What better time for my last post of this series than New Year’s Eve, when we celebrate that we are one year closer to being delivered from the Brandon presidency?
As I was putting this last montage together, I realized that the columns I wrote in November and December are so recent that I probably don’t need to look back at them. So in this third and final part, I’ll consider only columns from August through October:
In August, I ran through just one day’s headlines from Breitbart, to illustrate how insane our country has gotten. My favorite story – because it was obscure, yet also perfectly illustrative of our political class’s foibles – was about a Michigan pol you’ve never heard of:
“But lest you think that all of the news was bad, or that there is no Democrat whom I could support, let me end with the story of Michigan state representative Jewell Jones, an attractive, clean-cut, African-American young man.
This guy is my kind of Democrat, because he’s 100% authentic. I don’t like pols like Obama or Biden, who run as moderates (“there’s no red states and blue states, just the United States!”) and then govern like the leftists they are.
That’s not Jewell. He’s as transparent as Elizabeth Warren is translucent (#wemustneverstopmockingher).
Sure, he may have had a run-in or two with Johnny Law, as when he drove drunk, crashed into a ditch, assaulted a paramedic and then resisted arrest. He refused to show ID, then flashed a badge from the Inkster Police Department. (Spoiler alert: he is not a cop.)
Then, like a young Hunter Biden when caught with meth and hookers but no laptop, he threatened to call in the Big Guy. Or in this case, the Big Gal, i.e. Michigan dictator and finalist in the “Worst Governor in the Country” competition, Gretchen Whitmer.
“I’ll call Gov. Whitmer right now,” he threatened. “When I call Gretchen, I need you all’s IDs and badges [sic].” He went on to say, “It’s not going to be good for you; I run you all budget, bro [sic]…. You all don’t know who you all are dealing with, bro.”
I know what you’re thinking: this arrogant jerk sounds like half the pols in DC. What makes him so special?
I left out the best part. Because his latest trouble arises from a scandal in which he spent campaign funds at a strip club. Again, not that unusual – and I’d rather see taxpayer dollars used to make it rain on the main stage than funding Antifa and critical race theory classes, for example.
But the beautiful thing about Jewell Jones – and what makes him the archetypal Dem pol – is his reaction to the charges that he spent campaign cash on strippers. He said, “We have to meet people where they’re at sometimes.”
Yes! And sometimes where they’re at happens to be twerking over your lap in the champagne room! What’s he supposed to do? NOT stick taxpayer dollars into his constituents’ g-strings? That’s just rude!
And then he made his closing argument, claiming that it wasn’t all about the ogling, and stating that the establishment in question has – and I quote – “great lamb chops.”
My first thought was that you don’t eat strip club lamb chops any more than you eat gas station sushi.
But then I remembered that I’m a gentleman, and I’ve been married for 30+ years, and so am not up on all of the cool youngsters’ lingo. Could “lamb chops” be a euphemism in this case?
It doesn’t sound like it. I can’t imagine overhearing someone saying, “Check out the lamb chops on our waitress!”
But then again, I have heard of a “rack of lamb.” Coincidence?
Anyway, that’s less than one day’s headlines from one webpage. Covering these boneheads is looking like more than a full-time job. Luckily, I’m a working dog, not a show dog.
So I guess I’ll be here all week. Try the veal.
But pass on the lamb chops.”
In September, I looked back at Biden’s disastrous cluster-shtup in Afghanistan, and discussed one low-light among many:
“Even though we knew many months in advance that we were going to withdraw, we needlessly left behind one of the largest military treasure troves in history. You’ve all heard the numbers: hundreds of thousands of rifles, machine guns and small arms, thousands of night-vision equipment sets, hundreds of armored vehicles, dozens of deadly, advanced helicopters, and four gigantic C-130 airplanes.
In total, we left some of the worst people in the world – voluntarily and unnecessarily – nearly 100 billion dollars worth of arms!
And don’t overlook the last item I listed: 4 C-130 airplanes. Those are the humongous ones, capable of carrying literally tons of material – armored vehicles and heavy weaponry and many, many troops — in each flight.
To give you an idea how big they are, if you lowered the loading ramp of a C-130, Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion could walk up it side-by-side, and neither of their enormous behinds would touch either of the side walls.
That’s how huge a C-130 is! And we left 4 of them on the ground, for no reason.
Can you imagine how stupid you have to be to do that?! You could talk to the thickest dullard in the most remedial class in the worst middle school in any terribly run Democrat city in this country, and you could easily get this point across.
You could probably even make AOC understand it.
In fact, here’s how that conversation would go:
AOC: What’s a C-130?
You: It’s a gigantic airplane.
AOC: Is it big enough to fit Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion’s enormous arses in it?
You: That’s a weird question. But yes. Yes it is.
AOC: And when we leave, we want to take everything we can with us, so the bad guys don’t get it?
AOC: So… why don’t we fill those 4 giant planes with all of that yucky gun stuff and fly it out of there?
You: You mean that you wouldn’t just leave those planes and all of the weapons they could carry for the bad guys to terrorize and kill people with for many years to come?
AOC (turning her empty little head to one side the way my Aussie shepherd does when she’s thinking): Wouldn’t that be stupid?
You: I never thought I’d say this, but would you consider being a general, or the president?
Also in September, I considered several nominees for “Worst Person of the Month,” and one of the nominees was Rashida Tlaib, “squad member, and spiritual twin of brother-marrying cretin Ilhan Omar.
As unattractive on the outside as she is on the inside, Tlaib reached a low point – even for her – in August, when she posted a tweet mourning that the body of Palestinian woman Mai Afana, whom Tlaib described as a “loving daughter and successful student,” has not yet been released to her family.
Tlaib wrote, “Meet Mai Afana’s mother, Khuloud, who is fighting to be able to bury her daughter & begin her healing. Mai was a mother, loving daughter & successful PhD student. She was killed by the Israeli government last June. Israel won’t release her body to her family.”
I guess because tweets have length limits, Tlaib didn’t have time to mention the circumstances of this loving, successful mom’s death: she launched a terrorist attack on an Israeli checkpoint by ramming it with her car.
“But Martin,” you are not thinking, “maybe she made an innocent driving mistake, preoccupied as she was by her PhD studies and her warm maternal love for her child.”
Well after the crash, she leapt out of her car and charged the soldiers, trying to stab them with a knife she just happened to be carrying.
As your typical PhD student does. I remember my dissertation defense, for example, when I went in with my notes, a binder full of research materials, and a scimitar that I always carried to class.
The next time some lefty whines about Marjorie Taylor Green, remind them that Rashida Tlaib — and Ilhan Omar, and Maxine “Melting Face” Waters, and AOC, etc. — are elected Democrat congress creatures.”
Later in the month, I got a bit of entertainment from the crowd of vapid celebrities who attend the Met Gala: “The honor of “most egregious example of a self-satirizing dope wearing clothing with words on it: goes to everybody’s favorite innumerate, incompetent bartender: AOC.
Unlike Hester Prynne – here comes a reference that would fly right over Sandy’s tumbleweed-filled head – AOC wasn’t satisfied with one scarlet letter on her clothing. She had to have three scarlet words that, taken together, are a lot more shameful than a little bout of adultery: “Tax the Rich.”
When I first saw the picture of her looking back over her shoulder while wearing that dress, I had several thoughts:
First, contrary to the fever dreams of AOC, Bernie and the Pale-Face Pocahontas (#wemustneverstopmockingher), the rich are already taxed six ways to Sunday, with the top 1% paying more than the bottom 90% combined.
Second, you’re at an event that costs $30K a plate, you moron!
Third, I wish some paparazzi jerk would have called out, “Who are you wearing?” so that Sandy could have said, “Karl Marx!”
Fourth, I remember a similar fashion trend from the past that this reminded me of. In past years, many young women regularly wore a variety of sweats pants and yoga-style pants with words printed on the seat. In particular, the words, “Juicy” and “Pink” seemed to make frequent appearances there.
I found several things about that trend to be odd. For one, I don’t think women generally need to call attention to that particular body part. There doesn’t have to be reading involved: your average straight guy will notice.
In fact, putting words there might be considered counter-productive. When dealing with the typical neanderthal male — in a half-hearted defense of my toxic brethren: we’re just as God made us — women very often need to say something along the lines of, “My eyes are up here!”
Conversely, they’d never need to utter the sentence, “My butt is down here!” Because this is how that conversation would go:
Reasonably attractive woman: “My butt is—”
Straight guys (interrupting): “Yeah, yeah, we got it.”
Anyway, AOC is a fairly attractive woman, assuming your turn-offs don’t include, “Googly eyes, life-threateningly low IQ, and toxic political beliefs.”
But the fact that she has a trim figure represents a real lost opportunity, message-wise. Her petite, thin stature (very fat-shaming, by the way) required the briefest of texts.
But if a former first lady (hint: CAW CAW) wore that kind of dress, you could print the introduction to Das Kapital across her beam, with room left over for footnotes. (I was going to say “cankle-notes,” but I am too mature for that.)”
In October, I discussed a story about the devastating effects of leftist governance in my home state’s town of Chicago:
“Let’s play a little game. Let’s assume that you’re Lori Lightfoot, and that someone in the mayor’s office in Chicago said, “Beetlejuice!” three times, and so you found yourself in that room, as the mayor. You got elected mostly because you are not white, and you like the ladies.
And before you can say something snarky, I know: that applies to Bill Cosby and Robert Mugabe too. But neither of them were available, and so the Dems in Chicago elected you.
And now, for reasons nobody can figure out, black Chicagoans are dying in droves amidst a hail of gunfire that only slows down when the temperature drops below zero. The killings have continued despite the fact that you’ve taken all the logical actions that the leftist brain-trust has advised:
You’ve denounced the police, and cut their funding, and done everything you could to make their jobs harder.
You’ve denounced the white nationalism of the black street gangs doing most of the killing.
You’ve raised taxes.
You’ve dropped ominous hints about sinister Indiana gun-running syndicates.
You’ve blamed Donald Trump.
And STILL nothing has helped. So it’s time to get serious. To think outside of the box, and try some innovative solutions.
- Re-fund the police and encourage them to increase arrests?
- Urge judges to crack down on the criminals who are caught shooting Chicagoans?
- Rescind your counter-productive anti-gun laws, and encourage citizens to fight back?
- Install bleeding control kits throughout the city?
If you picked any choice except “D,” you know nothing about the way Dems govern.
I am not making this story up: the party that runs Chicago is installing over 400 “wall-mounted bleeding control kits” all over the city. According to one report, “each of the kits contains enough supplies to treat eight victims, with tourniquets, gauze, shears, gloves and an instruction manual.”
First, 400 kits, each capable of treating 8 victims? Hmm. Hold on a second while I do the math on that… 8 times 400… consider the draconian gun control laws in Chicago, which should produce a ratio of criminals with guns to non-criminals with guns to around 8521 to 1… that supply should last… carry the 6…
Three weekends. Those kits will last three weekends. Unless there is an unusual, early cold snap and the action on the automatic pistols starts to frost up and jam.
In which case: four weekends.
Second, each kit contains an “instruction manual?” These dopes do realize that the Chicagoans who will be using these kits were mostly educated in Dem-controlled public schools, right?
You might want to try some emojis or pictograms in those manuals.
Also, if the first sentence in the manual isn’t, “As soon as you’ve got the bleeding temporarily stopped, head for the closest red state you can find pronto!” somebody has made a mistake.
Because I am as generous as the day is long, I’d like to offer my services to the city of Chicago, pro bono. I would love to write those instruction manuals for them.
I’ve already gotten a rough draft started:
“Welcome to Chicago! The Windy City, the City of the Big Shoulders! Hog Butcher to the World — no offense, vegans!
If you’re reading this manual, you’ve probably been in town for 15 minutes, and have thus been shot. Sorry about that!
Now, you might be tempted to call the cops or an ambulance, but that won’t work. Because even if the thug who shot you didn’t steal your cell phone, there are only 14 cops left in the city, and they’re in mandatory meetings to study the origin of white rage. And the ambulances won’t leave the garage without a police escort.
So it’s up to you. But luckily, we’ve got your back.
I mean, unless the bullet is actually in your back, in which case you’re screwed.
But if the bullet is in your front, where you can get at the wound, answer these simple triage questions to determine what to do next:
Am I a vegan? If so, my weak, watery blood and my anemia mean that I’m going to die, even if it’s only a superficial flesh wound. I should close my eyes and make my peace with Gaia.
Is the bullet lodged in my genitals? If so, I should immediately begin to identify as an a-sexual non-binary person, or possibly as Gavin Newsom, in which case my smooth, featureless plastic crotch area will allow me to feel no pain.
Is the blood that I’m losing coming out in an arterial spray, so forceful that it is drenching the bodies of the other, surrounding victims who arrived in Chicago ten minutes before I did, and are thus already enveloped in the sweet embrace of death? If so, I should close my eyes and join them.
If the wound is only oozing blood, you still have a chance. Please turn on the accompanying dvd of the movie Ronin, and fast forward to minute 57. This is the scene where Robert DeNiro lays on a table, looking at his wound in a mirror while instructing the French guy how to remove the bullet. After watching that scene, if your vision isn’t graying out, look around for a passing French guy who happens to have a mirror with him…
Happy New Year!