Month: April 2022

First, the fate of our partially burned Victorian house is still up in the air, but I’ll be getting a bid from a contractor and a number from our insurance company this week, and those will decide whether we can try to hang on to the house or not.

In the meantime, I’ve posted another pic from inside the house to my page at Martinsimpsonwriting.com.  On Friday I posted a picture of one of the fireplaces, and today’s pic is a close-up of the lion’s head tiles on that fireplace.  

My tech support is coming home from her sophomore year at college in a week, and if we can hang on to Rosewood, she’ll help me set up a folder (or whatever the kids these days call such a thing) on my site, where I can post some Rosewood pics in one location, rather than one at a time on my homepage. 

In the meantime, behold the tiles that made me buy the house!

As always, the larger world continues to provide fodder for meditation and mockery.

Let’s start with the mockery.

Regular readers know how much I love running jokes.  Whenever I think up a “Pelosi is a mummy,” “Joe Biden is actually dead,” or “#wemustneverstopmocking Grandma Squanto” line, I feel duty-bound to keep wringing out that shammy.

In my experience, repeating the same joke a handful of times can make it tiresome.  But somewhere around the 9^th or 10^th iteration, it gets funny again.  I’m not a trained humorist, so I can’t prove it – but it’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it.

So imagine my dismay when CNN+ closed down faster than an all-you-can-eat buffet when the owner saw Lizzo and JB Pritzker approaching the front door.   

I was looking forward to having CNN+ to kick around for at least a year or so, but no.  They spend between $400-500 MILLION dollars launching it, and I’ve barely had time to grab some popcorn and ease into my recliner, and… it’s gone!

Not since Willie Brown took Que Mala to a swingers’ party as his “plus one” has a plus turned out to be such a negative!

The amazing thing is that in the fever swamps of the delusional left, people somehow thought this would work!  Do they not conduct any kind of market research over there?

In recent years, the vast majority of the nation has been offered the option of watching CNN for free, and they’ve said, “Nope.  Still too expensive.  It’s literally not worth anything.”  So why would anyone expect people to pay for something that they weren’t willing to watch for free? 

I especially enjoyed a NY Post story on how shocked many CNN employees were at the implosion.  (“A giant dirigible filled with a highly flammable gas?  What could go wrong?!”) One unintentionally hilarious inside source was quoted as saying, “CNN should have just stuck to what they do well, which is hard news, not Anderson Cooper giving parenting advice.”

I get that last part, because who would go to Pretty Boy Cooper for his thoughts on parenting? (“First, choose a partner with whom it is physically impossible to have children…”)

But “hard news” is what CNN “does well?” If I weren’t such a gentleman, I’d make the obvious Jeff Toobin joke at this point. But I am far too classy for that.

Changing topics, I’ve noticed some great animal stories lately, several of which involve members of the animal kingdom getting one over on our Cadaver in Chief. 

The bird pooping on Brandon is almost too perfect.  If you were a fiction writer and came up with that, any decent editor would object on the grounds that it was too ham-handed, and too cute by half.  The karmic perfection of a president who’s been showering us with a fecal avalanche of lies and horrible policy being Schumered upon by a bird during a speech? No one will buy that.

And yet it really happened! 

And the White House staff’s reaction was completely on-brand: they denied the evidence of your own eyes, and insisted that what hit Biden’s shoulder was “corn.”

I was raised in the Midwest, surrounded by corn.  So while I’m not a biologist — and thus can’t determine whether Sharon Stone in the leg-crossing scene from Basic Instinct (giggity) is a woman or not – I’ve got the equivalent of a Master’s degree in Corn Recognizing.  (A degree that would make one much more employable than a PhD in Grievance Studies, by the way.)

And I can unequivocally state that that was NOT corn.

Unless it was creamed corn. 

In which case Hacky Psaki’s theory is that a bird taught himself how to use a can opener, emptied out most of a can of creamed corn, and flew over the president.  Then, in a feat not equaled since the battle of Midway, that heroic bird flipped the can upside down in his mighty talons, dropping its contents toward Joe’s bald head as if it were the Japanese carrier Akagi.

Or, alternatively, a bird crapped on the president on live tv.   

As a big fan of Occam’s Razor, I salute that nameless hero of a bird, who in one brave action, has done what all true Americans wish we could do. 

But Joey Gaffes was not finished with the animal kingdom. 

In the same week, during an event on the White House lawn, Biden wandered too close to a crowd, and began speaking to them.  Fearing the kind of mortifying incident that usually happens when the prez goes off script (“Our soldiers will soon be fighting in the Ukraine, and using chemical weapons.  Also, Republicans will soon be putting blacks back in chains, and sanctions never deter.  I’m not joking, it’s a big f’ing deal!”), his handlers leapt into action.

And deployed someone in an Easter bunny suit – you can’t make this up — to corral the leader of the free world, the way you may have seen dogs herding dull-witted sheep into a pen.

But I mean no offense to those sheep.  At least they manage not to be defecated on by the dogs who are herding them.  Plus, you never see one of them turn and shake the hand of an invisible sheep that doesn’t exist, while “Hail to the Sheep” plays despondently in the background. 

But let’s not end on that dispiriting note.  Instead, let us praise a heroic Ukrainian Jack Russell terrier named Patron. 

You may have heard that the Russians miscalculated when they tried to take the Ukrainian capital of Kyiv.  Apparently they thought that the defenders were a bunch of blue-state types, the Vermonters of eastern Europe.  Instead, they found out that “Kyiv” is Ukrainian for “Texas.” So they got sent packing, with their tail between their legs.

As they withdrew, they left hundreds of mines and booby traps in the area.  Enter Patron, who has been spending his days detecting those mines, so that his handlers can defuse them.  All he expects is some cheese treats and some belly rubs in return.  You can find pictures of him online, wearing an adorable little dog-sized military vest.   

I think I speak for all of CO Nation when I say that I’d much rather be governed by Patron the Jack Russell and the Nameless Hero Bird of Iowa, than by Joey Gaffes and Que Mala.

It’s been a long 4 years, and it’s only been 65 weeks.

Before getting on to the usual tomfoolery, let me say that I love me some CO Nation!

When I was writing my somber column about the fire at our Victorian house — Rosewood — on Easter evening, I anticipated that it would not be a popular column, just because of the joke-free, Tenebrae-ness of it all.  (To all of you who said, “I bet Martin can’t find a way to work the Latin word for darkness into a normal conversation,” you now stand corrected.)

(Also, my favorite Springsteen album is “Tenebrae on the Edge of Town,” my favorite expose of Communist perfidy is “Tenebrae at Noon,” and one of my favorite novels is “Heart of Tenebrae.”) (I think I’ve made my point.)

But boy, did I underestimate you folks!  If you read the comments, you saw the outpouring of well wishes, prayers and commiseration that accompanied that column.  Readers told their own stories on related topics.  Alan Greenleaf hit my Tip Jar hard – thanks Alan! – and everybody was just as “salt of the earth-y” as we’ve all come to expect from this little corner of the internet that the Great and Powerful CO set up years ago.

I tell you, if I weren’t as tough as a $2 steak, it would have brought me to tears!  Instead, I kept a stiff upper lip, but also gave each and every one of you a tip of the metaphorical cap and a curt nod in salute.  Thank you all!

There have been a lot of developments in that story in the last 4 days, and I’m going to be writing more about it next week.  But in the meantime, I’ve put up a new picture of one of the downstairs fireplaces on my page at Martinsimpsonwriting.com.  It was taken this week, after the fire, and yet the room appears remarkably undamaged.

The mantel is carved from the “rosewood” heart of pine, and the firebox is lined with glazed red-and-yellow tiles interspersed with lion’s head tiles.  (I’ll be posting some close-ups later.) When I first walked into Rosewood 7 years ago, I was already smitten with the outside of the house, but when I saw those tiles, I said, “We are buying this house!”

Because that’s how you want to make huge financial decisions, kids: with a burst of completely irrational emotional attachment!  😊

But enough about the ups and downs of my own little life: let’s get back to our political scene.  Because there have been some highly mockable events that my preoccupation with our fire has delayed me from addressing.   

Where to begin?

How about in NYC, where a black nationalist, whitey-hater named Frank James shot up a subway car and terrorized many New Yorkers for a while.  It doesn’t take someone with an advanced degree in race-ology to know he was probably black just by reading the initial reports, and for the same reasons you all knew the same thing: his race was never mentioned.

It’s amazing to watch the MSM pushing their racial narratives, no matter what lengths they need to go to.  If the criminal suspect is black, the story will go on for days without mentioning that fact.  If the perp got away and is on the loose, and they therefore must give a description, it will be something like this:

Between 5’10” and 6’, wearing jeans, a blue t-shirt and Air-Jordans with a slight scuff on the inside of the left shoe, and gray laces.  Also, he had a far-away look in his eyes, and an overbite, and an air of ennui. 

If the suspect is white or Asian?  “The WHITE/ASIAN suspect is described as WHITE/ASIAN, less than 10 foot tall but over 3 feet tall. Possibly wearing clothes.  Racial bias is the suspected motive in this horrendous, racially motivated hate crime by this alleged WHITE/ASIAN nationalist.”

My two favorite parts of this story were: 1. The perp committed his crime in one of the most heavily surveilled areas of our largest city (run entirely by guess which party?) … and none of the city’s cameras were working.

2. After the perp was arrested, Police Chief Eric Adams took a victory lap, crowing, “My fellow New Yorkers…we got him!” 

Which would have been impressive, if the cops had tracked him down using a network of informants, high-tech tracking devices, good ol’ fashioned shoe leather, and a comically oversized magnifying glass.

But nope.  The racist loon called the cops and said, “I’m Frank James and I shot those people in the subway. I’m here in this specific McDonalds, so come and get me.”

That’s not exactly on par with some American soldiers tracking Saddam Hussein to a specific spider-hole in a gigantic country, or Holmes tracking Moriarty to his mountain hideout deep in the Alps, is it? 

I’m no big-city cop, but I bet I could be a darn good one if the job mainly involved finding a body on a busy street and calling out, “Anybody shoot this guy?”  And then one moron steps out of the crowd and says, “Over here!”

But the Dems who run NYC are looking for a win anywhere they can get it these days, and you can’t blame them.

By way of comparison, how about a crime story that took place in a red state?

Let’s go to Dale County, AL, where a homeowner heard someone making multiple attempts to break into his house.  He called 911, but as he was still on the phone, the criminal came through the window in his child’s room. 

So the homeowner shot him in the head.  Because: America.

“Isn’t it awfully callous to joke about someone getting shot in the head, even if he is a criminal climbing into a child’s bedroom?” you are not asking yourself, unless you’re NY Dem Police Chief Eric Adams. 

No, it is not.  With everything else going on in Brandon’s America, this counts as a feel-good news story.  Because, as I may have mentioned, I’m from the 19th century, and I like it when good defeats evil.  And this is good vs. evil. 

Breaking into someone else’s house is evil.  Giving a criminal a little “ballistic hello” is good.  Full stop.

Which, ironically, is what the home invader came to. 

Also, hat tip to the writer of the story about this on PJ Media, Kevin Downey.  I love a good, telling detail in a story, and Downey offered several. 

He said that when the cops showed up, “they found the thug on the ground, weighing roughly 25 grams more than he did when he arrived,” due to the weight of the bullet in his head.

He also called the criminal “the now-horizontal hooligan.”  Well done, Mr. Downey!

But race stories don’t always have to be downbeat or upsetting.  For example, a couple of race-obsessed “diversity, equity and inclusion experts” in Arizona made everybody very happy recently.

Jill Lassen – who is so pasty that she could cosplay as Lizzie Warren (#wemustneverstopmockingher) – and Stuart Rhoden – who is black, both got their Kente cloths in a bunch when a PTA fundraiser at Hopi Elementary school featured a DJ wearing black face.

Now I can’t imagine what would possess anybody in this ultra-woke age to go out in public in blackface.  And neither could our two intrepid racial offense hunters!  They quickly complained to the school’s principal and the local PTA about this outrage

But just when they were about to link arms and sing a rousing chorus of, “We Shall Overcome,” the head of the PTA explained that the DJ had a good excuse for being in black face. 

It turns out he’s black, and he has a face.  (Cue the sad trombone.)

That’s right, these two SJWs threw a fit over a white guy in black face who turned out to be… a black guy, with a correspondingly color-coordinated face.

You’d have to have a heart of stone not to laugh at these two dullards. 

Avenatti/Eric “Inspector Clouseau” Adams, 2024!

This was a tough week for our family. 

We’ve got three rental houses, and by far my favorite is a two-story Victorian built in 1886.  The original owner called it “Rosewood” after the distinctive color of its heart-pine wood floors, mantels and trim work.  It had been restored and updated in the 1980s, and we bought it the spring of 2015, and did a little more restoration. 

The circumstances in which we bought it has given it a little extra emotional hold on us.  As I’ve written in a couple of Father’s Day columns, my dad died in December of 2014, after a five-month cancer battle.  I spent a big chunk of those months driving back and forth from north Florida to Tennessee.  I would teach my college classes from Tuesday through Thursday, then drive up to TN Thursday night, and back home on Monday. 

When dad passed, I went home and slept for a week, and at the beginning of the new year, I started searching our town for an old house to buy.  I came across the Victorian, and when I was walking the surrounding neighborhood to see if it was a good place to invest, I found another house built in 1930 that had good bones but was ugly. 

So I went home to my long-suffering wife and told her my plan.  And three months later, we’d refinancing our existing houses and borrowed up to our eyeballs to buy both of those buildings, and I then threw myself into about 7 months’ worth of working on those houses, alongside some trusted tradesman I knew. 

I wasn’t really aware of what I was doing at the time, but looking back on it, it’s clear to see.  Because I’m a Midwestern male from the 19th century, I’m not the type to go to a therapist and discuss my feelings.  (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, and not that writing these columns isn’t a great form of venting and therapy for me!)  I’m more the type to engage in a little Job-like, dark-night-of-the-soul meditation on a “from ashes we came, and to ashes we return” theme, along with listening to some hymns, some Johnny Cash and a selection of Appalachian murder ballads. 

Then I’m liable to locate some old houses that need work, order up a dumpster, and sublimate my grief over dad’s death into some sweet, sweet toxic masculinity, in the form of attacking some lathe-and-plaster walls with a 5-pound sledge and a crowbar.    

In this case, it worked out.  We’ve had years of tenants in that Victorian house, including two years during which my oldest daughter and four of her Christian sorority sisters lived there.  (She’s the nurse who – I may have mentioned once, or 600 times – saved someone’s life last November.)  If you’d like to see the house, you can go to Zillow, and type in the address: 320 NW 1^st Street, in Gainesville FL.

Anyway, on Wednesday night, that house caught fire. 

The good news is that the two girls who were home at the time got out safely.  One of them got her cat out with her, but the other had been dog-sitting for a roommate who was out of town, and when she panicked and grabbed the dog’s collar to pull him along, he wriggled out of the collar and went to hide under his owner’s bed. 

I got a call from my alarm-monitoring service and drove over there, to find the top story fully engulfed, with three firetrucks pouring water onto it, and several firemen surrounding the dog on a gurney, where one was doing chest compressions and the other was trying to keep an oxygen mask made for humans in place on the dog’s muzzle.  When that wasn’t working as well as it could, he gave the dog mouth-to-mouth.

Sidebar: I love that fireman!  I would give Cassie the Wonder Dog mouth-to-mouth if she needed it.  (Obviously, because she’s the finest dog ever to walk the earth.)  But as much as I love dogs, I don’t know that I’d give a strange dog mouth-to-mouth, even in dire circumstances.  So God bless that guy!

The dog came to, and was taken to a local veterinary hospital, and he should be going home within the next two days.  The fire was put out within less than an hour, so there’s now at least a slim chance that the house can be saved, though the top floor will have to be removed and rebuilt. 

If you’d like to see the house now, I’ll soon post a collection of pics on this site.  You can also see local news coverage of the fire burning at this link: https://www.wcjb.com/2022/04/14/100-year-old-home-catches-fire-gainesville/

It turns out that a tenant was burning some incense on the upstairs porch early in the evening; she went back inside thinking that it was out, but it must have been smoldering, because the fire started there, several hours later.

After several sleepless nights, and days spent shoveling about six inches of wet insulation, burnt wood and other debris off of the upstairs floors in an attempt to preserve them, I went to a Good Friday evening service at our Lutheran church.

It’s called a “Tenebrae” service, which is Latin for “darkness.”  We never had those in the Baptist churches I grew up in, but if you’re a Christian and haven’t been to one, I’d recommend it. 

It’s very grim, of course, since it recapitulates the day of Christ’s crucifixion.  The crosses in the church are draped in black, and after each of six readings (the arrest, the scourging, etc.), one of six candles is snuffed out.  (Our church had someone working the lights, and turning more off with each extinguished candle.) 

At the end of the last reading, after the last candle is put out, the church is in darkness, and silence.  (This is the only service of the year that does not end with a benediction.)  Then after several minutes, a loud “thump” noise is made at the back of the church, to symbolize the rock being rolled in place to seal the tomb.    

It is a very moving service: somber, and thought-provoking.

But the timing, this year, was rough.  Less than 48 hours after the fire, I found myself ensconced in a ritual commemorating the darkest hour of human history. 

Plus there’s candles, at a time when fire of any kind is the LAST thing I want to see.  (I would say that it’s triggering, except that I’m a Midwestern male from the 19^th century, and would thus rather give mouth-to-mouth to a strange dog than indulge in that nonsense!)

But as I write this, it’s Easter, and our hopes are born anew. 

The preliminary insurance inspection indicates that the house will be a total loss, and if that verdict is upheld this week, we’ll get a check that will pay off the mortgage and put some potential rebuilding money in our pocket.  I walked through the house with our realtor, and she’s confident that it can be salvaged, since the downstairs is almost intact, except for some water damage to the ceilings, which will have to be replaced anyway.

A woman from the city’s Historic Preservation department called me on Thursday morning, having gotten a call breaking the news from the couple who originally restored Rosewood in the 1980s.  She’s asked me not to make a decision or bulldoze the house until I talk to her, and she’s going to see if there is any way the city might provide any grant money to help in the restoration. 

Though my wife and I are still processing all this, we’re leaning toward selling the house to a restorer with the guts and cash to take the project on.  If the bids we get on the restoration costs look good enough, we might try to hang on, and have the restoration done ourselves.  But our emotional tanks are pretty empty, and I’m not sure if we’re up for that. 

But it seems appropriate on Easter to savor the chance to take a breath, and look at all there is to be thankful for.  Nobody was hurt, not even a pet.  We should be made financially whole, or close to it, and there’s at least a chance that Rosewood will survive, even if we will no longer own it. 

And, if my non-Christian readers will forgive me, Christ is Risen, and I’m going to get to see my dad again.  And we will laugh as we think about the fact that, in a strange way, his death led to me being able to own Rosewood for 7 years, and my daughter to live there, and then (God willing) I could pass it along to a new owner.

Okay, that’s it.  Not my usual column full of nonsense and mockery, but there it is. 

I will post a more typical column within a couple of days, because while we were going through our dark and fiery week, the world kept turning, and producing news that I am eager to comment on. 

Leftists continued to beclown themselves, Elon Musk terrified the censors, and – though my theological interpretation on this point might not be 100% correct – God sent an avian omen of His judgment to poop on Joe Biden.  (And we all said, “Amen!”)

Happy Easter, everybody!

The Cautious Optimism Roving Correspondent for Affairs (and Stuff) – CORCA – returns after a short hiatus:

After a week pounding out three snark-filled columns to close out March, I was unable to write a column last Monday due to the soul-crushing burden of having written about our nefarious leftist overlords thrice the week before.  

But now I’m back, because it will take more than a little tortuous soul-crushing to keep this roving correspondent down…

 …is what I thought before I watched Brandon’s performance over the last week.

He kicked the bucket with a video-taped message for our newest High Holiday.

Sorry, that’s “kicked things off,” not “kicked the bucket.”

Or is it?

Anyway, Biden’s embalmers produced a minute-long video that must have been editing together from a depressingly large number of takes — I’ve got the over-under at 42 – until he came across as almost life-like.  He opened with the phrase, “To evurrone celebrating trzzzgrder dayof vzzzzbillity.”

When I ran those words through my “Slurring-to-English” translation software, I learned that March is now officially the month that, “Comes in like a Lee-Ann and goes out like a Sam,” because the last day of the month is now apparently “Transgender Day of Visibility.”

I know what you’re thinking: it’s just not the same anymore, now that Transgender Day of Visibility has gotten so darned commercial.  In the old days, it meant a cozy day spent in the kitchen, helping your father/mother bake a tray of gingerbread he-shes (hat tip to Dennis Miller), followed by donning your gay apparel – or straight apparel, whatever – and making a trip around the neighborhood singing Transgender Day of Visibility Carols. 

Or Kevins.  Whatever.

But no longer.  Now the political elite have gotten hold of our beloved holiday, and they’re determined to score political points from it.  The theme of Biden’s Greco-Roman-Teleprompter-Grapple was that the prez sees transgender folks, and they will no longer be invisible.

Not like they used to be.  Like when you’d be hanging around on Main Street, and a person with the upper body of a Kodiak bear would be walking toward you, wearing a wife beater over a poodle-skirt and Doc Martens, a string of pearls hanging just below her prominent Adam’s apple, partially hidden by a bushy beard.

And just before you bumped into her, you’d be startled, and gasp out an apology, “I’m sorry! I didn’t notice you!”

“I know,” she’d say in her dainty, James Earl Jones voice, “I’m so sick of being invisible!”

Well suffer no more, transgender citizens.  Because your president sees you, and he values you, and he sniffs your hair. Unless you’re a dude — that would be gross.    

Speaking of invisibility, did you see the press conference last week when Obama triumphantly returned to the White House, rattled off some narcissistic lies, and then mingled with the various sycophants and lickspittles who crowded around him, eager to touch the hem of his robe? 

Poor Old Joe was left to wander around the periphery like the Ghost of Transgender Visibility Day Past,  unnoticed and un-missed by all in attendance.

But lest you think Joey Gaffes has cornered the market on delusional, consider the latest ad campaigns from the Dem brain-trusts running Chicago and NYC.  Both metropoli have noticed that they’ve been losing a lot of productive citizens to red states lately, and they’ve decided to fight back. 

And Florida’s so-called, “Don’t Say Gay Bill (actual title: “Stop Sexually Indoctrinating our Kids, You Weirdos!”) gave them just the opportunity they were looking for. 

Chicago bought full-page ads in several Florida newspapers touting its “In Chicago, We Believe” campaign.  Unfortunately for them, lots of Florida residents put on their bifocals to read the smaller print beneath the headline slogan, which began, “…that you don’t pay enough taxes; that recidivist criminals don’t kill people, guns do; that single-party corruption and a mayor who frightens children like a sewer-dwelling Stephen King clown is just good fun…”

Not to be out-done, NYC bought giant billboards in several FL cities with the word “gay” on them, and an invitation for Floridians to “come to the city where you can say whatever you want.” 

Especially if what you want to say is, “Please continue fiscally raping me, you socialist lunatics!” or “What are you going to do with that machete, deranged, whitey-hating, homeless person?” or, “Why are you shoving me toward the subway tracks, fellow Biden-voter?  AAaaghhh!!  Splat!”   

As a Floridian, I’d like to thank those nearly-bankrupt cities for spending some of their dwindling funds in our state on their insane ad campaigns.  And hey, if those ads entice a few of our recent Grievance Studies graduates with fluorescent hair and horrific facial piercings to pursue their obsessive urge to regale 5-year-olds with hot genitalia talk in YOUR state, we’ll call that a win-win.  

In a related story, if you want a sneak preview of the kind of entitled d-bags you’ll be sharing the Big Apple with, I give you “Jackie,” an entitled shoplifter whom I swear I am not making up.  She was recently caught shoplifting from a Manhattan Duane Reade store. 

When a security guard stopped her, she objected to being treated disrespectfully, just because she is a good-for-nothing, larcenous POC.  Quoth the thief, “Like, my whole thing is, is that they put hands on you when they’re not allowed to touch you.”

The store officials weren’t impressed by Jackie’s legal reasoning, so she had to enlighten them further.  “I said, ‘no, you can’t do that.  I gave you back your property… and you are not letting me leave the store.”

She also explained that SHE was the real victim.  “Taking stuff is hard.  Whenever you try to steal something, it’s a 50/50 shot that you’ll get caught.  But usually, you get caught.”

Brilliant!  She sounds like she might have been part of the focus group who came up with the marketing slogan for the cologne “Sex Panther,” from the movie Anchorman:  “60% of the time, it works every time.”

But let’s not dwell on the dregs of society. 

Let’s dwell on the dregs of the legal system, and the way that Biden kept his promise to nominate the best possible jurist to sit on the land’s highest court… as long as her genitalia and skin color were pleasing to him.    

The Ketanji  Brown Jackson story raises several nauseating points:  First, the gender and racial cheerleading is repulsive, and dishonest, and stupid.

Repulsive because this kind of identity politics always requires that we accept the premise that all women think alike, and all blacks think alike.  And that idea is surely at the heart of what reasonable people would call sexism and racism.

Dishonest because they know that that premise is not true, which is why they decry – not celebrate – Clarence Thomas and Amy Coney Barrett, even though their skin tone and genitalia should supposedly give them sacred, unassailable virtue.

And stupid because the same left has spent a large part of the last year denying that anyone can even say what a female is, and yet they’re celebrating her status as a new black FEMALE on the supreme court?  Even the nominee herself pretended to be stumped by the question of how to define a woman – which, in a sane world, would be enough to deny her nomination immediately. 

But now, I guess the MSM is suddenly crawling with expert biologists, since they have no hesitation in declaring that Jackson is a woman?

The over-reaction from the left about the most basic and relevant questions that the GOP senators asked during her confirmation hearings – especially after the ridiculous and evidence-free slurs against Kavanaugh as a gang-rapist, and Barrett as a religious lunatic – speaks volumes.

To me, it seems clear that the far left has a giant bug up their butts about any SC nominee who is not a committed, leftist, activist, legislate-from-the-bench enthusiast.

But since I’m neither an entomologist nor a proctologist, I guess I’m not qualified to make that judgement.

It’s been a long 4 years and it’s only been 63 weeks.

Avenatti/Sticky-Fingers Jackie 2024!

In trying to keep up with the avalanche of lefty follies that are threatening to destroy our polity the way Ted Kennedy used to destroy mini-bars – it’s Old Reference Friday! —  I find myself commenting on recent events that now feel like ancient history.  Case in point: Que Mala’s trip to Europe. 

It’s easy for most of us to forget – because of… wait for it… the significance of the passage of time – that Willie Brown’s old goomah laid metaphorical waste to eastern Europe just EARLIER THIS MONTH!

The VP’s European adventure was the most disastrous foreign policy junket since Hunter went over to Ukraine with two giant, empty canvas bags – one with the word “Meth” on it, and the other with a dollar sign – and then returned two days later with both bags full, and a Ukrainian hooker in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder. 

But Que Mala was barely home long enough for any of us to really, truly absorb the meaning of the significance of the passage of time – repeated maniacally, like Lou Gehrig’s last game’s echo of “luckiest man in the world…world…world” – before Brandon said, “Hold my Metamucil and watch this!” 

And then he stumbled up the mobile airplane staircase – falling three times along the way – to start HIS European trip. 

And just when I think I’m incapable of being surprised by anything this Star Wars bar scene of an administration does, Joe Biden out-disasters Que Mala.

It’s hard to even choose which gaffes to talk about, because in one brief trip (plus a few short days back at home), Biden made more egregious blunders than most administrations would be able to commit – and survive – in 4 to 8 years! 

Behold, the smorgasbord of bat-guano crazy:

Biden: “You US troops will soon learn about the Ukrainian war when you get there.” 

WHSW (White House Spokes-Weasel) response: “No, US troops are NOT going to Ukraine.”

Biden’s response: “No, I wasn’t talking about our troops going to Ukraine, just because I told them they were going to Ukraine.  I meant that they’ll see Ukrainian troops because we’re secretly training them in Poland.”

WHSW: “Whoa, whoa.  For the record, it’s NOT American policy to train Ukrainian troops in Poland.”

Peter Doocy: “But are we, though?”

Biden (before an aide can clamp a hand over his dentures): “Yes!”

WHSW: “Absolutely not.”

Biden: “If Putin uses chemical weapons, we’ll respond in kind.”

Peter Doocy: “Wha?  We’ll use chemical weapons?!”

Biden: “Yes!”

Spokes-weasel: “No!”

Biden: “I mean, No!”

Peter Doocy:  “But you just said that we’ll respond in kind.”

Biden: “What’s your point, Peter Lorre?”

Doocy:  “It’s Peter Doocy.  And ‘in kind’ means in the same way.”

Biden: “No it doesn’t!  Come on, man!”

Doocy: “I’ve got a dictionary right here.”

Biden: “Shmictionary.”

Doocy:  “What?”

Biden: “Schmictionary schmictionary.”

Doocy: “Are you trying to say, ‘dictionary, schmictionary’?”

Biden: “You know what I’m trying… You know… the thing!  I’m losing patience with you, Goosey Loosey.”

Doocy:  “It’s Peter Doocy.”

Biden: “Don’t get smart with me, Il Duce.”

Doocy:  “It’s Doocy.”

Biden:  “Pass the Dutchie?”

Doocy:  “Peter Doocy.”

Biden (waving dismissively): “Aaahh.  I don’t have time for this.  I’ve got a conference call with Gronkowski, and then the X-Men.”

WHSW: “He means Zelensky and Chairman Xi.”

And, scene.

When another reporter pointed out that Biden’s (late and half-hearted) sanctions didn’t stop Putin from invading, Biden snapped into his grouchy-old-man mode, and said these actual words, in a real quote that I am not making up:

“Let’s get something straight. Do you remember, if you covered me from the very beginning, I did not say that, in fact, the sanctions would deter him.  Sanctions never deter. You keep talking about that. Sanctions never deter.”

The reporter looked a little confused, since for the last two months everyone in Christendom has heard a chorus of Biden administration officials and Dem talking heads and MSM empty heads (but I repeat myself) claiming that sanctions are powerful deterrents.

Finally the reporter asked, “You believe the actions today will have an impact on making Russia change course in Ukraine?”

And our irritable Cadaver-in-Chief snapped, “That’s not what I said.  You’re playing a game with me.”

For the record, the only game anyone has played with Biden lately is a raucous round of, “Duck, Duck, Corpse.”  

Spoiler alert: he’s never the duck.  

Sadly, those gaffes don’t even include the top two biggest embarassments of the last week, one of which was Biden being caught with a cheat-sheet card full of talking points to use.  The cameras captured a shot of the card, which was headlined: “Answers to Tough Putin Questions.”  

You would think that the most worrisome thing about that card was how simplistic the answers were.  They were written down to the reading level of Que Mala’s explanation of the Ukraine war: “Ukraine is a small country.  It’s next to a big country, called Russia.  Which is a country name that starts with the letter ‘R’…”

But to me, the most worrisome thing is that the US president can’t be trusted to take simple coaching and spit out simple answers to anticipated questions without needing a cue card!

After seeing that performance, I shudder to think that it could have been even worse.  Can you not imagine Biden standing unsteadily at that podium, taking the first question, and then fumbling for his magic card?

Peter Doocy: “What did you mean when you said that Putin can’t be allowed to stay in power?”

Biden (pulling out every card from his jacket pockets, then squinting at the first one): “Queen of Diamonds.”

Doocy: “What?”

Biden (shuffling): “I mean… Community Chest.”

Doocy: “Ummm?”

Biden: “Congratulations on your Graduation!”

Doocy: “Are you reading from cards?”

Biden: “No!  Oh wait, I’ve got it.  I was speaking from moral outrage!” (looks proud of himself) “What do you think of that, Peter Piper?”

Doocy: “It’s Peter Doocy.”

Biden: “Ahh, go peck a purple picker.”

Doocy:  “Are you trying to say ‘pick a peck of pickled peppers’?”

Biden: “You know the thing!  You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Peter Criss—I mean… Peter Parker.”

Doocy (looking at the other reporters): “Wasn’t he Spiderman?”

Anonymous pool reporter from MSNBC (holding his head in his hands): “I think the first guy was the original drummer from KISS.”

Biden: “But I’M the important one here.  Every time I walk into a room, they play a little toon called, ‘How’s it Going, Champ?’  How about that?”

Doocy (confused): “Do you mean, ‘Hail to the Chief’?”

Before Biden can say anything else, Jill tugs at his arm and pulls him toward the door, while a Spokes-weasel says, “We’ll be issuing a 5-page updated document of corrections within the hour.”

And, scene.  Again.

That last gaffe – his already infamous, ad-libbed “9 words” — seems to be the one that informed observers are most worried about, since it plays into Putin’s hands, and reinforces the idea that we are determined to force regime change in Russia. 

I was about to say that it can’t get any worse, but… of course it can!  I can already think of more last-minute ad libs that no one would be the least bit surprised to hear come out of Joey Gaffe’s mouth.

Here’s a few off the top of my head:

“Follow me men, we’re invading Ukraine!”

“The Urals are undefended – who’s with me?!”

“For God’s sake, Corn Pop cannot remain in power!”

At this point, I’ll just be happy if, during the next 13 years of this interminable presidency, Brandon doesn’t end a press conference by shouting, “Death to America!”

The bottom line: we can’t send Biden to Europe any more.

Or to the Middle East.

Or to the Midwest.  Or the west coast, or the east coast.

Or the grocery store.  Or out in public.

It’s been a long 4 years and it’s only been 61 weeks.

Avenatti/Goosey Loosey 2024!

Oh, come on!  You’ve got to be Schumer-ing me!

One day after I say that I’ve got to write two columns in one week to try to catch up on my leftist-skewering, we have THOSE Oscars?   Now I might have to write 3 columns in one week.  At this pace, I’ll just keep falling farther and farther behind on my appointed rounds of mockery.

But I’m an Ameri-can, not an Ameri-can’t.  So here goes Part 2 of 3:

Does anyone else remember when the Oscars was just a bunch of insufferable BACKslapping? 

Well, this year’s ceremonies apparently started out the same way.  (Of course I didn’t watch them live. Because I’ve got a life to lead over here.) 

Three untalented non-entities hosted, since the obnoxious prickliness of the wokesters in charge have driven off any reasonably well-known or competent hosts.  And within the first minute or two, those dopes launched a political attack on the 70% of the country who supports Florida’s anti-child grooming bill, by rolling out the lame, “Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay!” joke.   

Which provoked the latest example of why Ron DeSantis and his staff are four standard deviations better than their detractors on the dullard left.  His press secretary tweeted out that painfully unfunny joke, followed by this perfect, sarcastic slap down: “Florida will never recover from this.”

Well played!

The Will Smith slap is the most surprising thing I’ve ever seen on tv.  If I had been watching the Oscars live, I think I would have thought it was some kind of a gag.

But even though I heard about it the way all of you did — a day late, and framed as a real incident – I am still flummoxed by it. 

Because as little as I follow Hollywood, the only thing I know about Jada Pinkett is that she has publicly flaunted her “open marriage” with Will Smith.  That term is also very confusing to me.  On first blush – and if Pinkett could blush at such things, she would be a very different person than she is – a woman pursuing that kind of “marriage” would appear to be what the Romans called a plain ol’ “meretrix.”  (Look it up. And you’re welcome.)  

Now I may be just a humble roving correspondent from the 19^th century, but as I understand marriage, the “closed” part is not some minutiae in the fine print: it’s pretty much the core of the thing.  When I took my vows 33 years ago last week, I remember saying something like, “… for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, being faithful only to you….”  

But maybe in the topsy turvy world of Hollywood and the lefty elite, everything is upside down and arse-backwards.  Women are men, intolerance is tolerance, so maybe marriage can be “open?” 

The mind reels.  What’s the Hollywood definition of a threesome?  It must contain at least four people?  What is their definition of faithfulness?  Banging Pete Davidson on Instagram? 

So I watch, mouth agape, as Smith stalks up to Chris Rock and slaps him – kudos to Rock for behaving more professionally than most would have been able to do in that situation – and then stomps back to his seat.  The commentators talked about how he was just “defending his wife’s honor.” 

Huh?  I guess she is technically his “wife.” But her “honor?”  Really?

When Rock is appropriately shocked by this, Smith shouts out, “Keep my wife’s name out yo friending mouth!”

And once again I was confused.  Could “having a woman’s name in your mouth” be some kind of Hollywood sex slang that I’ve never heard?  As in, a guy is in a crowded bar, bragging to his buddies, “I just spent the whole weekend with” – and here he elbows his closest friend and gives him a Belushi-an raised eyebrow – “Jada Pinkett’s name in my mouth, if you know what I mean?”

And then everybody in the bar says, “Yeah, us too.”

But no.  Will Smith is actually at least pretending to be angry at Chris Rock for mentioning Pinkett’s name in a harmless joke. 

Can I possibly have that right?  After her serial affairs, an MC mentioning her name is beyond the pale for Will Smith?

The saddest part of the whole fiasco is watching Will Smith when Rock tells the very mild joke.  He smiles broadly, obviously understanding the joke… until he glances at the bald harpie he’s with, and sees the soul-shriveling scowl on her unfaithful face.  And then he has to pretend to wear the pants in the relationship, and stomp up onto the stage and slap Chris Rock.

But this is Cautious Optimism, and I’m going to look on the bright side.  It’s a good thing I wasn’t writing jokes for the Oscar presenters, because as I was watching this unfold, one occurred to me. 

It takes a little set up.  The producers of these kinds of award shows hate to have any open seats in the auditorium when the camera is panning the crowd, so they hire some nobodies to dress nicely and wait in the wings.  Whenever anyone in the crowd leaves to go to the bathroom or something, one of these people – called “seat fillers” – temporarily takes their seat, so the cameras will always see a full house.

I would have loaded my joke on John Travolta’s teleprompter, and then fled the scene. 

Can you imagine Will Smith’s reaction if, when he started forward to receive his Best Actor Oscar an hour after slapping Rock for even mentioning Pinkett’s name, Travolta read out, “Will Smith is coming to the stage now, and I’m sure he won’t mind if we provide a” – and here Travolta would give a leer and the “Belushi brow” – a ‘seat filler’ to take his place!”

If Smith was willing to slap Rock for saying his wife’s name, what would he have done if Travolta suggested that his wife’s seat was going to be filled the minute Smith left her side?  If you know what I mean.

So let’s review what we’ve learned in the last week:

Saying that we’ll respond to chemical weapons attacks “in kind,” does NOT mean that we’ll respond with chemical weapons.

Saying that our soldiers will soon go to Ukraine really means that they’ll soon go to Poland.

Saying that, “For God’s sake, [Putin] must not remain in power!” does NOT mean that we’re going to remove Putin from power.

A “don’t say gay” bill is a bill that does NOT contain either of those three words (Even though hordes of leftist morons are chanting that word all over the country, as if they are meretrices working a niche market advertising their wares when the fleet is in port.) 

And here’s what we already knew:

Trans women are not women.

Open marriage is not marriage. 

And the Oscars are not worth watching.

It’s been a long 13 years, and it’s only been 61 weeks.