Let’s start in Washington, DC, where the trial of sleazy Hillary Clinton hatchet-man Michael Sussman ended with him following in the footsteps of Jeffrey Toobin on a CNN panel discussion: he got off.
Even casual trial watchers saw that this was an open-and-shut case for conviction. Sussman was exposed as the kind of lying sleaze bag you’d expect to be working for Cankles McPantsuit, having taken a false story smearing Trump as a Russian collaborator to the FBI. He turned over doctored evidence – which FBI investigators quickly recognized as having been faked – to support his claim.
When questioned under oath, Sussman denied that he was working for any campaign or outside entity, and had come forward simply as a – control your gag reflex – “concerned citizen.” Criminal mastermind that he is, Sussman proved his own guilt beyond any doubt by… wait for it… billing the Clinton campaign for the time he spent providing fraudulent “evidence” to the FBI!
So why was he acquitted? Because he truly had a jury of his peers.
Three of them donated to Hillary Clinton, one donated to AOC, and one had a daughter who played on a sports team with Sussman’s daughter. And the Obama-appointed judge presiding over the trial naturally believed that those people would be impartial. Duh.
After the infuriating verdict, one juror gave a media interview in which she argued that the case should not have been prosecuted, since “There are bigger things that affect the nation than a possible lie to the FBI.”
Great. Is there any worse American city than DC?
How about San Francisco, where the geniuses in charge have gotten their priorities – you’ll forgive the term – straight?
Sure, residents of the city have to teach their kids a horrifying version of hopscotch that involves jumping around to avoid the used syringes that litter the street. And they can’t leave the house without wearing hip-waders, as if they were going fly fishing in a pristine Montana river, rather than stepping through mounds of human waste.
And crime is skyrocketing, and taxes are ruinously high, and you need a home equity loan to fill up your gas tank.
But don’t worry, because the SF Unified School District has taken the crucial step that is going to turn everything in that benighted city around: they’ve banned using the word “chief” in all of the district’s job titles.
According to their spokesperson Gentle Blythe – and how on earth is she not a Puritan minor character from The Scarlet Letter with that name?! – “our leadership team agreed that, given that Native American members of our community have expressed concerns over the use of the title,” the word “chief” is henceforth off the reservation.
First of all, even counting the Indian from the Village People, the Native American population of San Francisco can’t be that large. And not too many of those can be such frivolous dopes that they’d be losing sleep over such a trivial issue.
“Chief” is not a pejorative term, and in the context of education, it is always used in ways that have nothing to do with Native Americans. Its etymology isn’t connected to Indians in any way, either.
It comes, by way of Middle English and French, from a Latin root that means “leader.” It’s cognate with terms like “chef” and “captain,” and has been associated with chieftains of Celtic clans, and in modern times with various leadership positions, such as Chief Executive Officer, Chief of Staff, Police Chief, etc.
But we should probably expect no less from the same board that recently made a name for itself by changing the appellation of schools that had been named for such disreputable characters as George Washington and Abraham Lincoln.
So congratulations, future San Franciscans! One day you’ll be able to send around your transcripts from George Floyd Junior High and Hunter Biden High school!
One funny consequence is that 13 bureaucrats in the school district now have no job titles, since they had been chiefs of this or that. The district’s website still lists them under their newly offensive former titles, since nobody in the place has yet come up with an alternative.
Might I suggest, “Jack Asses 1-13?”
Get to work on those business cards.
Finally, speaking of San Francisco, I would be remiss if I didn’t pay tribute to this happiest of all months in our new liturgical calendar. It’s a month of festivities that will be in your face daily, through such a profusion of hectoring ads and self-righteous PSAs and obnoxious White House proclamations that you will never cease to be reminded of how much celebrating you should be doing, if you’re not a terrible person.
I am speaking, of course, of National Dairy Month.
Which I am not making up.
I started my Dairy Month celebration early, during my trip through Wisconsin and Michigan. I had some cheese curds with several meals, made a pilgrimage to the birthplace of the sundae (Two Rivers, WI), and continued my life-long love affair with daily servings of ice cream.
Does my contemplative appreciation of all things dairy necessarily make me a better person than you?
Probably.
But what certainly makes me even more better than you is my new PSA, which I am composing right this minute:
“Hi, my name is Martin Simpson — gentleman, scholar, and widely recognized hilarious genius. You may know me from such previous PSAs as, ‘What is Lizzie Warren Squaw-king about Now?’ (#wemustneverstopmockingher), ‘Michael Avenatti: Con Man for All Seasons,’ and, ‘Rest in Peace, Joe Biden (1942-2019).’
I’d like to speak to you today about the linchpin of our American society: dairy products.
From the delicious butter that you put on your toast or corn on the cob, to the diverse array of cheeses that you enjoy separately or on crackers or hamburgers, to the sweet, sweet ice cream that helps you hold it together in tough times like these, dairy products are one of the consolations of life.
Dairy is also an important source of Vitamin D, which strengthens your bones. That’s especially important if you’re a woman, and thus more susceptible to osteoporosis.
Or if you’re a man who identifies as a woman, and who therefore magically has woman-bones, I guess.
Speaking of which, please don’t let your cisgender, homophobic bigotry interfere with your appreciation of delicious, nutritious dairy products each day.
‘Martin, how could such a stupid-sounding thing ever happen?’ You are probably thinking.
Easy. You probably are not consciously hateful toward any members of the bovine community. You probably don’t think that you have attached any negative connotation to first openly gay California politician Harvey Milk’s last name. You might even believe that when it comes to chocolate or white milk, you don’t see color.
But when you are raised in such a sexist, transphobic, cud-bashing society like ours, you can’t help but be affected by it. You probably assume that the breed a cow was assigned at birth is its actual breed, even though science has proven that if a Guernsey identifies as a Holstein, she’s a Holstein.
And you probably assume that just because you are vigorously milking her, a cow is a female, and her pronouns are she/her. But what if she’s a male cow who identifies as a female cow, commonly known as a trans-heifer? What then?
Ummm… if that’s the case, you should probably stop “milking” that cow immediately.
So this June, observe National Dairy Month by consuming at least 5 servings of dairy each day, and celebrating the entire rainbow of cattle breeds and sexual orientations.
And remember the National Woke Dairy Manufacturers’ slogan: “In Our America, There’s No Tolerance for Lactose Intolerance.”
Avenatti/ Goody Gentle Blythe 2024!
Martin Simpson 