handle on the Macedonians, Russian bots, sexists and white nationalists and deplorables who were behind her defeat last time.  And as she said in a recent interview/fever dream, “I’m sure that I could beat him again!”

And I think she’s got an advantage when it comes to the theatrics of a modern political campaign.  For example, do you remember how Bill used to pull up his pants and then enter one frenzied arena after another to a high-decibel rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing?”

Well Hillary has a ready-made, awesome entrance/theme song that is sure to get her crowds on their feet.  It’s a raucous little high-energy ditty by Mr. Elton John.

No, it’s certainly not “Tiny Dancer.”  “Don’t go Breaking My Heart” and “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues” are closer, but not right.  And Elizabeth Warren already has dibs on “Honky Cat.”  (HA!) (#wemustneverstopmockingher) (And yes, that’s three hashtags for Grandma Squanto, to make up for a few of my recent columns being hashtag-less.)

You’ll think of it.  And when you do, you’ll recognize that it is perfect.


Finally, I’ve been enjoying even more of the fall-out from the story of our American hero dog who hounded (HA!) the smelly terrorist Al-Baghdadi during his last, miserable moments.

First, I was surprised to hear that despite the fact that the courageous canine’s name is Conan, she is actually a female.  Which only makes the story sweeter.  Given the Islamic disdain for both dogs and for females, it is doubly funny to think that it was literally a bi*ch that cornered the fleeing thug.

However, this news does change a few details from my Friday column. Please re-read it, and replace all of the “GOOD BOY!” references with “GOOD GIRL!” Also, when I wished that Conan would have raised his leg on Al-Baghdadi at the end, that is obviously an inoperative wish.   She clearly should have squatted over him… which I hope that she did.

Additionally, when she thought Conan was male, Cassie the Wonder Dog seriously considered giving him a carnal reward for a job well done.  But since Cassie does not play for Katie Hill’s team (so to speak), that offer is now off the table.  (Although Cassie tells me that if she ever were to… experiment… a gallant girl like Conan would be top of the list.)

By the way, how cool is it that even our female war dogs have badass macho names?  I look forward to hearing how the next four heads of ISIS are chased down and bitten to death by four female German shepherds named Chuck Norris, John Cena, Mike Ditka and George Patton!

Also, as a lover of language, I must point out that Al-Baghdadi’s middle name – Bakr – is an anagram of “bark.”   I can only hope that in his final, disorienting panic, he believed that the infidels had somehow come up with a dog that speaks his own language, and that she was yelling his name as she chased him.  “Bakr!   Bakr!  I’m coming for you, Bakr!”

Man, I love everything about this!  Zero Bark Thirty.  Jokes about how our military is obviously racist, since it deploys dogs in black face!  (GOOD GIRL!)  And I never thought I’d write this sentence: Arnold is now my SECOND-favorite Conan.

Love, love, love it!


But the best part of the whole story involves two of my favorite things: Trump trolling the MSM, and the MSM falling for it and beclowning themselves.

You’ve probably heard about the smart, funny conservatives at Daily Wire (if you don’t already follow them, you should) making a meme in which they used the magic of photoshop to replace a Medal of Honor winner from a past WH ceremony with Conan.  The resulting image showed Trump putting a ribbon and “Medal of Pawnor” around Conan’s neck.  Someone sent the pic to Trump, who tweeted it with a laugh.

So naturally the MSM lost their minds.  They recognized the terrible, constitution-endangering fraud involved in sending out such a specious image, and they responded proportionally.  Totally, rationally, proportionately.

An earnest young Washington Post reporter emailed Daily Wire co-founder Jeremy Boring, seeking confirmation that they had actually put out a false image of Trump giving a medal to the dog.   Boring responded with an email for the ages: “You must be f-ing joking.  And please quote me on that.”

Other leftist fact checkers went into overdrive, running down this earth-shaking story.  The Huffington Post breathlessly described for their reader (and yes, I’m assuming that noun should be singular) the WH image, but then broke the case wide open:  “However, the photo didn’t really happen. Someone Photoshopped a picture of the hero dog over an Associated Press photo of 2017 Medal of Honor recipient…”

I did not make that quote up.  Maybe the best part is that they try to build suspense by reporting that a shadowy “someone” did the photoshopping.  How do we know that Sherlock Holmes is not doing fact-checking work at the HuffPo, you ask?  Because the picture had a watermark saying “Daily Wire” on it.  My dear Watson, that could almost count as a clue!  In fact, a paragraph later, the story mentions the Daily Wire.  So…cue the sad trombone, I guess?

Not to be outdone by the brain-trust at HuffPo or the WA Po, the Old Gray Lady — not Hillary, or Grandma Squanto.  I mean the New York Times — was also on the case, publishing a story entitled, “Trump Tweets Faked Photo of Hero Dog Getting a Medal.”

Ah, groundbreaking NYT headlines!

Move over, “Germany Surrenders!”

Step aside, “Man Walks on the Moon!”

Make way, “Some People Did Something, and Now the World Trade Center Has Disappeared!”

Save a 2020 Pulitzer-trophy-sized space on the bookshelf for “Trump Tweets Faked Dog Photo!”

The Times even tracked down the Medal of Honor winner whose picture the hero dog was superimposed over, apparently expecting that he’d be a Bradley/Chelsea Manning type, and burst into tears before running into a corner, pulling his gender-ambiguous undergarments over his head, and start sucking his thumb.

Instead, because he’s a normal human and a military hero, he laughed, and praised service dogs, and said that he wasn’t offended.   So, a sad trombone duet, I guess?

The funniest thing about this story is that it took TWO NYT reporters to write it!

Now if you have been reading this column for very long, you know that I do not like to sing my own praises.  Sure, in the past I’ve been forced to admit that I am a hilarious genius, I’ve shaken hands with a man who pissed in Hitler’s bathtub, and have the meniscus of a better-conditioned Usain Bolt.  But I am not comfortable with that kind of praise.

However, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that I’ve written this entire column BY MYSELF, with no help from fact checkers or a research team, or even the powerful and mysterious CO!  And this column has contained three hashtag shots at Lizzie Warren, a Longfellow-esque Beta O’Rourke haiku, and a trenchant John Cena reference!  You think you’d find that kind of range in an entire year of NYT stories?  Don’t make me laugh.

I guess what I’m saying is, when can I expect my phone call from the Pulitzer committee?


Avenatti/Skateboarding Doofus 2020!

Al-Baghdadi is Al-bagh-deady! Plus other Dem Follies (posted 11/1/19)

So I leave for a short trip, and all kinds of hilarity ensues.

I’m going to save the best news for last, and catch up on a few other highlights of the last 10 days or so.  Starting with the implosion of the Dems’ secretive, not-really-impeachment impeachment hearings in a basement room at the capitol.

First, I love a good acronym, and SCIF – Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility – is a great one, with just the right quasi-sinister, Dr. Evil overtones for a place in which a Star Chamber of angry leftists would gather in secret to overturn election results with which they disagree.

Second, I love the way the GOP actually stood up to the Dems and created good optics for themselves, when they showed up and demanded entry to the secret hearing room.  After all of the selective leaking that had been going on, the closed-door hearings appeared patently unfair to any even partially neutral observer, so it was good political theater for the GOP pols to force their way in.  And it was icing on the cake to see Adam “Mr. Mackey” Schiff (mmmkay?) flee the room immediately, the way one does when caught in the act of doing something underhanded.

The fact that Pelosi has found it necessary to call for a vote to make the ongoing proceedings at least nominally more open to the public is a tacit admission that the Dems were in the wrong.

One of my favorite board games as a kid was the murder-solving game Clue.  I’m sure you remember it: the point was to be the first to solve the mystery by identifying which character was the killer, in which room the murder took place, and the murder weapon.  (“Miss Scarlet, in the conservatory, with the lead pipe.”)

The GOP showdown at the SCIF was called “a political stunt” by the MSM.  (Funny how when a bunch of Dems lay down on the House floor and hold their breath to demand a never-going-to-happen vote on repealing the 2nd amendment, the MSM calls that a “sit-in in the grand tradition of civil rights protests,” and not a stunt.  Or when leftists exploit an autistic Swedish teen by letting her rant about manbearpig at the UN, that’s a brave youngster speaking truth to power, and not a dishonest political stunt.)  But the proof is in the pudding: the GOP called the Dems’ bluff, and the Dems’ subsequent retreat and reluctant pseudo-impeachment vote show that their secretive hearings were a political blunder.  In trying to take down Trump from behind closed doors, they only screwed themselves.

I guess what I’m trying to say is:  Schiff.  In the SCIF.  With a marital aid.


In other lefty self-destruction news, Democrat California congresswoman Katie Hill’s sex scandal led to her resignation last Sunday.

The dissolution of a marriage is almost always a sad story, and I would normally take no pleasure in discussing it.  That being said, the way that Hill lashed out as she resigned is worthy of comment, and the way the MSM covered the story is enough to trigger one’s gag reflex.

The story’s details are partly just good, old-fashioned tabloid fodder: bisexual female pol brings a young female employee into a three-way sexual relationship with her odd husband, then spurns both of them to cheat with a young male staffer.  Add in some nude pictures that also feature drug use and a Nazi-era tattoo in the crotchular region, and you’ve got yourself the makings of an “Elvis Spotted in Three-way with Elon Musk and Lady Gaga” sized headlines.

But take away the titillating details, and you’ve got a textbook #MeToo story: powerful, rising-star pol exploits and takes sexual advantage of powerless young employee.  To cite the tired old rhetorical question: can you imagine how much more attention this story would have gotten if the creepy pol were a Republican?

What makes the story less sad and more karmically satisfying is the way that Hill lashed out in her resignation speech.   After a little perfunctory rhetorical throat-clearing along the lines of “I regret my mistakes,” Hill laid into the evil, sexist conservatives who are REALLY to blame.  “I am leaving now because of a double standard,” she said. “I’m leaving, but we have men who have been credibly accused of intentional acts of sexual violence and remain in boardrooms, on the Supreme Court, in this very body and, worst of all, in the Oval Office.”

Yes.  She’s just like Brett Kavanaugh.  Except that instead of being falsely accused of sexual misbehavior by a partisan hack 30 years after the fact and with no evidence at all, she was photographed 10 minutes ago hooking up with a subordinate employee, while doing drugs and flaunting a tattoo you might expect to find on any trendy, lesbian Hitler-enthusiast.

And the MSM played the story right down the middle, as you might expect.  For example, a Slate story (I read that trash so that you don’t have to.) (You’re welcome.) on the scandal had a subtitle claiming that “Right Wing pundits are harming” the young staffer she seduced.  (Because that is Logic 101: A leftist pol sexually exploits an underling.  Who is to blame?  Right wing pundits.  Duh!)

From the Slate story:  “Other right-wing pundits have rushed to depict Hill as an inconvenient example of liberal hypocrisy over the #MeToo movement.”  (Damn those evil right-wingers, with their rushing, and their accusing liberal hypocrites of being… liberal hypocrites!)

The Slate writer generously concedes that, “Hill very well may have committed an ethical breach by engaging in a relationship with a subordinate…”  Ya think?!

But she goes on to denounce the real bad guys: “Now, the conservative pundits denouncing Hill’s supposedly predatory behavior are treating the woman they claim is a victim as a prop for their own political purposes.”

Got that?  Her behavior was “supposedly predatory.”  (A phrase you may remember from the Harvey Weinstein coverage, as in “Weinstein’s supposedly predatory behavior amounted to little more than coercing dozens of young actresses into a satisfying sexual relationship with the supposedly repulsive studio boss.”  Or not.)  And the conservatives are the ones treating the young employee as a prop.  Not her lecherous, unfaithful boss.  Nope. It’s those nasty conservative pundits.  Have they no shame?

For me, the worst part of the story is that Hill introduced a repulsive new word into our lexicon: the “thruple.”

It’s an ugly word, to describe a creepy practice, and it brings to mind an unpleasant hypothetical to me:  If I were to come home from work one day and say to my world-class wife, “Hey honey, I’ve got an idea I’d like to run by you.  What do you say I invite a 20-something girl from my office into our marital bed for a very modern, progressive three-way romp in the sheets?”

After she fired a crisp right jab into my solar plexus, what sound would my body make as I collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath?



Finally, the news of the month was the oh-so-timely death of evil ISIS leader Abu Bakr Al-Baghdadi.  Cue the video of Ray Charles singing “Oh Happy Day!” with a horde of dashiki-clad church goers, because this was the story that just kept on giving!

First, it’s so great to be reminded what an amazing collection of special forces studs we have protecting us, and putting fear into the hearts of evil men all over the world.  Any one of those guys is worth more than all of the politicians in Washington, with every actor in Hollywood and every “journalist” in the MSM thrown in.

Second, how about the picture of the war dog that helped chase Mr. Weird Beard Rapist into the tunnel that he died in?  I’d expected to see something like a cross between a werewolf and a giant pit bull, with blood dripping from bared fangs.  Instead, it’s a sweet-looking dog with a goofy smile, and his tongue lolling like he’s ready to tear off and chase down a frisbee – or another black-hearted jihadi freak – at a moment’s notice.   All I could think of was, “Who’s a good boy?  YOU ARE!”

And Trump was at his Trumpiest in his announcement, saying, “Our ‘K-9,’ as they call it,” Mr. Trump said, “I call it a dog. A beautiful dog — a talented dog — was injured and brought back.”

Of course Cassie the Wonder Dog was ecstatic when the story broke, and she saw the hero dog’s picture.  She’s been trotting around the house with her head just a little higher, wearing her canine pride on her sleeve, ever since.  I get the distinct feeling that if she hadn’t been fixed, she’d eagerly go visit that brave war dog and show him her gratitude, if you know what I mean.  Unless he was married to a Democratic politician who wanted Cassie to become part of a thruple.  (A “pupple?”) Classy Cassie wouldn’t go for that, because we’ve raised her right.

It’s especially satisfying to think that one of the last things that panicky, running jihadi creep heard was an American dog (GOOD BOY!) closing in on him.  The Islamic disdain for dogs as unclean animals is incomprehensible to me, but it adds an extra layer of gratification to know that Al-Baghdadi felt just a little extra humiliation in his last moments.

Another great thing to come out of this story?  The MSM took it as another excuse to absolutely cover themselves in shame.  Everybody has commented on the Washington Post’s initial idiotic headline – “Austere Religious Scholar Dies at 48” – and the mocking parallels almost write themselves.  (“German Shepherd Owner and Promising Artist Adolph Hitler Dies at 56,” “Transylvanian Patriot and Stake-Decorator Vlad the Impaler Dead at 49”)

And one reporter after another squirmed and twisted and grimaced as they grudgingly reported the good news, finding fault with everything about Trump’s announcement.  It was terrible the way he mocked Al-Baghdadi in death.  He sounded more like a terrorist himself. All of that gloating was so distasteful!

By the way, do you remember how the MSM hammered Obama for taking a victory lap after he ordered the raid that killed Bin Laden?  Me neither.  I mean, sure, Obama didn’t get all Trumpy about it.  (“Bin Laden died like a dog.  One minute he was watching porn, and the next he was whimpering and running and screaming like a beeyotch.”)  And more’s the pity.  But for years afterward, Joey Gaffes constantly bellowed the gloating refrain, “Bin Laden is dead, and GM is alive!”  And MSM never got their dresses over their heads, worrying about how such bragging might make those nasty jihadis REALLY mad at us now!

The delicious cherry on the schadenfreude sundae was Mummified-American Nancy Pelosi whining that Trump hadn’t informed the Democrats about the raid before it happened.  Trump’s response was perfect: “Why would I tell you leaking SOBs?  Bite me, Botox face!” (I’m paraphrasing, but I think I’ve caught the gist of it.)

Her petulant statement made her look even smaller, as she went out of her way to say nice things about the military, while pointedly not giving Trump any credit.  Again – compare that to the way the Dems and MSM credited Obama for Bin Laden’s death.  To hear them tell it, he speed-roped down onto the compound roof single-handedly, his face covered in camouflage paint and a combat knife clenched in his teeth, and he went through every jihadi in the area like John Wick on Red Bull and meth.

One other hilarious detail: at around 11:30 Saturday night, lefty weasels Alec Baldwin and Pete Davidson were in a SNL skit mocking Trump for helping ISIS. The timing could not have been better, because at that very moment, half a world away, the leader of ISIS had just made his transition to GIAT.

Not GOAT (“Greatest Of All Time”).

But GIAT:  Goo In A Tunnel.

I hope that after the explosion, that beautiful dog, that talented dog, shook his head to clear his ears, and then crept into the tunnel to be sure.  And then, I hoped, he raised his leg to give Al-Baghdadi a final send off.


Avenatti/Katie Hill 2020!

Pierre Delecto & the UN in flagrante delicto (posted 10/23/19)

Tomorrow I’m leaving on a short trip to visit family.  But before I go, I’ve got to carry out a little blood-pressure-control exercise. (That is, I’ve got some ranting to do, so buckle up.)

Today I bring you two sad tales, one that focuses on one poor, individual bonehead, and another that focuses on one useless international governing body.

The first story involves the GOP figure who has done the most to disappoint me in the last 10 years (and yes, I’m counting Guiliani in that group): Mitt Romney.

Romney’s “Pierre Delecto” fake Twitter identity has to be the saddest thing I’ve read since Hillary re-emerged from the woods around Chappaqua to blame her election loss on Macedonian hackers, Russian oligarchs, sexism, and anyone else in the world except herself.  Also gluten, for some reason.

In the last several years, Romney has revealed himself to be a shoddy human being in many ways.  It’s gotten so bad that many of us are now almost to the point that we’re glad that he lost to Obama in 2012.  (Almost.)

But this Twitter story is a new low.  Not just because a grown man faking an online identity to defend himself in the third person is sad.  (Though holy moly, is that sad!)

Still, that’s not the saddest part.  Nope, the morose cherry on the melancholy sundae has to be the name Romney chose for his nom de lurker.

“Pierre Delecto”?  Really?

I never thought I’d say this.  But Mitt Romney has made me admire Anthony Weiner.  Because when he needed to make up a name for his teen-girl-cruising alter ego, Weiner came up with “Carlos Danger.”

Sure, it’s something you’d expect from a junior high boy struggling with a changing voice and the least attractive excuse for a weak little mustache you’ve ever seen.  But what was he supposed to do?  “James Bond” was already taken.   So were “Mike Hammer,” “Sam Spade,” and “Martin Simpson.”

Hence, Carlos Danger.

But Pierre Delecto??

First, if you’re considering going foreign language first names, don’t go French!  That’s “Create Your Pseudonym 101.”

Spanish works, because Carlos, Mateo or Antonio can be bad asses.  So would a variety of Nordic language names: Thor, Sven and Axel are going to get some serious respect at Lincoln Junior High.

German’s a little tricky.  I don’t think “Hans Weltanschauung” is going to get many swipes right.

Russian’s out, because Cyrillic letters are just close enough to English to be creepy, like a CGI special effect, or a sex robot that is lifelike enough to make you momentarily think “mmm?” followed by, “Ugh, no!”

Polish is out too, because five consecutive consonants is an affront to all that is just and holy.

And don’t hit me with Arabic, because that calligraphy looks like a sword fight is going on, and we’re not invited.

But “Pierre?!” No.  A thousand times NO!

Pierre is a gender-confused detective who focuses on solving robberies involving garish clothing, rare perfumes, and plumed hats.  Or he’s the foppish original boyfriend who mistreats the female lead and is then tossed aside in favor of Ryan Reynolds in the third act.

And if “Pierre” isn’t bad enough… Delecto?

Didn’t that guy team up with the Green Goblin in SpiderMan #23?  He was an evil chef who gave his victims food poisoning so that his henchmen could storm City Hall and take over the metropolis, right?

It almost shakes my confidence in my own judgment that I once thought that Mitt Romney was the strongest candidate in a Republican field.

But then I remember that I also chose my wife out of a sizeable pool of piping hot Norwegian-American girls who were going at each other hammer-and-tongs competing for my affection in the late 1980s, and that I chose Cassie the Wonder Dog out of the herds of fine canine companion options in the world.  And I realize that I’m like 64,349-and-1 in fantastic life choices.

64,349-and-2, if you count selling my Apple stock to go all-in on MySpace in 2005.

But still, knowing that I once respected Mitt Romney really stings!


The second sad story involves the worst international governing body to blight our planet since Germany, Italy and Japan formed the Axis.

I’m speaking, of course, about the execrable UN, and their unutterably terrible Human Rights Commission.

How bad is the UN?  The number of reasons to oppose the existence of the UN is larger than the number of fantastic life choices that I have made.   It’s that bad!


Reason number 1: the UN charter granted permanent membership on the 5-member UN security council to Russia.

Reason number 2: the UN charter granted permanent membership on the 5-member UN security council to China.

Reason number 3: the UN charter granted permanent membership on the 5-member UN security council to France.  (Sure, France is not Russia or China.  But the last time the French were militarily impressive was in 1066, and that was because their army were basically French-speaking Vikings.  And don’t give me the Grand Armee, because they were mostly grand because they were led by a short Corsican with a grudge and a Napoleon complex.  Literally.) (But I’ll grant you Lafayette.)

Any club you belong to that includes two of the worst mass murdering leftist slave states in the galaxy has gone wrong from the beginning.  And they didn’t stop there: over 30,000 of the reasons to despise the UN involve the number of anti-Israel resolutions alone!

And that’s not to mention reason number 41,556: a creepy devotion to the metric system.


Anyway, reason number 65,213 happened this month, when the wretched hive of scum and villainy voted Venezuela onto the Human Rights Commission.

You read that correctly.  Venezuela.  Human rights.

“Venezuela” and “human rights” should never appear in the same sentence, unless separated by the predicate “lacks even the barest traces of.”

Once-proud Venezuela was the wealthiest Latin American country not much more than a decade ago.  Then — in a disaster of such epic scale that you would usually only see it unfolding in times of plague, famine, or in the wake of Nazi armored columns roaring into a wooden-hut village populated entirely by orthodox Jews on the eve of Yom Kippur — Venezuelan society was utterly destroyed.

The culprit?  Not typhus, or ebola, or an ELE (Extinction Level Event).

But close: the systematic application of the governmental/economic philosophy that is currently being pushed by Bernie Sanders, Grandma Squanto and AOC. I.e., socialism.


You don’t have to believe me.  (Although, c’mon.  You really should.)

Listen to this opening from a story in – I kid you not – the New York Times from this May: “MARACAIBO, Venezuela — Zimbabwe’s collapse under Robert Mugabe. The fall of the Soviet Union. Cuba’s disastrous unraveling in the 1990s. The crumbling of Venezuela’s economy has now outpaced them all.”

Do you notice anything that those four econo-cides (term trademarked by me, right now) have in common?  And before you can guess: no, it is not a slavish devotion to free market economic principles.

Anyway, super-thug Hugo Chavez took control of formerly successful Venezuela, and after accepting hugs and kisses from know-nothing celebrity American leftists like Sean Penn, Oliver Stone and Bernie Sanders, he promptly drove the country into the ground.

When a vengeful God struck him with a fatal cancer of the ego, he was replaced with blocky ex-bus driver/thug/Saddamesque-mustache-wearing Nicolas Maduro, who quickly went to work proving that under socialism, the wheels on the bus do NOT go ‘round and ‘round.

Fast forward another year or two and – again according to the NY Times – “nearly all of the butchers in the main market have stopped selling meat cuts in favor of offal and leftovers like fat shavings and cow hooves, the only animal protein many of their customers can still afford.”

Fun fact: In the late 1990s, the White House Secret Service code names for Bill and Hillary?  “Fat Shavings” and “Cow Hooves.”  What about Chelsea, you ask?  “Offal.”  True story.

Anyway, the UN continues a long and shameful tradition of appointing bloodthirsty dictatorships – past members have included Cuba, Zimbabwe, Uganda, and Somalia, among others — to the Human Rights Commission.

I saw we withdraw from the UN, then evict them from the gigantic building that occupies prime New York real estate and bulldoze the entire site.

Then, just to watch Chuck and Nancy’s heads blow off, we give Trump a 99-year lease for $1, and let him build a gold-plated Trumpatorium to house his presidential museum there.

Avenatti/ Pierre Delecto 2020!