One of the many contributions to Christmas traditions made by the great German people – about which, more below – is the dark twin of St. Nicholas known as Krampus. He’s a demonic-looking creature, with cloven-hooves, horns and fangs, and while St. Nick passes out toys to the kids who have been nice, Krampus punishes the kids who had been naughty.
I don’t know if I’m the first to notice this, but I think the lefties who get elected to national office usually think of themselves as a bunch of Santa Clauses, when they are in fact a horde of repugnant Krampi. (And if you ever got the chance to see Repugnant Krampi open for Black Sabbath in the early 70s, you know what a treat that was!)
They start out promising toys and treats for the citizens they see as dependent children – “Have some free college and free healthcare, and abortions and reparations for all!” – but the mask soon slips, and their big bag of toys turns out to have been filled with a whole rain-forest’s worth of monkey’s paws. (Three paragraphs in on this one, and I’m already all over the road with the odd references.)
Free college turns out to be an immiserating grievance study degree and terminal unemployability. Free healthcare turns out to be obscenely expensive, and men have to pay for pap smears while women wait 5 trimesters to get in to see an obstetrician, and every treatment is rationed, and in the meantime, take two leeches and call the ER in the morning.
Abortions are a recipe for regret and loss, and reparations would be the seeds of needless and unjustified racial enmity and social devastation, were we ever foolish enough to start down that road.
One question I go back and forth on is, “To what extent are the lefties aware of the damage their policies do, and will do?” On the one hand, most of my Dem friends are primarily well-intentioned, though they are subject to the same temptations to self-delusion and demonizing their opponents as we all are.
On the other hand, it beggars belief that they can remain unaware of the results of their policy prescriptions, after they have been tried and so thoroughly failed, all around the world.
Their battered-voter syndrome relationship with socialism is just one case in point, with the Chinese spy story being just the latest example. It’s not just Eric Swallwell who couldn’t resist the lure of that Wang Dang Sweet Fang-Fang. (I know. That’s one of my least favorite Ted Nugent songs too, but I’m not mature enough to resist a joke when it’s teed-up like that!)
One leftist influencer after another has gotten starry eyed over one horrendous socialist dictatorship after another. You can go all the way back to shortly after the Soviets started their doomed experiment in repression, starvation, and murderous, progressive good intentions, and you’d already find American leftists lining up to defend the growing socialist death tolls.
Walter Duranty got a Pulitzer for praising Stalin’s glorious leftist vision, while managing not to notice millions of rotting Ukrainian corpses stacked up all over the countryside. Later, Communist spy Alger Hiss — despite having the name of a Dickensian villain, and reams of evidence against him — never fell out of the left’s affections. Hanoi Jane did her photo op with the Viet Cong, and one actor and celebrity and leftist pol after another has pimped for Castro; one of them narrowly lost the Dem presidential nomination in each of the last two election cycles, and another is currently running for Senate from GA.
January 5th is the 11th day of Christmas, and we all must do everything we can to encourage the voters of Georgia – and whoever is in charge of aggressively poll watching (as much of a grim joke as that seems to be right now) – to counter the socialist Krampus, and save the Senate.
In one last political note, Joey Gaffes continued his DiMaggio-esque string of consecutive teleprompter sessions with at least one howler of a faux pas, this time when he was announcing another cabinet pick.
Saith the Slurring Scrantonian, “For Secretary of Health and Education Services, I nominate Xavier Bakeria… Busherra, excuse me.”
In that one moment, Biden went for the gaffe hat-trick, making three errors in one sentence. A sentence which was – this seems almost cruel to point out – written for him on a teleprompter!
First, there is no department called, “Health and Education Services” (he meant health and human services).
Second, Bakeria is either:
- A dance craze from the 90s which featured hip-wiggling young women, synthesizers, and repetitive chorus of, “Hey, Bakeria!”
- One of the portly Italian minor characters whom Tony Soprano had to kill in Season 4 – I think his first name was “Bobby.”
- An STD common among Chinese honeytrap spies; there’s a topical ointment that should clear that right up, but you don’t want that genital bakeria going untreated!
The person Biden was actually nominating is Xavier Becerra (pronounced “buh-ser-uh”).
The third error was when Biden took another shot at it, calling him “Busherra.” Which sounds like a reference to the time when either Bush 41 or Bush 43 was in office: the Bush era.
Of course, the main issue is not whether Biden mangled the nominee’s name — that’s going to be happening A LOT! It’s whether the nominee is a good pick.
Spoiler alert: you know he’s great, because he’s been the Attorney General of California for three years, and that place is running like a well-oiled machine!
I mean, if the machine in question is engineered to produce wild fires, brown-outs, bankruptcies, rampant crime, and the flight of as many productive people as can get hold of an outbound U-Haul.
So, yeah. Biden is picking his dream team, and it looks like it’s going to be Krampi, all the way down!
On a more Christmas-y note, I’d like to thank CO nation. In your reactions to last column’s request for recommendation for Christmas music, you all came through, reminding me mostly of old favorites that I’d forgotten (Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Mannheim Steamroller, the Wyndam series, and more), plus a few that were new to me (the Piano Guys, and various versions of old favorites that I hadn’t heard).
In the course of starting to work those into my Christmas rotation this year, I remembered a few other favorites of my own. Sting had an album of atmospheric, winter- and/or Christmas-related songs called “If On a Winter’s Night,” that’s worth a listen.
Another favorite is not specifically Christmas-oriented: it’s a duet in front of the pope, sung by what looks like a Russian orthodox priest and a young girl, singing the Lord’s Prayer in the language of Christ. Which – though I think of Him speaking in King James-era English — is actually Aramaic. The young girl is beautiful, with a sweet voice, but when the male singer comes in… I get goosebumps every time.
Though I was raised Baptist, I joined a Lutheran church when I met my Norwegian-descended wife, and I’ve come to love a lot of the ritual of our church, none more than when we sing Silent Night by candlelight each Christmas eve. My favorite part is that we sing one verse in German.
Because there is no greater gulf between a song’s message and the language of its singing than the gentle sweetness of that hymn and the dulcet tones of… German! You haven’t heard audible cognitive dissonance until you’ve heard the harsh, back-of-the-throat, vaguely Beowulf-ian consonants of “Stille… NACHT! Heilige NACHT! Alles schlaft, einsame WACHT!”
But I have a soft spot for most things German — sure, there are a few blots on the record, not the least of which is a certain socialist worker’s party we could all name – and not just because my mom’s side of the family is German.
Many of our Christmas traditions owe a lot to Germans, and earlier pagan, Germanic types. The Christmas tree is Germanic, as is the snow globe. The advent calendar is another German contribution. In addition to the advent calendar on our wall, and the one with little chocolates in it, last year my wife started another Simpson Christmas tradition by getting me an advent “calendar” consisting of various small bottles of wine for each day of December leading up to Christmas.
Because of my iron discipline and the fact that the bottles are portioned out by date, I am enjoying them all, without risking the possibility that I’ll end up stumbling around and slurring my speech like Biden announcing his new Attorney General pick.
Finally, six years ago tonight, my dad died.
I know, that’s a whiplash-inducing shift in tone. And it sounds like the start of a Christmas tale involving spirits and moral lessons, like a variation on A Christmas Carol (which I’m going to write a little about in my next column).
And I guess it sort of is, though without any momentous drama. I had the great gift of spending a lot of time with him in his last months, and being alone with him at the moment of his death, my mom having gone to bed just a few minutes before.
And it happened like I imagine it would have happened for the reformed Scrooge: very peacefully, as a fitting coda to a life lived gratefully, and with a calm assurance of where he would be waking up, and that he would be mourned by a lot of people whose lives he’d touched.
Until he saw them again.
Because I’m too much the sarcastic, snarky type, I can’t end a column with anything that sweet. So I’ll just say…
Avenatti/Bobby Bakeria 2024!