Author: martinsimpsonwriting

Man o’ Manischewitz, I leave town for a drive across the country for two weeks, and when I get back everything is on fire, the train is off the tracks, all hell has broken loose, we’re up Schumer creek, and the inmates are running the asylum!  Also, the fox is in the henhouse, and the devil is in the details, and the proof is in the pudding.     

I know: that didn’t even make sense!  But what the hell, people?!

One of the best parts of going on vacation is not following the news every day, and I was mostly successful at that.  But I did check the computer for a few minutes each night, and since I got home, I’ve been catching up. 

Talk about drinking from a fire hose of weird news! 

I’m going to touch on just 3 stories that jumped out at me, and will try to write about some more later in the week.

First, did I dream this, or did Joy Behar – one of the whitest and stupidest people on tv (and that’s saying something) – really lecture Tim Scott – a black and not-at-all-stupid senator – about how he doesn’t understand anti-black racism?

Does no one on her staff have a mirror that could be held up to Behar, so she could then recoil in horror, realize what a gigantic a-hole she has become, and then slink off into well-deserved ignominy?   

Second, did someone slip some hallucinogenic mushrooms into my omelette somewhere in New Mexico, or did the CIA release an insane recruitment ad when I was on the road? 

Nope, I just looked it up, and it wasn’t a fever dream of mine.  This really happened.  I quote from a story in the Guardian: “A social media campaign, Humans of CIA, aimed at boosting diversity in the agency—”

Whoa, stop right there.  That’s a lot of weapons-grade wrongness in a very small collection of words.  Let me count the ways:

First, I don’t want our spy agency to have “social media campaigns.” 

Clandestine drone surveillance campaigns?  Yes.  Infiltration and disruption campaigns?  Abso-freakin’-lutely.  Counter-Fang-Fang reverse-engineered triple-agent honey-trap campaigns? Sounds like fun.

But social media campaigns?  “Here’s a pic of my meal in the CIA cafeteria this morning?” “5 Reasons why Masculinity is So Toxic?” “How to Handle Micro-Aggressions When you are Undercover?” 

No bueno, and no gracias.

Second, ”Humans of CIA?”  That’s what you named your social media campaign?!  As opposed to what?  “Inhumans of CIA?”  “Amphibians of CIA?”  “Deciduous Trees of CIA?”  Ugh.

Third,“…aimed at boosting diversity…”  Good lord, will this NEVER end?! 

We need super-sneaky, bad-ass spies.  We don’t need differently-abled, transgender, anorexic, Zoroastrian, little-person Asian-or-Pacific-Islanders!   (Besides, that 6-box-checking unicorn is already pulling down a 7-figure income leading a grievance study program at some horrifically over-priced college.)

I mean, sure, if we need to infiltrate a bi-polar, transgender terror cell, recruit with that in mind.  If we’ve got a lead on a hearing-impaired Pacific-Islander drug cartel, go find the Samoan Marlee Matlin and coach her up. 

But otherwise, can we PLEASE just find some people who like to spy and are good at it?

“I wonder what kind of employee you get, when you begin with that insane set of criteria?” you are not asking, because you already know.

Let me introduce you to a 36-year old Latina CIA officer with a lot of issues.  How do I know these things about her?  Because she yammers about it throughout the video.

In the first minute of the ad, we learn that she likes Zora Neal Hurston’s fiction (okay), that she’s the daughter of immigrants (who cares?), that “nothing about [her] “is tragic,” (what?), “[she] is perfectly made” (Meh.), and she’s bilingual (I guess that could come in handy pretty often). 

Also, she can “change a diaper with one hand, and console a crying toddler with the other.”  Um, is this a job interview for a daycare provider?

Then things go seriously downhill.  “I’m a woman.  I’m a mom. I am a cisgender millennial, who has been diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder.” 

Oh, no.  You want to be a spy, and you have an anxiety disorder?

“I am intersectional, but my existence is not a box-checking exercise.” She says, after spending 59 seconds checking off a dozen irrelevant boxes.

Then she segues into a half-minute of unintentionally revealing “methinks she doth protest too much” guilty defensiveness: “I did NOT sneak into CIA.  My employment was not and is not the result of a fluke, or slip through the cracks.  I EARNED my way in, and I EARNED my way up the ranks of this organization.  I am educated, qualified, and competent.” 

Now we’ve gone from daycare to a self-help support group led by Stuart Smalley.  (“He’s good enough, he’s smart enough, and doggone it, people like him!”)

But then… the very next sentence: “And sometimes I struggle.  I struggle feeling like I could do more… and I struggle leaving the office when I feel like there’s so much more I could do.”

I’m no top-secret spy-training guy, but that sounds like a lot of struggling for someone who wants to get into the exciting field of high-stakes, life-endangering espionage.

“I used to struggle with imposter syndrome, but at 36, I REFUSE to internalize misguided patriarchal ideas of what a woman can or should be.”

And… there goes my gag reflex.

Imposter syndrome?! You’re supposed to be a spy!  Do you know what the operational definition of a spy is?   (Cue Sam Kinison wearing a James Bondian tuxedo.) AN IMPOSTER!!  OH! OHHH! 

You pretend to be a gardener on the grounds of a ChiCom training base, or a caterer for a gathering of  Hamas big shots, or a secretary for a handsy Russian general who gets a little chatty after his third vodka.  And when Comrade Grope-ski gets a little flirtatious, you give him a sultry look and a third vodka, not a lecture on how he better keep his patriarchal mitts off your strong Latina cis-gendered butt, lest you report him to the CIA HR!

I cannot imagine anything more comforting to our enemies than watching a recruiting ad like this!  

And in case you’re wondering, yes I do have an idea for a better CIA recruiting ad, thanks for asking:

We open on a dark screen that stays dark throughout.  We hear a hoarse whisper, voiced by Clint Eastwood, or possibly Tom Waits.    

“Hey.  If you were an enemy of the United States, this is all you would ever see of me.  I might be shadowing you in a crowded public place, or behind you in line for a cab, or sitting beside your bed as you sleep. 

I could be there to inject you with a drug that causes a heart attack, or to install some malware on your computer, or put a listening device in your bedside table, or a small explosive charge in your cell phone, so that you next time you call for an Uber you get your head blown clean off.

Or maybe I’ll just slide this very sharp, very thin blade between two of your ribs and into your heart or liver.  Both of which will hurt.  A lot.  So maybe you should re-think that, “Let’s screw with America,” plan you’ve got going.

I’ve got imposter syndrome.  Because I’m an imposter.  Which is why you won’t suspect that I’m the guy who’s going to get you and your fellow bad guys imprisoned or killed or both.  But I am.  And I will. 

And this is all you’ll ever see of me.”

Then the following words appear on screen: “If this sounds good to you, contact the CIA.  We’re hiring.”

In keeping with my renewed appreciation for America after my cross-country road trip, I thought I’d end today on a feel-good story in praise of one of my favorite things about our country: the second amendment.

This charming little educational story appeared on Breitbart on May 6^th, under the headline, “Alleged Intruder Armed with Knife Takes Fatal Head Shot.” 

Already you know that this story is going to be great, but it turns out to be like an onion, in that it has many layers.  And also because it will make you cry.  With laughter, I mean.  

The first layer of the story: 54-year-old idiot with an active Domestic Violence Injunction against him stops by his kids’ mom’s house to do her harm, kicks his way through the front door and grabs a knife, and goes through the house until he finds her in a back bedroom.  She depended on the powerful government injunction to protect her.  But also a pistol.  (Belt and suspenders, people.)  She shoots him in the head, and he wins first prize in the “Assume Room Temperature” challenge.

But wait.  There’s more.

It turns out that mom had some kind of a security cam outside her front door.  So in addition to the dry police narrative of events, we get an audio/visual presentation too.

The 30-second video opens with violent idiot stomping up to the front door, and then giving it a backwards kick, as he makes a cogent appeal to be let into the house.  To wit, “You want to friending play, b**ch?  Friend!”  Then he punches the wall near the door.  “You want to friending play?  Let’s PLAY!  Friending b**ch!”

Then he gives the front door six more kicks, until it breaks open.  He stomps through it, and we can hear his voice getting fainter as he starts moving through the interior of the house.  “Let’s friending play!  Let’s friending play!”   

Sadly, the video ends there, before he found out she had a gun, and uttered his last words.

Which I can only hope were, “What the friend?  I immediately regret my decision!  I don’t want to play anymo—” BLAM!

The third layer: I love the way media report on crime.  The story called the idiot the “suspect,” and said that he, “allegedly kicked in the door.”  Also that he “allegedly made threats against the woman.”

You don’t say?  We just watched the video.  There’s no “suspect,” and no “allegedly.” 

Even when the story links to the video, it says that the police “posted video showing the suspect allegedly kicking in the door.” 

Way to go, journalists! 

Let’s go back to basics: an “allegation” is a claim that somebody did something.  The actual definition of the adverb “allegedly” is “used to convey that something is claimed to be the case or have taken place, although there is no proof.” 

It makes NO sense to say that a video shows someone doing something for which there is no proof that he did!  Go back to J-school, you idiots! 

And now, for the final layer of the onion – which, I warn you, will make you cry.  (again: with laughter.)

Where do you think the violent dope was going when he took a detour to his baby mama’s place to play a spirited round of “taking a knife to a gunfight?”  Was it:

1. The monthly meeting of his local Mensa club.
2. Weekly Bible study.

Or…

Wait for it…

• Anger management class.

You can’t make this up.

Look at the bright side, folks.  This guy graduated at the top of his anger management class, and in the same way that Joe Biden is governing.

Posthumously.

Many thanks to our Founders, who provided the lady in this story with a very effective way to de-escalate a tense situation, and simultaneously to ensure that her ex will never lose control of his temper again!

Avenatti/Valedictorian of the Anger Management Class, 2024!

After my grim column on Monday, I’m turning back to the sunny side of the street today. 

Sidebar: This doesn’t mean that the racial arsonists on the left still aren’t vile creeps, or that their horrific dishonesty about this country, average cops, average white people, or everything else aren’t going to get a lot of black people killed in coming years.  Just because I choose to occupy myself with more uplifting thoughts doesn’t mean that Shakespeare’s words don’t still apply to that sorry lot: “Thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee!”

Just a few quick stories today, and then I’ll tell you about a fun trip that I’m going to be taking.

First, it’s nice to see that there has been at least a little pushback on some of the Leftists who spent the last several weeks playing their parts in the modern day version of that old fable, “The Gender-non-binary Child Who Cried Racism.” 

Even Melting-Face Maxine Waters is getting a little blowback from her blatant calls for mob violence in Minneapolis.  After half the sentient bipeds in North America called out her slimy comments, she implausibly said, “I’m nonviolent,” and then went on to accuse the GOP of unfairly pouncing on her egregious comments.

And then, in my most-desired dreams, Candace Owens stepped out of a crowd of reporters holding a wooden bucket of water, and threw it on Maxine.  Whereupon she shrieked, “You cursed brat!  Look what you’ve done!  I’m melting, melting.  Oh what a world, what a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness!”

Then she slowly sunk through the floorboards, leaving only her pointy black hat and that ridiculous wig that is fooling no one.

In another feel-good story already commented upon on the CO site, the leftist Hollywood brain trust got together months ago to confront the problem that last year’s Oscars were only watched by around 24 million people.  A passing guy wearing a MAGA hat sneered, “I bet you can’t get this year’s viewership down to under 10 million.”

“Oh yeah,” said an actor or actress whose pronouns are a question mark and a shoulder-shrug emoji, “well hold my kale smoothie and watch this!”

And…. 9.85 million sets were tuned to the Oscars on Sunday night. 

And don’t forget that 1.4 million of those were in airports, too high on a wall to be reached by the travelers, who were desperately launching themselves upwards or getting onto others’ shoulders to try to reach the “off” switch.   

Another 1.2 million were in convalescent homes and hospitals where the occupants were either sleeping or comatose.     

Doughy, actress-fondling entertainment bigshots insisted the small audience was due to the pandemic, and had nothing to do with the unwatchable nominated movies or the insufferable nominated “stars.”   

To add insult to self-inflicted injury, these geniuses decided to hold the Grammys in a train station this year, which might help explain another 10,000 viewers or so, who were trapped on trains passing through, forcing them to briefly gawk at the self-satisfied narcissists who know nothing about politics sharing their vast lack of knowledge with their miniscule audience. 

I’m not kidding about this: the Oscars were actually held in the LA’s Union Station! 

This was a two-fer for the Hollywood left. 

By not holding the ceremony in an established auditorium or other venue, they were able to ensure that no honest businesspeople in unnecessarily locked-down CA  were able to earn any money.   AND the homeless people who usually “live” in the train station – the benefactors of so many Democrat policies over the years! – were forced to pack up their belongings and get out for a couple of days.

Rumors that next year’s event will be held in a Greyhound station, and that the 2023 awards will take place in a Port Authority bathroom remain unconfirmed. 

Hooray for Hollywood!

Speaking of LA, guess who has two thumbs and is going there soon, but only to visit briefly, because CA is being run into the ground by terrible leftist politicians? 

This humble hilarious genius right here, that’s who!  (If this were a podcast instead of a written column, you could see me standing with both thumbs pointing at myself right now.) 

A couple of my cousins got the idea of the three of us taking a road trip together.  So one of them bought a 45-year-old Cadillac Eldorado convertible, and on May 1^st, we’re going to drive Route 66, from its origin in Chicago to its terminus in LA.   Which means that we’re going to be turning fly-over country into drive-through country.

I’m really looking forward to the trip!  We figure we’ll spend around 10 days on the drive out, and then take a little jaunt up the Pacific Coast Highway.   I’m going to fly back home from San Francisco, because I can’t be away from my smoking hot wife and Wonder Dog for more than a couple of weeks, but those two will then drive back home to Illinois.

I haven’t been on that route any further than St. Louis before, so if any of you know 66 and have any suggestions about must-see stops, please let me know.   Also, please feel free to chime in with your guesses about how likely it is that we’ll have a major break-down with that car along the way. 

For what it’s worth, my over/under is… New Mexico.  

My regular Monday column might be delayed, but I’m taking my laptop, and hope to post some travelogue entries along the way.

In the meantime, in lieu of a snappy ending, I leave you with a joke that seems timely, since I’m heading to LA:

A bunch of people are seated in a circle of folding chairs when a guy clears his throat.  “I want to welcome you all to a meeting of Plastic Surgery Addicts Anonymous.  I see a few new faces here this week.  So I’m very disappointed.”   

Boom!

I won’t lie to you: as an inveterate optimist who always tries to find humor in the ongoing circus of human behavior, I’ve had a tough time writing today’s column.  Mostly because every time I turn on the tv or open a browser, I’m bombarded by a nearly overwhelming desire to swear at the cavalcade of evil idiots who are doing their best to tear our country apart.   

The primary cause of my mixture of rage and despair this week is the extent of the racial poison in our society, and the unutterably disgusting creeps who are spreading it and profiting from it.   To take just one example, the shamefully biased coverage of race in our cop-hating and white-hating MSM has produced a public who wildly over-estimates anti-black racism in our society, especially when it comes to law enforcement.

Nearly half of all liberals believe that around 1,000 or more unarmed black men were killed by cops in 2019 – 12% of liberals and 22%  of “very liberals” believe estimate that number at 10,000 or more!  Even 26% of moderates, 14% of conservatives and 7% of very conservatives put that number at 10,000 or more.

The real number is 25.  And even that number doesn’t necessarily reflect unjustified uses of force.  Some of those unarmed 25 may have been fighting with the cops or committing assault – the way Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown were, to name just two high-profile cases — when they were killed. 

I try very hard not to hold the ignorance of regular people against them in this regard, because they’ve been force-fed a steady diet of anti-American, anti-police and anti-white hatred.  But there is no excuse for the leftist elites, who absolutely know better, but do not care.  If their power and wealth can be increased by fomenting racial hatred, they gladly start the fires, and then throw gasoline on them. 

Ugh!  I’m struggling not to give in and hate those who are hating us, but they are making it so freaking hard!   From Melting-Face Maxine Waters’ inciting violence from the mob, to LeBron James’ threatening tweets aimed at the officer who saved an innocent black girl’s life by shooting a guilty one, they are going to get thousands of black people killed by preventing cops from stopping black predators who are preying on innocent black folks. 

Maybe the sickest part of this whole nauseating mess is the way that leftist elites actively side against innocent black people, and romanticize and champion black criminals!

Obama said that if he had a son, he’d look like Trayvon Martin.  Why say that?  Martin had already broken the nose and fractured the skull of his victim, and was continuing to smash his head into concrete when he got shot, so why identify yourself with him? 

Why not say that your hypothetical son would look Frederick Douglas, or Thomas Sowell, or Walter Payton?  Or what about, “If I had a son, he’d look like Denzel Washington?” (I’m not gay or a woman, but… giggity giggity). 

Do you know any other non-leftist ethnic groups who choose to elevate and sympathize with the criminals among them?  Have you ever heard a Columbian say, “I hope my son grows up to look like tubby drug kingpin Pablo Escobar?”  Or any German say, “I only wish my offspring could have the chinless weasel vibe of mass murderer Heinrich Himmler?”  Or any generic white dad say, “My son could well turn out to have the soul-less sociopathy of Ted Bundy?”

You don’t.  Because that would be sick.

But that’s exactly what evil mummy Imhotep Pelosi did with addicted, career-criminal George Floyd.  She turned him into a Christ figure, thanking him “for sacrificing his life for justice.” 

I’m no Biblical scholar, but I don’t remember the part where Christ was a violent criminal, always getting high on that Judean Jumping Juice (or whatever they called their equivalent of meth around the year zero), or that scene in the Gospels where Christ and the apostles broke into a home, and while the rest of the gang was ransacking the place, Christ held a sword to the belly of a pregnant woman.

And it’s not just Obama and Nasty Nancy.  All over the media, we’ve seen artwork featuring George Floyd with angel wings, flying up to heaven.  We’ve heard the same hagiographic depictions of Michael Brown (the “gentle giant”), and Jacob “mostly unarmed” Blake, and now, Ma’Khia Bryant, the honor student who was always peaceful.  Right up until she tried to knife two other girls.  

In fact, her case is a good example: it featured a violent black attacker, and a black victim.  And who did the media, and Hacky Psaki, and every MSM talking head choose to praise?  The attacker.

Former Obama adviser Valerie Jarrett was typically idiotic: “A Black teenage girl named Ma’Khia Bryant was killed because a police officer immediately decided to shoot her multiple times in order to break up a knife fight.”

First of all, if he hadn’t acted “immediately,” Bryant’s victim would be dead.  And then he’d be a racist, because he didn’t protect a black victim. 

Also: Hey Val, you know what a knife fight is?  A fight between TWO people with knives.  If one person has a knife and the other one is unarmed, that’s attempted murder, you miserable dope. 

You might as well say that Jack the Ripper was “an accomplished knife fighter.”  And he was: the guy retired undefeated, with a record of between 5-0 and 11-0, depending on which statistics you believe.  

These people are malevolent liars, and they have been for years.  But most of their lies were opaque enough that they were at least a little tough to pin down.  Terms like “fascist” and “systemic racism” and “social justice” are vague to the point of being nearly content-less.

But now these a-holes are lying about video that we can see with our own eyes!  Last year one moron after another stood in front of burning buildings and looted stores and said, “These protests are super peaceful.”  And today, a bunch of armchair detectives are saying that the cop in Columbus was wrong to shoot a knife-wielding attacker.  After all, how could he have known what her intentions were?

Let’s go to the videotape, which captured Ma’Khia Bryant’s last words: “I’m gonna stab the f**k out of you, b***h!” 

Never mind.

While I was watching all of this racist garbage and choking on my own bile, I remembered a funny, mock PSA that Chris Rock made, called, “How Not to Get You’re A** Kicked by the Police.”

I was going to say Google it, but as one CO reader pointed out, Google is a creepy leftist corporation run by people who hate our guts.  So Bing that video, and watch it now.  I’ll wait…

Can you believe that a video with that much common sense on the subject of race, could be made in this country only 14 short years ago?   I’m shocked that it hasn’t been taken down, or that Rock hasn’t been cancelled, or at least forced to grovel and apologize for it.

The best humor works because there is truth in it, and this video obviously tells some plain truths that everybody can recognize: non-criminals who behave properly when they’re pulled over almost never end up in violent struggles with cops.  Or as Rock puts it, “If you follow these easy tips, you’ll be fine.” 

He gives such now-controversial advice as “Obey the Law.”  He says, “You’ve heard people say, ‘Man, I wouldn’t do that s**t if I was you.’ Well here’s some of that s**t.”  And then he lists the resume of virtually every one of BLM’s high-profile “martyrs” over the last several years: “car jacking, armed robbery, arson, selling drugs, buying drugs, stabbing, shooting.” 

Some parts of the video haven’t aged well, including a running joke involving cops surrounding and pounding on a person who has violated Rock’s advice.  And there is some wry acknowledgement of racism, as when Rock advises his typical black driver that “if you want to travel with a friend, make it a white friend.”

But as Rock summarizes his advice at the end of the video – “stop immediately when pulled over, be polite, shut the f**k up, etc.” – you recognize that this is what responsible parents have been telling their kids – of all races – forever. 

And it’s the opposite of the way that every high-profile person killed by cops lately has acted.    

One silver lining in this grim situation is that there are still plenty of people who know the truth, even though they are often intimidated by the loudest and most violent in their communities.  Most black folks tell pollsters that they want more police – not less – in the crime-ridden areas in which they live.  Some black people in Columbus have publicly supported what the officer had to do in the Ma’Khia Bryant case.    

It’s beyond maddening to see the way that crowds often turn on cops when they do their jobs, especially considering that in virtually all cases, black people are the ones who called the cops in the first place. But I think that last point speaks to the fact that most people know, deep down, more about right and wrong that their politics will sometimes let them admit. 

I always think back to a clot of antifa boneheads last summer.  During a protest, they were stomping around like the petulant (but violent) children they are, chanting some variation of “F the police.”  Then a gun went off nearby, and one of their own was hit.

And they immediately started screaming.  “Call the cops!”    

I’m afraid that the day is coming when they’re going to get what they’ve been whining for.  More and more cops are leaving, and someday soon, that phone call is going to be answered by a voice mail: 

“This is the police department.  We’ve gotten your message loud and clear.  You’re on your own.”

I just saw a Steven Crowder podcast from two weeks ago, and he covered Biden’s press conference from shortly before that.  This was the one where a reporter asked a question about gun control, and Biden gave a rambling answer about infrastructure, because that was the order that the question was supposed to be in. 

And no “reporter” in the room, or “commentator” the next day, mentioned that obvious fact.

But that’s not the scary part.  The scary part was when a camera from the side of the stage caught Biden’s prep sheet, as he was holding it.  Because it didn’t just have a list of the reporters’ names, and the order he was supposed to call on them.

It had little pictures of each reporter.  Pictures!  Because the “leader of the free world” – and never have scare quotes been any scarier than that! – needs a little photographic cheat sheet to identify who he’s talking to when they’re right. In. Front. Of. Him.

I first saw the equivalent of this move maybe 15 years ago, when I noticed that McDonalds had removed the names of their menu items from the surface of the employee kiosks and replaced them with pictures of those items.  Because, presumably, identifying a Big Mac from the words “Big” and “Mac” was too tall of an order for some of the adolescent front-line McDonalds workers.   

At the time I noted that as another ominous red flag, warning of our impending social collapse. 

By the way, I keep a list of these red flags from around the world.  And yes, I will share a few of them with you now:

When you have to put barbed wire around your freeway signs to keep feral vandals from tagging them… that’s a red flag.  (Hat tip to Adam Carolla, beleaguered LA resident.)

When your city creates a “poop map” app to help your citizens avoid walking through the piles of human Schumer (HA!) that cover much of your town… that’s a red flag.

When your nation’s name starts with “People’s Republic of”… that’s a red flag.

When your nation’s flag has an AK-47 on it… that’s a red flag. (I’m looking at you, East Timor, Zimbabwe, Burkina Faso and Mozambique.)

Sidebar: Those are all cool country names, even if you’d never want to be caught Biden in any one of them. 

Sorry, that’s “caught dead.”  You’d never want to be caught dead in any one of them.

Also, it turns out that 3 of the 4 have an AK-47 and a hoe on their flag, for some reason.  

I am not making up.  Go ahead and Google “AK-47 and a hoe,” if you don’t believe me.

Sure, the first four entries that will come up will involve Hunter Biden’s hotel escapades.  But eventually you will get to those countries’ flags, and you will be ashamed that you ever doubted me.

We now return you to our hilarious list of red flags, already in progress…

When your national leader always appears in public wearing a chest full of medals, even though he’s never served in the military… that’s a red flag.

When your nation’s flag is a red flag… that’s a red flag.  (HA!  Take that, commie dictatorships.)

And when, as noted above, your nation’s restaurant workers require a picture of the food you are ordering to achieve a 52% chance of actually completing your order correctly… that’s a red flag.

But do you know the reddest of all possible red flags?  When the president of your country requires a sheet with pictures and names of the people in front of him… that’s a red freaking flag!

I can only look forward to Joey Gaffes’ next press conference, when he mumbles his way through some elementary talking points, and then goes to his reporter cheat sheet again:

Biden’s ghost:  “Well… uh…time for questions.”  (looks down for 3 solid minutes before he can identify anything on his sheet.)  “Um… Big Mac, you’ve got the first question.

Campaign flunky (sidling up to Biden and whispering from the corner of her mouth): “That’s the McDonalds menu you’re going to be using for lunch.”   

Biden’s ghost:  “What?  You mean… Mac’s not here?  I hope he’s all right.”

Flunky:  “Mac’s not a person, it’s a sandwich.”

Biden’s ghost: “A sandwich?  I’m not explaining my fallen papacy to a sandwich!”

Flunky:  “That’s ‘foreign policy.’   And the guy over there isn’t a sandwich.  The Big Mac is a sandwich.  And that’s not your cheat sheet, that’s a menu.”

Biden’s ghost: “A menu?  Does this mean that I’m not calling on ‘Large Order of Fries’ for a gun question?”

Flunky: “No.”

Biden’s ghost: “How about ‘Hot Apple Pie’?  She’s supposed to ask about the border.”

Flunky (tearing the menu out of Biden’s hand): “Read from the next sheet!”

Biden’s ghost: “Okay, let’s see here….  ‘Asian Schoolgirl (must have pigtails) and a Cardi B look-alike, around the world for one hour, with two bumps of meth and a dusting of fentanyl, $2500, not including the room.”

Flunky (leaping back to Biden and grabbing the paper from his hand): “That’s Hunter’s cheat sheet!”

And, scene.

In other news, Imhotep Pelosi – Mistress of the Nile, and Non-wearer of a Mask in a Salon – was asked in a USA interview what she would have done if she hadn’t been evacuated on January 6^th, and had encountered the band of knuckleheads at the Capitol.

Saith the Botoxed Boudica (look that one up – history is fun!), “Well, I’m pretty tough. I’m a street fighter. They would have had a battle on their hands.”

She’s pretty tough all right.  Beef-jerky tough, as if her internal organs had been removed and her skin had been left to dry out in a stone chamber at the base of a pyramid for 2300 years.  The last street fight she was involved in happened on the mean streets of the Valley of the Kings, when Akhenaten was battling his rivals for control of the Euphrates. 

Plus she’s against a border wall while she lives inside a walled estate, and she doesn’t want potential victims of rioting Biden voters to have guns, while she’s surrounded by armed guards at all times. 

Have you no shame, Nancy?  Blink once for yes, and twice for no, you facially paralyzed old ghoul.

I don’t care for her at all, is what I’m saying.

In a completely unsurprising, dog-bites-man story, James O’ Keefe’s Project Veritas has caught a Technical Director at CNN named Charlie Chester – pretty jaunty name, for a mendacious, Democracy-hating creep – admitting that his horrible network purposely put out propaganda to get Trump out of office. 

“Look what we did,” said this sleazeball, “we got Trump out.”

You can watch the whole video, during which he made at least a dozen statements that would get any employee who worked for any reputable news organization fired immediately.  But since Charlie works for CNN, he’ll probably get a raise. 

I wouldn’t be surprised if he rises through the ranks and someday takes over for CNN boss Jeffrey “Giant Dishonest Human Thumb with Glasses” Zucker.  (Google a pic of him and tell me I’m wrong.)

Regardless of which political side you are on, Project Veritas is doing valuable work, and the attempts to silence them are disgusting.   O’Keefe is actually doing the kind of work that honest journalists used to do, and the fact that he keeps scooping them, and then they try to suppress him, tells you everything you need to know about our terrible MSM.

But lest you think that all the news has been bad lately… Bernie Madoff died in prison last week.

Finally.

But even a feel-good story like that has a bitter side to it; think about the unfairness of our Tale of Two Bernies.

Compared to Bernie Sanders, Madoff was cut down in the flower of his youth – he was just a spry 82, and thus 27 years Bernie Sanders’ junior.

Madoff only ripped off thousands of people for billions of dollars.  Bernie Sanders and his party – along with a disheartening number of GOP idiots, too – has ripped off hundreds of millions of people for trillions of dollars in way less time than it took Madoff to do his damage.

And Madoff went to prison, while Sanders and his ilk remain free to plague our society, unabated. 

It’s already been a long 4 years, and it’s only been 12 weeks.  

Avenatti/Botox Boudica 2024!

When I’m not scanning various sources and taking the hit for CO readers by subjecting myself to speeches by Joey Gaffes and members of his administration, I like to surf around looking for music I haven’t heard.   And this week I found a great, new-to-me video that made me think of a serious societal issue.  So I thought I’d share it with you all.

But first, what made this video jump out to me at first was watching Tucker’s story on Hunter Biden’s laptop last week.  This is the laptop that our entire media complex is resisting linking to Hunter Biden in any way. 

Even though it contains – how can I put this delicately? – many videos of Hunter Biden engaged in activities which surely fall under the legal statues that deal with “hookers-and-blow-related offenses.”  Also, there are some disturbing pics of him with “meth mouth” that would be way more effective in an ad campaign than any “Just Say No!” presentations ever.

Before I go any further, I must say that Joe Biden’s apparent love for his son is one of his better qualities.  I can’t imagine the pain of having a child go this far off the rails, and my heart goes out to anyone – parent, spouse, sibling or just friend – who has to face this kind of horrible situation.

That being said, in addition to being six kinds of degenerate, Hunter appears to have been a bagman for his dad, collecting loads of illicit cash from the blood-soaked dictatorship now oppressing China.  So…

And THAT being said, one of the most corrosive elements of elitist rule is the double standards that apply to them and their families.  If Hunter’s last name wasn’t Biden, he’d obviously be doing serious prison time for any number of well-documented offenses.  (Lying on federal docs to purchase a gun, drug offenses, sex offenses, “defiling thy brother’s widow” offenses, etc.)

Which brings me back to my video find for today.  It’s an amazing song, written and played by a guy I’ve never heard of before, who goes by “Billy Strings.”  It’s sung from the prospective of a small-time addict who gets a heavy prison sentence for his drug use, and I can’t help thinking that as long as we have the drug laws that we do, this is the kind of song that expresses the consequences that Hunter Biden should be experiencing right now.

The song is called “Dust in a Baggie.”  When you search for it, pick the version showing the singer sitting on a couch in what looks like half the downscale living rooms I grew up in.  The tag beside the video is, “In a quiet room at a loud party.” 

Before you watch it, I’ll set the scene for you.  The singer looks about 15 years old, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, with an acoustic guitar on his lap and the jolly stoner everyone knew in high school standing behind him.  He’s got a little bit of Forrest Gump about him, somehow.  But after a little prompting to play, “the latest song you wrote” by an off-screen voice, the kid launches into 3 minutes of sweet, blazing-fast guitar playing, accompanying by some pitch-perfect first-person lyrics from the point of view of an opioid-addicted convict.  

As a language fan and a person of Scots-Irish/Appalachian-American descent, I love this kind of spare, evocative lyrics.   It’s like Hemingway, if he wrote hillbilly music.  Which may be another way of saying that it’s like a new Hank Williams song.       

The opening verse and chorus: “I ain’t slept in 7 days, and I ain’t ate in 3/ This methamphetamine has got a damn good hold of me/My tweaker friends have got me to the point of no return/ I just take my lighter to a bowl and watch it burn.”  Chorus: “This life of sin, it’s got me in/ lord it’s got me back in prison once again/ I used my only phone call to contact my daddy/I got 20 long years for some dust in a baggie.”  

I admire excellence in any field, from sports to carpentry to airplane construction.  So I can’t help but be awestruck by how much practice it took for that kid to get that good with a guitar.  As I said, he looks to be in his late teens, but has somehow apparently spent the last 47 years practicing the guitar for 17 hours a day.

But those deceptively simple lyrics really blew me away; picturing this blue-collar kid in his semi-underclass surroundings producing a meticulously crafted song like this is stunning.  And watching his transformation on this video is a little eerie – he goes from a normal-looking kid at the beginning, and then back to a normal-looking kid again at the end. 

But in between, he’s a possessed Tasmanian devil of flying fingers, a cross between an old blues man and hillbilly banjo player, and a freaking musical genius!

If I could write one song as note-perfect and precise as this one, I’d give up songwriting and go back to political mockery without looking back.     

Okay, I might have built this up too much.  Lyrics always look at least a little flat on the page, so if you’ve got any appreciation for classical music (that’s right, I said it) like George Jones, Johnny Cash or this psychotic bluegrass/speed metal, watch the video.  I know that Appalachian music isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.  But if that song and those lyrics don’t move you at least a little, we can still be friends, but I cannot trust your musical judgment!

Now ask yourself how this song would change if it was written from the point of view of Hunter Biden.  A lot would stay the same, including the crippling, life-destroying effects of meth use.  But the chorus would certainly change dramatically, with no mention of prison, and an ending something like, “I used my only phone call to contact my daddy/Now I’m off scot free despite that meth and those hookers.”

This song made me think of another song about the ravages of substance abuse, this one by another semi-obscure, young country songwriter named Robert Ellis.  It’s called, “A bottle of wine (and a bag of cocaine),” and it’s the polar opposite in tone of “Dust in a Baggie.”  Quiet, slow and elegiac, accompanied by a spare instrumental line that sounds like it comes from an old, beat-up piano in a church basement somewhere.

All of which gives me an idea for a start-the-weekend activity for CO readers everywhere.  Do you have any favorite songs on this subject?  If you recommend some good ones, maybe we can put together a cd’s worth of tunes, and call them, “The Hunter Biden collection.”

Have a great weekend!

As a well-raised Midwesterner, I was always taught not to speak ill of the dead.

But I’ve got to talk about Joe Biden, and his unsettling speech announcing that he was (surprise!) coming after the guns of law-abiding American citizens. 

Of course the content was incoherent, but only in the way typical of our lefty overlords right now: “This move to alter our founding political document is not “political,” this restriction on your right to bear arms does not in ANY way affect the Second Amendment right to bear arms,” etc.  In that way, he’s no more demented than his non-dementia-suffering co-religionists.  (If you consider socialism a religion.) (Which – spoiler alert – it is.)

Sidebar: Socialism has to be the worst religion ever, too.  We Christians have heaven to look forward to, Buddhists have nirvana.  What do socialists have? 

The classless society.

Great.  If you watched the recent heavyweight bout/Grammy performance by Cardi B and Megan the Stallion, you know that we’ve already achieved a classless society.  And as societies go… it doesn’t seem that great.

We Christians have Christ, the Buddhists have the jolly round guy who doesn’t seem to mean nobody no harm.  Who do the socialists have? 

Stalin, Mao, and Bernie Sanders.  Talk about an unholy trinity!  Throw in Pol Pot, Hitler (yes, he was a national socialist), Whoopi Goldberg, Castro, Hugo Chavez, Gavin Newsom, Che Guevara, “She-Guevara” Ocasio-Cortez, Ho Chi Min and Joy Behar, and you’ve got yourself a Murderer’s Row of the worst people in the last hundred years. 

But it wasn’t just Joey Gaffe’s thoughts that were incoherent.  His speech was atrocious, too. 

As anyone who’s followed his “career” – I first typed “careen,” and Microsoft Word did not correct me –he’s been in an ongoing battle with the English language.   And he’s been slaughtering it!  He’s like 115-0.

This speech was no exception.  Except that it might have been even worse.  Sure, in the past he’s mangled pretty much every part of speech.  Verbs are all over the place, modifiers float in a disconnected verbal fog, prepositions are both touch AND go.  And his proper nouns? Aye caramba! 

Watch him try to identify a person on stage with him.  He’ll call his wife his sister, and a general his Secretary of State, and his Secret Service bodyguards “Champ” and “Biff” and “Buddy” and “Goose” and “Maverick” and “Larry.”  (I checked.  There’s no one named “Larry” on his security detail.)

But this time he out-did himself.  He mangled a set of three letters that form an acronym. 

He was trying to refer to the bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.  Which, if you’re a literacy buff, you might recognize as being signified by “ATF.”  (Just on the off chance that AOC is reading this column, the “A” stands for Alcohol, the “T” stands for Tobacco, and the “F” stands for firearms.)

Twice, Biden’s ghost referred to the “AFT.” 

This is the moment when the entire American populace simultaneously slaps their own foreheads.

And when, in a conference room in Pyongyang with leaky ceiling tiles and an empty chair at the head of the table with two phone books on the seat, the advisors to Porky Nork Kim say, “HA!  We no longer have the dumbest leader in the world!”

And when Mao 4 (I’m not going to waste time looking up the name of the latest Chicom mass murdering leader) says, “Tomorrow we move on Taiwan!”

This is what we’ve come to, America. 

Biden lost the ability to string together a paragraph during Obama’s first term (which will live in infamy).  He lost the ability to construct a coherent sentence during last year’s primaries.  He lost the ability to form a correct word sometime around inauguration day.

And now he can’t do LETTERS!

Now I know why Biden is driven around by a secret service guy.  Because if he were driving and got pulled over – because you know he’d be going 7 mph, with half a rosebush sticking out of the grill and a mailbox stuck in the windshield – the cops would give him a sobriety test.  They’d say, “Recite the alphabet backwards from the letter ‘P’.”

And Biden would say, “P, schwa, ampersand, umlaut, seven—”

And the cops would slap on the cuffs. 

And the Mobile Airport Staircase that defeated Biden several weeks ago would assume the office of president, and receive the thanks of a grateful nation!

Do you know what the second-worst job in America is?  Being the White House transcriptionist for Joe Biden. 

During his verbal potato-sack race – if it had been an actual potato-sack race, Biden would have tripped on the second hop, somehow burst into flames, and then careened into a bus full of middle-schoolers, killing all involved – Biden read some banal praise for his political allies who support his effort to make sure that only criminals have guns. 

According to the poor transcriptionist, the last two sentences of that paragraph read, “So many of you who have never given up. So many of you who are in — absolutely determined, as Murph and others are, to get this done.”

That last sentence is already incoherent.  But a Wall Street Journal writer points out that what Biden actually said sounded more like, “So many of you who are in — absolutely determined, as Merfin and Ruthers are, to get this done.”

Now I can’t speak for Merfin or Ruthers – who, like Corn Pop, don’t exist – but boy do I feel for that transcriptionist!  She’s got a pair of headphones on, listening to a series of grunts and mumbles and ampersands and umlauts, and she’s got to turn that into a coherent statement.

But do you know what the absolute worst job in America is?

Being the presidential sign language interpreter.

At several points, that beleaguered woman just had to raise both hands, palm-up, above both shoulders and shrug, in the universal gesture meaning, alternately, “I have no idea,” “Your guess is as good as mine,” or “WTF?” 

Which Biden, if he were to try to express it, would likely turn it into, “TWF,” then “TFW,” and then “You know… you know, the thing… where you mean that you’re confused.”

To sum up the speech: Biden 116, English 0.

To top all of that, Biden’s even LOOKING worse and worse. 

I don’t mean metaphorically, as in “he’s not looking so good in the polls.”  I mean the guy looks like that ventriloquist dummy from Jeff Dunham’s act.  Or actually, one of two of the dummies from Jeff Dunham’s act.

I first thought of Walter, the crotchety old-guy dummy.  Especially when Biden is out in direct sunlight so that he has to squint, he is the spitting image of Walter.  Watch just 2 seconds of his press conference – any more than that would be too much to ask of you – and tell me I’m wrong.  (Can some talented member of the CO Nation please put up a side-by-side picture of Joey Gaffes and Walter?)

But on second thought, he’s also a dead ringer – pardon the expression – for Ahmed the Dead Terrorist.  First, there’s the decomposed, skeletal body, which, enough said.  But there’s also the glowering, malevolent expression.

Also, do you remember the way that Ahmed responds to all opposition, no matter how legitimate it may be?  Because it should be familiar to those following politics in 2021.

If the Biden administration had a campaign motto so far, it would also be, “SILENCE!  I KEEL YOU!”

And if you replaced Jeff Dunham with Barack Obama as the one with his hand up Biden’s back, working those clacking mandibles, you’d have a mirror image so uncanny that even Biden’s mother couldn’t tell them apart. (If she were somehow still alive at the age of 215.)

Ugh.  This is our president, people. 

It’s already been a long four years, and it’s only been 11 weeks.

Merfin/Ruthers 2024!

Well, the Month of Mart™ is over.  Traditionally, it is said to “come in like a lion, and go out like a lamb.” But thanks to the misery brought to us by the Biden administration, it unfortunately came in like a canker sore, and went out like genital herpes. 

Okay, that was not my best effort, metaphor-wise.  I blame it on my having a low-grade depression because of this idiotic administration and its wrecking-ball policies.  So let me try to start again.

Well, the Month of Mart™ is over, and to no one’s surprise, Biden’s progress through the month can be summarized thusly: he came in like a corpse, and went out like a cadaver.

Ugh.  Can’t do it.  Let’s just start the column.

I don’t know if you saw it, but Joey Gaffe’s dogs were in the news again.  It seems that for the second time in as many months, Major the German Shepherd bit someone.

I am not going to blame that dog.  It’s well known among perceptive people that virtually all of the problematic behavior in dogs – with the exception of when they’re rabid or seriously injured – arise because of their terrible owners.  Some kind of Michael Vick-type jerk abuses a dog and makes it fight, and you end up with a misbehaving dog. 

I don’t think that Cassie the Wonder Dog could be totally corrupted by a bad owner.  (But we’ll never know, because she has a fantastic owner!) But even she could have her top-rate behavior degraded if she were owned by a miscreant like the late Joe Biden.  To paraphrase an old political attack, “I know Cassie the Wonder Dog.  Cassie the Wonder Dog is a friend of mine.  And Major and Champ are no Cassie the Wonder Dog!”

By the way, I’m pretty sure that “Champ” got his name because that’s a generic dog name that you use when you’ve got dementia and can’t remember your dog’s name.  

Conveniently, it also works with children. When some kids are at a press availability, you know Biden’s panicky aides whisper to him, “Whatever you do, don’t rub any of their shoulders or smell their hair.”  Even if the kid in front of Biden is a niece or grandchild, the aides say, “Remember: You’ll never go wrong with, ‘Hey there, Champ!’”

And then Biden’s granddaughter comes up to him and he says, “Heidi-ho, Cramp!  I mean…Hay bale, Clamp.” And the Secret Service team breathes a sigh of relief and says, “Close enough!”  And they shuffle the kids out, and arrange for Joe to have his jello and then a nap.

As far as Major goes, my theory is that he was previously trained as a cadaver-sniffing dog.  And now the miasma coming off of his decomposing master has to be driving him crazy! Thus the repeated biting.

However, I saw a troubling AP story about his second biting.  The story quoted Michael LaRosa, a spokesperson for Jill “Not even close to a real Doctor” Biden, who reported that Major “nipped someone while on a walk” on Monday.   A Huff Po story had the headline “Major Biden is a Good Boy Who Needs Time to Adjust.”  Several friendly stories mentioned that Major is “back in the doghouse.”

I know it’s tiresome at this point, but can you imagine what kind of coverage Trump would have gotten if his fictional husky would’ve bitten someone, even if only once?    

Well you don’t have to imagine it, because I’m going to put on my magical wizard hat, and prognosticate the first paragraphs of a MSM story on that hypothetical event:

“Donald Trump’s violent husky – a breed that some say he chose because of its luxurious white (supremacist) coat – reportedly attacked an unnamed WH aide today.  The aide might well be a person of color, in which case the animal was clearly responding to a literal “racist dog whistle” from its hideous owner.”

“Though initial reports suggest that the dog only nipped at one of the aide’s loose shoe strings, Adam Schiff says that he suspects the dog may have killed and partially eaten up to 17 people.  Chuck Schumer shoulder-rolled in front of a camera and said, “You know who else used vicious dogs to attack their helpless enemies?”

“One bored reporter rolled his eyes, shrugged listlessly, and mumbled, “Let me guess: the Nazis?”

“Schumer triumphantly shouted, “the Nazis!!!” 

“Schiff has cleared the House schedule for the next 18 months to investigate this tragedy, and set aside an initial budget of $150 million to be spent on it.  The NYT newsroom is at this moment brainstorming some catchy names for the scandal. 

“The leading contenders so far are: “the Doggo-caust,” “Bite-aggedon,” and “K-9-11.”

All of which makes me reconsider this story.  Given our absolutely terribly biased MSM reporting, I’m wondering about the accounts of Major Biden’s recent biting incident.  Sure, one sleazy reporter called it a “nip.”  But I can read between the lines of Joe Biden’s interview with corrupt Dem hack George Snuffaluffagus.  

Biden did nothing but make excuses.  His interview sounded like the statement of every distraught mother who talks to the press after her glowering serial killer kid was just caught at the bus station with his evil manifesto written in crayon under one arm, and a suitcase full of bloody, detached human ears under the other.  “He’s a good boy.  He never meant nobody no harm.  He just fell in with a bad crowd.”

Listen to Biden’s ghost, in these quotes that I swear I am not making up: “Look, Major was a rescue pup…. [He] did not bite someone and penetrate the skin.”  I think he learned that one from Bill “I smoked pot but did not inhale” Clinton.  Sure, Major might have closed his jaws on somebody’s forearm.  But he didn’t penetrate the skin.  Got it?

Biden also suggested that Major was off his game because he wasn’t used to all the strangers around.  “I guess what surprised me is the White House itself, living there.  Every door you turn to, there’s a guy in a black jacket.  You turn a corner and there’s two people you don’t know at all.”

Nice try, Joe.  Those people were Hunter and Jill Biden.  And even if you didn’t recognize them, Major probably did.   (And if he was lunging at Hunter because he knows a greedy, degenerate, brother’s widow jumper when he sees one, “Good boy!”)

Biden went on: “And he moves to protect.”  Yes, that’s the ticket.  “Protect.”

If by “protect” you mean “launch yourself at the vitals of a WH butler bringing in some coffee,” and then “sink your incisors into the larynx of an electrician who was only trying to set up the seat that travels along a staircase on a rail so that Biden doesn’t fall up and down the stairs six times a day.”   

Finally Biden insisted that, “85% of the people [at the WH] love him.” 

Uh oh.  That means he maimed or killed the other 15%.

After reading several accounts that all downplay Major’s little “nipping” incident, I’ve got an entirely different picture of it in my mind.   Think the crane shot of the Japanese restaurant at the end of the huge sword fight in Kill Bill II: spasming bodies, dismembered limbs, and blood everywhere. 

And Jake Tapper in the Rose Garden, saying, “Nothing to see here folks.  Just a lovable progressive puppy, engaged in some adorable hijinks while his master saves the country by destroying it.”

And after all of that, I haven’t even told you the worst part. 

The first story I saw about this was actually entitled “Who Did the No. 2? Biden Dog Drops Doodie on White House hall carpet.”  That’s right: it wasn’t about the biting story, but about solving the mystery of who took a giant Schumer (HA!) on “the red-carpeted hallway just outside the Diplomatic Reception Room.”

And by this time I’m sure you can picture the scene as well as I can.  Several reporters stop in the hallway and see the evidence.  One says, “I wonder if this was Champ or Maj—”

Then they hear a barking behind them, and turn to see a WH aide in a full, padded bee-keeper outfit, struggling to pull both leashed dogs into the WH from the south lawn where they’ve been exercising.

And both reporters turn slowly back to the pile outside the doorway.  One says, “But if it wasn’t Major, and it wasn’t Champ, who–?”

And just then, the reception room doors open, and out shuffles Joey Gaffes, mumbling, “…then I’ll say, ‘you make Jim Crow look like Jim Eagle.  That’ll get ‘em!”

And, scene.

Okay, I’ve got to apologize for putting that mental picture in your heads.  As I mentioned before, seeing my country being relentlessly attacked by the morons in Washington is taking a toll on my mental state.

I can’t undo what’s been done, but I’ll try to replace that horrible image by touching on two other March events.

Early in the month, vile ex-CIA boss and super creep John Brennan said that he’s “ashamed to be a white male.”   If I can speak for all pale, phallo-Americans – and I think that I can – let me just say this: “Not as ashamed as we are, you traitorous and dishonest a-hole.”   

Finally, during coverage of Kristi Noem’s ridiculous veto of a SD bill that would have prevented biological males from competing against (and destroying) females in sporting events, a block of petrified wood posing as a CNN reporter named Devan Cole excreted what might be the dumbest thing said in March: “It’s not possible to know a person’s gender identity at birth, and there is no consensus criteria for assigning sex at birth.”

Good lord!  If you put a bunch of MSM “reporters” in front of a table with various tools, pipes and electrical cords and told them to identify the male and female tools, they’d end up electrocuting themselves and causing blunt force trauma.  And if they were able to stumble to their cars to drive to the emergency room, and you told them they needed to plug the male seatbelt into the female, they’d bonk one end of the seatbelt against the emergency brake and steering wheel until they passed out.

Listen Devan, why don’t you shadow an OB-GYN for a few baby deliveries.  While the doc is holding the baby up and delivering the swat to get it crying, take a quick peek between its legs.  If you see something similar to what you’ve got down there (and something tells me around the same size?), that’s going to be a male.  If you see something different, that’s a female.

And if it’s completely featureless and smooth down there?

That’s a Gavin Newsom.    

Avenatti/ Champ Biden 2024!

Let’s start with the bad.  If you caught the press séance this past Thursday, I’m sure that you’re as troubled as I am about who is in charge of our government.

Sorry, “conference.”  Press conference.  Honest mistake.

Biden gave the kind of almost lifelike performance we’ve come to expect from him.   For all foreign policy questions, he literally read his answers from a binder full of talking points.  Remember when Romney had a binder full of women?  Biden needed a binder full of hospice-care nurses.

When he wasn’t reading, he was bumbling his way through softball questions like they were Marco Pena fastballs thrown inside. 

Okay, that’s probably a reference that well less than half of you will get.  Marco Pena was a pitcher when I was in Little League.  Despite the fact that at 11, he was only two years older than me, he had a full beard, and his heater traveled at a speed that I estimated at around Mach 2.  So I decided to get closer to the plate, in an effort to make some contact as I repeatedly went down swinging.

On an unrelated note, my record of having 2 batting helmets cracked right off of my head in one Marseilles, Illinois Little League game still stands.  And I barely have any cognitive deficits because of it, other than occasionally losing my train of thought.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, Biden’s lethargic performance.

It was truly mortifying.  When a “reporter” – and those sycophantic dopes are “reporters” the way that Cardi B is a “singer” – asked a 2-part question, Biden inevitably forgot the second part.  Many times he drifted into an agonizingly long pause during the first part.  Once I thought the taxidermist he travels with might send someone out with a small mirror, to hold it in front of his face and see if it fogged up.

But no such luck.  The only thing foggy was his thinking.

Several times he trailed off in the middle of a response, then seemed to come back to himself, and said, “Anyway…” and then went on to the next question. 

That’s not necessarily a damning verbal tic.  If you’re in the middle of a long, convoluted story and lose your place, an “Anyway” is acceptable. For example:  

“I took the first fastball high on the helmet, right over my left temple.  After I got back up and confirmed that the ref was holding up 3 fingers, he noticed that the helmet had a 6-inch crack from front to back, and told me to take my base.  Three innings later, I took a pitch right on the ear-hole of a new helmet, which cracked it vertically from the earhole to the crown.  It was a little tougher to trot to first that time, because both of my pupils stayed fully dilated, I kept smelling burnt toast, and I was deaf in the left ear until Labor Day.  Anyway…”   

But Biden wasn’t doing that.  He was getting lost in a two-sentence-fragment answer! 

Soul-less stooge from CNN: “How do you plan to respond to the Trump-caused unpleasantness at the border?”

Biden’s ghost: “Borders… fine store.  I support…business.  Anyway…”

Stooge: “No, the Mexican border.”

Biden’s ghost: “Mexicans…fine people.  That Frito guy… you know, you know the thing… the bandito.  Anyway…”

And our terrible, terrible media continue to make us hate them even more.  Anyone who watched that debacle knows what they saw, but the MSM insisted that Biden’s responses were “refreshing,” “normal,” and even “smart.”

Ugh.  If either of my kids told me they were thinking about going into journalism, I’d shower them with brochures about the exciting opportunities available in the fields of petty theft or drug dealing.   

That press conference made me look back nostalgically on last week, when all Biden did was fall up a set of stairs as he tried to get on an airplane.   In fact, I realize that I missed two points when I wrote about that “Fred and Ginger” moment last week:

1.If there’s a better metaphor for Biden “winning” the presidency, I’ve never seen it.  That guy started climbing the stairs to the WH, and he fell and fell and fell, and when the “votes” were “counted,” he was president.

2. Biden fell three separate times on his way up those stairs.  Since some boxing rules mandate that getting knocked down three times in one round constitutes a win by the opponent on a TKO, I wonder if there’s any way we can give the contender the title of our Chief Executive?  

I don’t know about you, but if at the beginning of the next presidential press conference the strains of “Hail to the Chief” were played and then – through the double doors at the end of that long hallway – a mobile staircase from the airport was wheeled toward the microphone, I would fall on my knees and weep with relief!

I think Biden’s dog had the right idea:  who do we have to bite around here to be allowed to escape the ongoing dumpster fire in DC?

From the bad, we go to the good.  Or at least a feel-good story. 

This one comes to us from Teen Vogue, a journal of ideas that I confess I have not kept up on as I should.  So as part of my research for this story, I spent 14 seconds scanning the online front page of the latest issue. 

What I discovered is that I am not their target demographic, since I didn’t recognize a single name in any of the stories, with the exception of Chadwick Boseman receiving a posthumous NAACP Image Award.  And I only recognized his name because I saw it one time, and it stuck in my mind as the obvious winner of the “African-American man with the whitest first name in history” award.

A few of the headlines: “Elizabeth Olsen Debuted a Major Hair Transformation,” and “Demi Lovato Says She’s ‘Too Gay to Marry a Man Right Now’!”

And suddenly, I’m not sure how being gay works.  Because if she is a woman, and is gay, why would she want to marry–.  Ugh, nevermind.  I’m not going to start down that rabbit hole.

And if “going down the rabbit hole” is now some kind of gay slang, I honestly meant no offense.

Anyway…

(See, Joe Biden?  THAT’S how you deploy an appropriate “Anyway.”)

Anyway, intellectually speaking, Teen Vogue does not exactly read like the ombudsman’s minutes from a meeting of the Algonquin Round Table.  And yet it aspires to a level of serious wokeness, spending a ton of editorial time on articles such as “Lizzo and Kamala Harris Talk about the Importance of Voting,” and “Ronald Reagan Sucked, Actually.”   And therein lies the rub.

The hilarious, hilarious rub.

Because earlier this month, a woman named Alexi McCammond was about to rise to become the editor-in-chief of Teen Vogue. And yes, that was the most sarcastic use of “rise” that you’re likely to see this year.

But unfortunately for 27-year-old Alexi – who, judging by the picture in the story, is cute as a bug’s ear –the 17-year-old Alexi had access to Twitter.  Which means that she tweeted some comments that would offend somebody somewhere, assuming that somebody had a completely empty life, and/or wanted Alexi’s job.

Enter Christine Davitt, a little charmer who refers to herself as, and I quote, “a queer fat filipinx femme in Brooklyn.”  So you know she’s just a barrel of laughs on a first date.

Cruelly enough, the Federalist piece about this story posted two large, side-by-side photos of cutie Alexi and… Christine.  Before you can call that up, DON’T.  I’ve already experienced the trauma from seeing this – I’d rank it just below taking a Marco Pena fastball in the ear hole, for those of you scoring at home – so there’s no reason for you to do so, too.

Suffice it to say: Disturbing haircut.  Drawn-on, high-peaked eyebrows of a witch from a Disney cartoon.  Ring piercing the front of her nose like you might see on an enraged bull in a Disney cartoon.  (Also, though you can’t tell from the pic, probably as goofy as Goofy.  From a Disney cartoon.)

To sum it up, I’d rather have a close encounter with Stephen King’s demon-possessed car named Christine, than with this Christine.

Anyway… (again!  Boom!), you can probably guess the rest of the story.  Christine digs up Alexi’s teenage tweets, and uses them to throw her under the bus.  Alexi announces her resignation from the job she hadn’t yet started.  Christine tweets in celebration. 

But then comes the sweet, sweet karmic arse whooping.  Because it turns out that in a 13-year-old tweet, Christine twice referred to a white friend as a “ni**a.”  And for the record, the word in question is not “ninja.”  A year later, she also used the non-ninja term in a joke tweet.

And I agree: THAT’S funny!  Because Christine scrambled to make her Twitter private and hunkered down in the face of a fusillade of criticism.  That was a week ago, and I can’t find any info on whether she’s resigned or been canned yet.  

In these insane times, that situation might reflect the struggle to decide if the superpower of being a “fat, queer filipinx” – again, her words — can overcome the effects of also being a terrible, hypocritical creep of a human being.

Regardless, Christine is now learning the lesson that I hope all woke hypocrites soon get the chance to learn. 

In the slightly edited words of German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemoller, “First they came for Dr. Suess, and since I wasn’t a children’s book writer, I did not speak out.  Then they came for Mr. Potato Head, and because I was not a patriarchal, tuber-based plastic toy, I did not speak out.  Then they came for the fat, queer filipinx-es – and there was no one left to speak for me.”

Avenatti/Mobile Airport Staircase, 2024!

There are many warning signs when a culture is in serious decline. 

Deteriorating defensive preparation at the borders, even though the Germanic tribes across the Rhine seem restless.  A degrading central currency.  Decreasing birth rates.  The slide of popular art into the gutter. Electing a corpse as president. 

So far in 2021, we’re 5 for 5.

Our border is now a disaster so stark that even our MSM can’t completely ignore it.  The predictable flood of migrants is overwhelming, many of them have covid that isn’t being treated, and the kids are piling up in the cages (One of my favorite Trump lines was his debate comeback that would have killed Biden, if he weren’t already dead: “Who built the cages, Joe?  Who built the cages?”).

The only tiny sliver of a silver lining is watch Hacky Psaki imploding before our eyes, hemming and hawing and flop-sweating like Biden trying to remember which woman on stage is his wife and which is the vice-president.       

If you have a lot of self-respect, being a press secretary is usually a terrible job.  You start out wanting to explain the policies you believe in for the president you believe in, and you end up having to dance and fudge the truth, and eventually lie pretty regularly.  There’s an old description of a diplomat: “an honest gentleman sent to lie abroad for the good of his country.” 

But even that caveat gives Psaki too much credit.  She’s not honest, and her lies are told for the good of her corrupt party and president, and to the detriment of her country.

There are degrees of terribleness in a press secretary job.  The more competent and consistent a president is, and the more successful the administration, the easier the job is.  Trump was tough to work for, partly because of his lack of rhetorical discipline, and partly because the MSM are such dishonest creeps that they were constantly throwing mud that had to be cleaned up. But there was substance to answer the spurious attacks with: best economic performance and employment numbers in decades, trimming regulations, solid judicial nominations, successful peace initiatives, etc. 

What does Psaki have to work with?

When asked about kids in cages, she had to say that those aren’t cages, they’re comfortable snuggle-huts lined with downy quilts, offering three daily servings of the milk of human kindness.  When she was asked what Biden plans to do about stock market manipulation, she had to resort to the non sequitur of pointing out that the treasury secretary has ovaries.   When asked why Biden promised 100 federal vaccination sites by the end of his February, but there were only 7, she had to say, ‘Look, a squirrel!” and then drop to the floor and commando-crawl out of the room.  

The great C.S. Lewis memorably introduced a fictional character this way: “There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.”

Well, today there’s a woman named Jennifer “Hacky” Psaki who has the job of press secretary for Joe Biden.

And she absolutely deserves it.

You didn’t watch the Grammys last week, because you’re smart and have a life to lead, and neither did I, for the same reasons. 

But I did watch a few excerpts after hearing about it on Ben Shapiro’s podcast.  And it turns out that it featured an “artist” – yes, those are definitely scare quotes – whom I’d written about briefly before: Cardi B, and her hit “song” that can only be referred to by the initials WAP.  (Don’t look it up, I beg you!)

First, it’s a bad sign when your song title is so offensive that it can only appear as an acronym.  When a young Jo-Bach — which, if modern pop culture has taught me anything is what Johann Sebastian Bach must have been called back in the day – was at the height of his powers, here’s a conversation that absolutely never happened on the mean streets of Vienna:

Bach Fan 1: Have you heard JJMD yet?  It’s better than the BC, man!

Bach Fan 2: Do you mean “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring?”

Bach Fan 1:  Yeah.

Bach Fan 2: Not yet.  But there’s no way it’s better than the Brandenburg Concertos!  No way!

Bach Fan 1: Way!

Second, I remember way back when women’s behinds were the size of women’s behinds.  But if the performance the other night is any indication, those days are gone, daddy-o.   

Cardi’s got more tattoos than a cell block full of MS-13 members, and a beam like a D-Day landing craft.  The other “artist” “singing” with her is called Megan thee Stallion, which makes sense, because I’ve seen smaller flanks on 2-year-old palominos going off at 5-3 in the third race at Pimlico.   

Third, it’s a really bad sign if you notice anything about tattoos or adipose tissue when you’ve watched a “musical” performance.

I know that there’s good music being written today, somewhere.  But it’s a troubling sign of a sickness in our society when this kind of junk is popular and wins awards.  I know I sound like the oldest man in Christendom, and that old folks are always putting down the music of the young kids today.

But this stuff is garbage.  The lyrics start out with “there’s some wh*res in this house,”and then it goes WAY downhill from there.  I’m not kidding.  If you can make it about 30 lines farther, you’ll be nostalgically looking back at “there’s some wh*res in this house” like it was, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?  Thou art as lovely and as temperate.”

But you don’t need to compare this to Shakespeare or Bach to see how bad things have gotten.  Instead, compare it to any reasonably middling popular songs from a few decades ago.  Even when country musicians were writing only about drinking or fighting, or pop musicians were writing about surfing or cars, or everyone was writing about romantic troubles, they usually managed to do it without degrading themselves and their listeners.

One example that has been in my listening rotation lately is a not particularly famous song by not particularly famous song writers, from the mid-1950s.  Sinatra sang it first; it’s called “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.”  It’s only 8 lines long and less than 3 minutes, and if you haven’t heard it before, give it a listen.

Here are the lyrics: “In the wee small hours of the morning/When the whole wide world is fast asleep/You lie awake, and think about the girl/And never ever think of counting sheep./ When your lonely heart has learned its lesson/ You’d be hers, if only she would call/ In the wee small hours of the morning/That’s the time you miss her most of all.”

There are some cliches in there, and it’s not Bach or Mozart.  But it’s a sweet, melancholy tune, and evocative, and the line, “When your lonely heart has learned its lesson,” is lovely.

Listening to an ugly, vulgar, gynecologist’s nightmare of a “song” like WAP, and then to “In the Wee Small Hours,” will give you the bends! 

Again, I know that there is some good music being written and played in our country, right now.  But WAP, and an army of auto-tuned aural assaults just like it, is topping the charts and winning awards, and that is a very bad indicator of the cultural health of our society!     

Speaking of bad health, how about that Joe Biden? (RIP) I’m sure you all saw him dance right up those airplane stairs with cat-like grace. 

I mean, if the cat in question was deep into the last of its nine lives, and only hours earlier had been shot with several tranquilizer darts as it made its escape from an Old Cat’s Home on tapioca pudding night when the attendants weren’t looking.

I’m as much a fan of Weekend at Bernie’s as the next guy, but this is getting ridiculous.  Biden can’t make an unscripted live appearance, they can’t let him answer media questions, he can’t play with his dog without breaking a bone.  And now he can’t go up or down stairs. 

I guess Hacky Psaki won the game of “rock, paper, scissors,” because WH Communications Director Kate Bedingfield got stuck with the job of explaining Biden dropping on those stairs like the guy who got sniped by the German in the church tower in Saving Private Ryan.

Kate did the best she could, chirping, “I’m happy to report that he is just fine, and did not even require any attention from the medical team who travels with him.”  Of course he didn’t require any attention – what’s he going to get, MORE dead?

By the way, I looked into that “medical team” who travels with Biden: a mortician, an embalmer, a taxidermist, and a specialist who consulted on all of the autopsies on CSI: Miami. 

True story.

When even the shamelessly sycophantic WH press corps wasn’t buying that, Psaki and Bedingfield stood behind the blue curtain at the WH briefing room and shoved Deputy Press Secretary Karine Jean-Pierre out in front of the microphones.

For a moment, Jean-Pierre spoke in French, apparently trying to pretend that she didn’t speak or understand English.  Then she said that Biden fell because – and I Schumer you not, I am NOT making this quote up – “…it’s pretty windy outside.  It’s very windy.  I almost fell coming up the steps myself.” 

If only there had been a real reporter in the room, the exchange would have gone like this:

Reporter: But you didn’t fall, did you?

Karine: Um, no.

Reporter: And none of the secret service guys, and none of the reporters, and none of the other staffers fell?

Karine: No.

Reporter: And Diego, the guy who puts the baggage into the back of the plane, he didn’t fall?

Karine (through gritted teeth): No.

Reporter: And the National Weather Service says that winds at the time were in a range they describe as a “fresh breeze.”

Karine: What’s your point?

Reporter: It wasn’t very windy, and the only person who fell is the guy in his late hundreds who doesn’t know where he is, but still has the nuclear button clenched in his liver-spotted, desiccated hands.

Karine (after a long pause):  No habla Ingles.

Reporter: That’s Spanish.

Karine: Je ne parle pas anglaise.

And, scene.

Avenatti/Cardi B 2024!

Well, it’s the Ides of Mart™, and this coming week marks two important anniversaries.  The first is the 32^nd anniversary of my having tricked a Norwegian-American smoke-show of a girlfriend to hitch her marital wagon to my star, despite the fact that I was an English major with severely limited earning potential and pedestrian looks at best.

But my heart is pure (relatively), and I could make her laugh, and other males apparently suck way more than me, so I was able to beguile her.  And this week, as we celebrate nearly a third of a century, I will tell the lame joke that makes her groan every year: “This week we’ll be celebrating 25 happy years… and we’ve only been married for 32, so that’s a pretty solid ratio.”

The patience of women is an eternal mystery, and one for which I am extremely grateful.

The second important anniversary this week – of course – is the one-year anniversary of “15 days to slow the spread.”  I’m grateful that in my state of Florida – and as the saying goes, I wasn’t born here, but I got here as fast as I could – that 15 days lasted only about 4 months of semi-complete lockdown.

For the poor, benighted souls trapped in blue states with power-hungry Dem governors, that 15 days has now lasted 12 months.  If Joe Biden were still with us and had his way, that 15 days would last at least 15 months, and likely 24, and possibly longer, if any extra dishonest political gains could be squeezed out of their cruel and un-scientific lockdowns.

I got my vaccination last week.  So you know what that means: in addition to being immune from criticism, scorn, and lame personal attacks from humorless leftists, I am also not going to be taken out by covid.  Now if we can just get those scientists cracking on turning mockery, and a diet of red meat, ice cream and scotch into longevity, there’ll be no stopping me!

I’d like to thank President Trump, for shepherding through a vaccine in 8 months, after 142,000 MSM partisans, Dem politicians and mentally-challenged rage-a-holics (but I repeat myself) spent those 8 months assuring me that that could NEVER be done… when they weren’t insisting that they were full-blooded Indians, and ordering the Fang-Fang Bang-Bang off the carry-out menu down at the Chinese Communist Party Golden Dragon restaurant.

Maybe those last two were just Grandma Squanto (#wemustSTILLneverstopmockingher) and Eric Swallwell.  But all the rest of them were just “Following the Science™.”   

Because I’m not a scientist and don’t know any better, I guess I now have to accept that Bruce Jenner was the most amazing female athlete of all time, we can definitely predict the temperature at 4:27 p.m. one-hundred-and-five years from next Wednesday, and the first covid vaccines are going to be here in the late fall of 2022.

I’d also like to thank the super-villains down at Big Pharma who managed to set a land-speed record coming up with a vaccine, even though they had to do so without the sage advice of Dr. Fauci.  Who was too busy standing on a stack of phonebooks to pose for magazine cover photos, and appearing on CNN, where he praised the incredible job that Andrew “We’ve taken Grandpa to a Farm Upstate Where he Can Play all Day with Other Covid-Positive Octogenarians” Cuomo was doing.

Speaking of being thankful, I would also like to share with you two incidents I came across this week that put a smile on my face.

The first story comes to us out of India, the colorful land of unpronounceable and unspellable names, friendly tech support folks who implausible claim to be named either “Andrew” or “Emily,” and hilarious cartoon characters who can no longer be voiced by white actors.  Because racism.

But if I asked you what country you associate with cock fighting – and if anybody even thinks about making a joke about any Dem politician, fundraiser, or supporter who definitely did not kill himself in prison, I will turn this car RIGHT around, mister! – most of you would say “Mexico.”

And then you’d be cancelled. 

Because, as I may have mentioned before, racism.

Anyway, it turns out that Indians also fancy the occasional cockfight.  But sadly, there is now one less Indian fan of what, for all I know, they call “the sport of kings” in India.  Because last month, 45-year-old Thangulla “Hello, I’m Andrew, what can I help you with today?” Satish was killed by a fighting cock. 

Not because they were in the ring – or the cage, or the pen, or the rink, or whatever they call a cockfighting enclosure in India – as opponents in a bout sanctioned by the ICFA (the Indian Cockfighting Association, duh). 

It turns out that Thangulla (and if you just thought “Matata,” you are not alone) owned the bird in question, and was preparing him for the fight by strapping a 3-inch long, razor-sharp blade to the rooster’s leg.

I know: what could possibly go wrong? 

Well it turns out that the rooster fatally slashed his owner.  And before I can ask the rhetorical question, “Where would you LEAST like to be slashed by the knife on your fighting rooster’s le—” every male reading this column just shouted out, “GROIN!”

Allow me to introduce a quote from the story by turning toward the big board and doing my Richard Dawson impression: “Survey says…”

“A man who tied a knife to the leg of his rooster for an illegal cockfight was killed after the bird panicked and stabbed him in the groin…”  

Yada yada yada, Thangulla bled out.

This quote should elicit several immediate thoughts:

1.HA!  HAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!

2. If at your funeral, one of your neighbors asks your family how you died, and they mumble, “He suffered a fatal groin injury in a cockfight,” those neighbors are going to wonder if you had badly misunderstood how a cockfight is supposed to work.

3. The bird “panicked” and then stabbed him?  Really? 

If you were a rooster and your owner took you for a drive down to the local rooster rink, and you found yourself staring at a ‘roided up rooster who looked like a cross between John Cena and Mick Jagger, and you turned to your owner and said, “Andrew, what’s going on here?”  And your owner said, “I’ll explain in a minute.  But first I’m going to attach these razor-sharp blades to your legs.”

Do you really think your traitorous owner would die because you “panicked?” 

Because I’m thinking that the rooster would give his owner the same narrowed-eyed, baleful stare that the giant rooster who regularly fights Peter Griffin on Family Guy gives him right before things kick off. 

In other words, I think that it was cold-blooded murder!

Cue the “Etymology Minute” theme song:  “And THAT’s the origin of the phrase, to “cold cock” someone.  (Boom!  Dad joke catches you like a crisp jab when your arms were down to protect your ribs.)

Anyway, I hate cruelty to animals, so that story makes me laugh.  

I have one last animal story for you this week.  I was watching a Real-Life police show, and one segment showed a high-speed chase of a Biden voter who’d robbed a store at gunpoint, shot at a cop, and then fled in a stolen car. 

When he eventually fled on foot, the cops released a K-9 (my favorite part!), who promptly fulfilled the purpose for which a wise God created him.  He raced across a yard, leapt at the perp and took him down, then started treating his arm like a leftist treats the constitution.

The cops surrounded him and started to pull the dog free, and the thief was screaming, “OW! OW! OW!” like he’d just gone three rounds with the Marvin Hagler (RIP) of Indian fighting roosters.   

As the cop who had been shot at came within earshot of the whiny little thief, his body cam caught what might be the best cop quote I’ve ever heard, delivered in a perfect, sarcastic deadpan: “Oh, listen to his less-than-lethal ‘ow’ bullsh#t!”

That is a great line.  And I’m going to think of it every time I hear some hysterical leftist cry-bully  weeping over mis-gendered potato-related toys, or genocidally-evil Dr. Suess books, or someone alone in a bass boat 2 miles off the coast who isn’t wearing a mask.

“That’s some top-shelf less-than-lethal ‘ow” bullsh*t, right there!”

Avenatti/Thangulla “Matata” Satish, 2024!