Well, it’s Christmas week again, and I’m in a great mood!
I’ve got snowy scenes playing on my second computer screen, and an assortment of brass quartets and Sufjan Stevens versions of Christmas carols playing on a loop. I’ve been listening to about 15 minutes of the late great Frank Muller reading A Christmas Carol each day. (Can’t recommend that highly enough. Use DuckDuckGo – because Google should be avoided when possible — to find it online. You cannot beat Dickens’ words read in Muller’s voice!)
And I’m finding reasons to be joyful at every turn. The advent services at our church have been excellent. Our college town has quieted down, and I’m getting to do some therapeutically satisfying maintenance work on our old rental houses. And after a bout of bronchitis, I’m appreciating good health the way you only do when you’re not taking it for granted.
So that’s me: Happy. Grateful. Looking forward to time with family, and Uncle Jesus.
But hey, our Cadaver in Chief also has his own special holiday message for us all. And I quote: “[The omicron] is here now and it’s spreading, and it’s gonna increase. For unvaccinated, we are looking at a winter of severe illness and death.”
Merrrry Christmas! G’night folks. Drive safely!
Good lord — Lighten up, Francis!
I don’t want to be a — what’s the opposite of Debbie Downer? Oliver Optimist, maybe? – but give it a rest, you power-hungry old coot. Yes, omicron is a lot more contagious. It’s also a LOT less dangerous, which is exactly what you want in a virus.
As of this writing, it has killed fewer people than Alec Baldwin.
Rather than kicking Joey Gaffes when he’s deceased – er, down – I’m going to share a few other current events that are bringing me joy this Christmas season.
And yes, because I’m as fallen as anyone else, these examples elicit the schadenfreude-induced endorphins that come from watching creepy people get their just desserts.
1.If you had asked me to pick something that I wanted for Christmas, but that I would never get in a million years, and if I were in the middle of my fourth Scotch, I might have said this: Give me a video of Hillary Clinton reading the victory speech that she wrote before she fractured a fetlock and went down in an explosion of mud and pantsuit on the final turn of that glorious election Year of Our Lord, 2016.
And because God exists, and He loves me, I’ve received that beautiful, beautiful gift.
I’ve saved it in a folder along with videos of my wedding, Walter Payton’s greatest runs, Johnny Cash Live at Folsom Prison, and a montage of weeping MSM boneheads announcing Trump’s election. And I’ve got it cued to the moment when Cankles begins to choke up when she tells her mom that her daughter is now the first female president of the United States.
For the rest of my life, whenever I face a dark night of the soul, I will watch that video. And I will laugh and laugh.
2. Elizabeth Warren has gone three rounds in a Twitter battle with Elon Musk, and the refs had to step in and stop it.
Grandma Squanto is so lacking in self-awareness that she imagined that an accomplishment-free grifter like her could somehow best Musk in a battle of wits. For all his flaws, eccentric Elon has contributed more to society than 10,000 phony Warrens ever could.
Her latest humiliation reminds me of a hilarious video of Warren getting off a private jet – it was wintertime, and I think it dates back to the Dem primaries. Find it, and you’ll see some prime comedic hypocrisy.
After lambasting the evil rich for flying in private jets, Lizzie gets off a private jet (of course!) and starts walking with a group of others. Then she spots the camera out in front and to her right, and she cuts in a diagonal, tucking in behind one of the unknown staffers. She obviously and purposefully keeps ducking from side to side, always keeping the staffer between her and the camera.
I know what you’re thinking: that’s how it was for the Pale Pawnee’s ancestors if they wanted to survive out there on the prairie. They’d hunker in behind a buffalo or a horse, and stealthily creep closer to the evil white interlopers – er, cameramen.
In winter, they would often camouflage themselves by painting their faces a pallid, sickly white to blend into their surroundings. They were so good at it that unexpecting settlers would often pass right by them, unawares. “Look at all of this pristine white snow,” they’d say, taking in the surrounding landscape.
But occasionally one wary Euro-American might say, “Hey, wait a minute! That snowbank has suspiciously impressive cheekbones, doesn’t it?”
Then, with a bloodcurdling scream of clueless entitlement, Grandma Squanto would leap up, scattering snow from her buckskin dress in a whirl, and charge forward with her three favorite weapons: a sharp tomahawk, an even sharper tongue, and the power of obscenely confiscatory tax rates, which were known to lay waste to the hardiest economy in a matter of mere weeks!
3. No list of underperforming female pols would be complete without Que Mala, who continues to delight with her mind-boggling ineptitude.
Her best moment in December would have to be that time when she publicly struggled to understand how to charge an electric vehicle. It’s not a complicated process, and considering how she began her political career, it is unfathomable that she couldn’t understand it:
You put the male part in the female part. That’s it. Duh!
Watching her constant bumbling makes me long for the days of a real Vice President, such as Dick Cheney. With nothing more than decades of experience and competence — and one partially open ventricle — that man took on leftists with more energy that W ever managed to.
And when times were at their darkest, he stood up and did what needed to be done: he shot a lawyer in the face with a shotgun.
And America cheered!
4. Speaking of lawyers who deserved worse than they got, did you hear AOC and Rashida “as-pretty-on-the-inside-as-she-is-on-the-outside” Tlaib whining about their student loans, and how it’s not fair to expect them to pay them off?
AOC is not a lawyer, of course. She got her Econ degree from Boston University… which is reason enough to close BU, dynamite all its buildings and sow the campus with salt to make it unfit for human habitation for generations.
Seriously. Hang your head in shame, BU faculty, staff and alumni. And most residents of MA, while you’re at it, you Ted Kennedy-re-electing knuckleheads. You deserve Ben Affleck, and that ridiculous accent.
Where was I? Oh yeah.
Rashida got a law degree, and she is not happy about how much it cost. But she’s got a solution: you can pay for it.
During a pitch to cancel all student debt, she ululated, “I worked full-time, Monday through Friday, and took weekend classes to get my law degree. And still, close to $200K in debt. And I still owe over $70K and most of it was interest.”
Am I saying that Comma-la should try to improve her poll numbers by shooting Tlaib in the face with a shotgun?
Of course not.
She could use a panzerfaust, or a pellet gun, or a sling shot.
Or a crossbow. Or she could use a catapault to land a giant chunk of stone on her, producing a noxious spray of bile, class warfare and anti-Semitism. Let’s not quibble over the details.
The point is, shooting the insufferable Tlaib with any sort of device, projectile or implement might not be enough to salvage Que Mala’s dismal poll numbers.
But as they say in the Catskills, “it couldn’t hoit.”
5. Speaking of satisfying violence, you might have missed the story of a Connecticut school-board meeting about wokesters cancelling an American Indian school mascot. And if you only read the MSM accounts of the incident, you would still miss the truth of it.
According to the dishonest yahoos at Yahoo, the “board meeting turned violent when a parent punched a board member.” But if you watch the video – which I recommend – you’ll see something quite different.
Here, I’ll re-write their story for them: “During a break in the meeting, an arrogant board member – the appropriately named Ray McFall – came down into the audience and got nose-to-nose with American-Indian-mascot-appreciator Mark Finocchiaro, scolding him loudly. When McFall tried to shove Finocchiaro backwards, he received a right jab in the snout.
Then McFall mcfell. “Sit down, Gepetto!” Finocchiaro should have said, but didn’t.”
I don’t think either guy behaved perfectly. But as a general rule, if you aren’t prepared to counter a stiff jab, you might want to keep your hands to yourself.
Okay, I know: for a Christmas column, this outing has had a lot of violence. So let’s close with an uplifting seasonal offering.
And by “seasonal,” I’m referring to hockey season.
I’ll admit that I don’t know much about hockey. For example, I didn’t know that Vegas had a pro hockey team called the Golden Knights. I have heard of the Edmonton Oilers – which, as a fossil fuel fan, I could possibly root for.
Anyway, Vegas was playing Big Oil right after Thanksgiving, and a fight broke out in the stands. Which is something that I understand is not unprecedented in that sport.
So a big guy and a small blonde lady were in a lower row, trading words and blows with someone in a row above them. And in a move that I bet Ray McFall wouldn’t have seen coming either, the lady hopped on one foot, reached down and pulled off her prosthetic lower left leg, and whacked a fellow combatant with it!
Now I’ve never studied any detachable-appendage-assisted martial arts, and I vaguely recall an axiom about not getting into a butt-kicking contest with a one-legged man.
But that woman has a little thing I like to call “grit,” and I’d like her on my side if a fight breaks out.
After reading all of the odd twists in this column, you are probably asking, “Martin, are you suggesting that this hockey fan travel to DC, and allow Que Mala to pull off her leg, and then club Rashida Tlaib with it?”
That’s EXACTLY what I’m suggesting.
Merry Christmas everybody!
Avenatti/ The Prosthetic Pugilist, 2024!