Category: Uncategorized

As an action-packed March comes to a close, it’s time for another Best and Worst of the Month column

Let’s get the bad stuff out of the way first:  the omnibus spending bill.  My first thought was, “Well, this is probably the best we can expect, when the Democrats hold the House, the Senate and the White House.  I mean, you—“

Oh, wait.

Come on, GOP! Remember when the Dems were in control?  Remember how they respectfully negotiated with you, did a little giving and a little taking, and came up with a very moderate health care bill, incorporating some of your ideas (making health insurance portable over state lines, tort reform to reduce unneeded tests, etc.), and compromising to earn it some bipartisan support?

What’s that?  You don’t remember that?

Why, that must be because… IT NEVER HAPPENED!!!  OH!  OHHHH! (I miss you, Sam Kinison.)

When the Dems held the whip hand, they crammed through an unpopular Christmas tree of a bill.  (I mean, if Karl Marx had celebrated Christ’s birth instead of being a godless commie creep.)  They covered it with little red hammer-and-sickle ornaments, and crammed beneath it the Cornhusker Kickback and the Louisiana Purchase, and a box promising a GI Joe-style Doctor, whom if you liked, you could keep.  Never mind that when you opened the box, instead of the promised cool guy with kung-fu grip and a working crossbow, you found a near-sighted doll in a dirty white lab coat, holding only a rectal thermometer that was covered with sandpaper, for some reason.

Trump’s unexpected victory has given you a 2-year window of control that is likely to close this November, if current House projections are correct.  Instead of making the most of this window and cramming through some legislation that – unlike the Dems’ continual Rube Goldberg, exploding cigar, laxative-in-the-candy-bar contraptions – would actually work, and garner public support, you’re…

I don’t know what you’re doing.  I have no words.  I’m out of metaphors.  I was going to say, “fiddling while Rome burns,” but I’ve just spent the last 10 days listening to some good fiddle music, so that’s not an insulting enough description.

Wait.  Is “simultaneously pleasuring yourself and projectile vomiting while the Founding Fathers are rolling over in their graves, and the entire middle of the country wishes we were also blessedly dead, so we could begin to spin in our welcome graves too” a saying?

If not, I would like to invent that saying now.   That’s what you are doing.   Jacking and puking and making the living envy the dead.   CUT IT OUT!  (and…scene)

 

Okay, one more bad thing.  Or to be precise, two bad things, but from the same good people who bring you taxpayer-funded infanticide on an industrial scale.   That’s right, Planned Parenthood had a busy March.

First, they supported the “March for our Lives,” gun-grabbing extravaganza.  Savor the irony: a Planned Parenthood event supporting children’s lives.

On a related note, mark your calendars for April: don’t miss the “National Socialist March for B’Nai B’rith,” on the fifth, the “Silicon Valley Amish Tech-stravaganza,” on the tenth, and the Bill Clinton “Promise Keepers,” rally on the 18^th.  (Free “Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery” keychains to the first 200 people through the doors!)

Not satisfied with that shameless stunt, P-squared also took a brave stand on Disney princesses.  A Pennsylvania PP affiliate tweeted earlier this week – and I am not making this up, because no one could – the following:  “We need a Disney princess who’s had an abortion.”

Yikes.  That’s definitely what I wanted I wanted to hear from my daughters, when they were little: “Daddy, remember when Cinderella used to like that shiftless drifter, and then her belly started getting big, but by the time it was time for her to meet Prince Charming, she was skinny again?”

“Yes, honey,” I would never say in a million years, “she had to do that so that she could self-actualize, and marry up, and then slowly reveal her moral vacuity and make the Prince’s life a living hell until he prayed for the sweet release of death.”

“What’s ‘vacuity’?” my daughter would ask, and I’d say, “Look it up in the dictionary.  It’s next to the picture of Elizabeth Warren.”

“Should we ever stop mocking her?” my innocent daughter would ask.

And I’d say, “What do you think, Sweet Pea?”

And she’d look down at her shoes sheepishly, and mumble, “Never?”

And I’d say, “Never, ever, ever.”

(and scene, again)

 

Oops!  Wait.   The Planned Parenthood tweet wasn’t through yet.  It also called for “pro-choice,” “Illegal immigrant,” “union worker,” and – wait for it – “trans” Disney princesses.

Yes.  A “trans” princess.  Because nothing brings a fantasy story alive like having a prince climb up the side of a tower using Rapunzel’s thick, lustrous beard.  Or like having the prince wake Snow White with a kiss, only to notice as her eyes flutter open that she has morning wood.

Nice job Planned Parenthood!

 

Okay, enough with the bad.  Let’s turn to the good:

1.The “Tumblin’ Cankles Comedy Tour” continued, with an interview on an Indian program that I’d somehow missed, during which Hillary bragged, “I won the places that represent two-thirds of America’s gross domestic product. So I won the places that are optimistic, diverse, dynamic, moving forward.”  Yes, those states like Illinois, Connecticut, California, New York and New Jersey, where optimistic and dynamic folks are definitely “moving forward.”  If by “moving forward” you mean “cramming a U-Haul with your worldly possessions and lighting out for the nearest Red State.”

 

2.Also in Hillary news, as CO noted in a recent post, her speaking fees – now that she no longer has the expected political favors to dole out to the sycophants who used to line her path, tugging on the hem of her pantsuit – have collapsed from $250K per speech to a fraction of that.  Which still seems irrationally high, to me, even if the CPD ratio (yes, that’s the “Caw-per-Dollar” ratio, duh) is better than it once was.

3. In other washed-up-has-been news, Barack Obama was speaking in Japan, babbling about some hare-brained idea that he hoped would help him achieve his life-long goal of “creat[ing] a hundred or a thousand or a million young Barack Obamas or Michelle Obamas.”

Always remember: Trump is a bad man, because he is narcissistic, with an unpresidentially large ego.

Also, while I wouldn’t be thrilled with the prospect of either a world full of Donalds or Baracks, the choice between a million Michelle Obamas or a million Melanias would not require a long deliberation.  On one hand, one million scowling wookies tramping the countryside, complaining about how they never loved the country until Barack was elected.  On the other hand, a million slinky supermodels with an adorable accent, leaving stiletto prints all over the place.

I’ll take Door #2, Monte.  And you had me at “scowling wookie.”

 

4.  Trump’s revolving door o’ staff positions has continued to rotate, but all of the recent changes have been improvements. I’ll gladly take Mike Pompeo over T-Rex at State (even though Tillerson did some good work, I hadn’t expected him to be at cross purposes with Trump as often as he was), Larry Kudlow is a hoss on economics, and John “the Nuclear Walrus” Bolton (hat tip to Dennis Miller) is a clear-thinking giant among men, if you ask me.

 

5.  Finally, is there any better, more upbeat way to end a month than with another stupid criminal story? (There’s not — that’s a rhetorical question.)

This time it’s 27-year-old Terry Adams Jr., a convicted felon in Nashville TN who was just minding his business, breaking into a house, when he was shot to death by the kind of creepy homeowner that Lil’ Davy Hogg just hates.   If you haven’t Googled the story yet, you should, but I’ll do my best to paint a picture:

White guy with an experimental haircut: drunk Nick Nolte mugshot on top, filthy white-guy dreads on the bottom.  (Strikes 1 and 2.)  Tats all the way up his neck (strike 3), and – if he was playing a game when more than 3 strikes were necessary to be called out – on the inside of at least one ear.  (Eww.)  Also, previous convictions for meth and guns and assault.  (Any decent prosecutor in TN could get a meth conviction on this guy with a two-sentence closing statement:  “Look at that haircut.  The prosecution rests.”)

The story is brief, but it’s highlights all the way:

Mr. Adams Jr. (and you just know that Terry Adams Sr. has to be so proud) entered the house through a back door and immediately hit Brent Bishop’s wife in the face.  (Nice guy!)    When Mr. Bishop objected, Adams whacked him in the head, and forced him to give up, and I quote, “3 long guns and a pistol” from his gun safe.

But when Adams and his unknown accomplice started to leave, Bishop – and I’m quoting again – “got a pistol from another room” and managed to put a shot into Adams Jr.’s good-judgment-deficient head, killing him.

Did you get that?  After losing 3 long guns and a pistol from his safe, he still had one more pistol (at least) in another room!  God bless Tennessee!

From a press conference with teenage super-genius David Hogg:

Hogg: “Why does anybody need 5 guns?”

Me (screaming at the tv):  “In case Terry Adams Jr. takes your first four guns, Kewpie Hitler!”

My second favorite detail in the story?  (For the top spot, you cannot beat a criminal stealing 4 guns from a guy who has at least 5!)  Mr. Dead Guy Jr. is a suspect in a February 8^th burglary at Bishop’s house, during which a tv was taken.

So he was 1 for 1 on the tv stealing, but only 4 for 5 on the gun stealing.  So close!

 

Just in case any other Terry Adamses are still out there, and thinking about breaking into our new-old house, check out the new picture I just posted at Martinsimpsonwriting.com:  youngest daughter in the background working on her Van Gogh wall painting, older daughter smiling in the mid-range, and Cassie the Wonder Dog in the foreground, staring out the window, one ear cocked alertly, listening for any felon foolish enough to test her.

 

 

 

Last week I began by observing that I don’t usually laugh when senior citizens fall down the stairs, but that I’d make an exception for Hillary.

This week I’d like to begin by noting that I don’t usually finding myself aching to punch a teenager in the face, but I’d make an exception for little David Hogg.

If you haven’t seen young master Hogg in the media lately, consider yourself fortunate.  He’s one of the kids who go to Parkland High School in Florida, where a colossal failure of local government (and the FBI) allowed a red-flag-waving misfit the chance to shoot a bunch of kids in a gun-free zone.  So naturally Hogg blamed the NRA and law-abiding gun owners, who had nothing to do with said shooting.

The “arguments” he makes are as threadbare and simple-minded and thoroughly debunked as you might expect, and at first I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  He’s 17, with all of the obnoxiousness that most of us have at that age, a toxic brew of ignorance and unearned self-assurance.   Until now, I’ve saved my ire for the dishonest MSM jerks who have been exploiting the Parkland kids, using them as puppets to spout the MSM’s own anti-gun and anti-conservative talking points.

But at some point the grace we should grant to kids who don’t know any better runs out.  And that point has arrived.  In countless appearances, he’s smeared everyone who appreciates the second amendment as evil child murderers, as well as accusing the NRA of desiring and profiting off of such murders.

It’s not his fault that he’s an adolescent.  It’s not his fault that he has a Simpson Face Punchability Index (SFPI ™) of 9.8.  It’s not his fault that his parents apparently dropped the ball on the old “don’t drop the F bomb every other sentence on national tv” moral training.

But he’s been spouting off for long enough now, and since he seems to lack any self-awareness, and is blessed with a young leftist’s immunity to self-reflection, someone should probably give him a good jab to the snout.  Possibly followed by a right cross, delivered with just enough force to pierce his thick cloud of self-regard.   And make his eyes water.

Ironically, if someone were to give him such a pummeling, he’d likely find himself wishing that he had some way to defend himself.  Some sort of a device that could level the playing field.  Maybe a device guaranteed to him by a crinkly old document written by a bunch of dead white male geniuses in the 18^th century.

If only his cramped and bile-flecked world view allowed for the existence of such a device, and the right to use it for self-defense.  (Cue Nelson Munch:  HA HA!)

 

Well, Stormy was on tv last night, and the result was apparently not quite as earth-shattering as the MSM had hoped.   I didn’t watch it – life is too short – but I read a couple of quick recaps of it today, and apparently Trump had a consensual one-nighter with a porn star in 2006.

That’s not a good thing.  I’d like to go out on a limb here, and say that I wish that married presidents wouldn’t have one-nighters with porn stars.

Of course, I also wish that past presidents didn’t carry on strings of affairs, and use interns as humidors, and rape Juanita Broaddrick.  And that presidents before that didn’t deflower teenagers while being married to Jackie O, and bully other teenagers into sex with his corrupt dirigible of a younger brother.   And that that brother didn’t leave Mary Jo Kopeckne to die in a car.   And I wish that the MSM wouldn’t cover up and downplay those sleazy actions, while waiting for a GOP prez to do something 1/100^th that bad, and then pull their dresses over their heads and run around shrieking in feigned outrage until they ran into the nearest wall, leaving an ugly divot in the drywall and concussing their already pitifully weak and frail brains.

While I’m at it, I also wish that Hillary would tumble down a flight of stairs and land on David Hogg, and that the two of them would then careen into Elizabeth Warren’s teepee (we should never stop mocking her), flattening it and her.

But if wishes were horses, I’d have a ranch.

In the end, my guess is that Stormy’s wished-for Trump-killing scandal will turn out to be a tempest in a D-cup teacup (HA!).   I like to imagine Anderson Cooper, Chris Matthews, Don Lemon et al sitting around in a dive bar, drunkenly singing the following lyrics:

“I walk around, heavy-hearted and sad/Night comes around, I’m still feelin’ bad/Rain pourin’ down, blindin’ every hope I had/This pitterin’, patterin’, beatin’ and spatterin’ drives me mad/Love, love, love, love/This misery is just too much for me.”

That verse, of course, comes from an old standard called “Stormy Weather.”   Stick it, mainstream media.

And, I guess, don’t stick it anywhere else any more, Donald Trump.

 

I’d like to thank everyone in CO nation for your kind words about my aunt last week.  I’m back home now, after the visitation and funeral, with a renewed sense of gratitude for my family.

The whole small town turned out; the visitation was packed, as was the funeral.  During the funeral, the pastor preached on hope, and they played three songs: Johnny Cash singing, “I’ll Fly Away,” and my uncle Don singing two songs for Donna, which he had recorded for her on a little tape deck more than 20 years ago, a few years before his final sickness started.

Then the drive to a hilltop Illinois cemetery.  (Lots of tombstones with names of my family and those related to us, plus a nearby grave over which a Cubs “W” flag – placed there two Novembers ago, over a man who never lived to see the World Series victory — snapped in a brisk March wind.) We pallbearers carried her to the spot next to Uncle Don, and some words were said, some Scripture recited, a few jokes were told.  And then off to the VFW hall for a feast prepared by some ladies from the Baptist church.  (Guess how many of the dishes were either gluten-free or vegan.)  (Then guess a lower number than that.)

(Unless you guessed zero the first time.)

(In which case, bingo.)

(Quick: name that movie:  “That’s a bingo!  Did I say that right?”  “Ya just say ‘bingo.'”)

I know that a few pharaohs and kings over the centuries have had some elaborate funerals, probably accompanied by the best singers in their respective lands, with some nice arrangements of Gregorian chants or pan flute recitals or whatever music was in vogue at the time.

But if you tell me that any of them had more moving singers than Johnny Cash and my Uncle Don, I’m going to call you a bald-faced Schumer.

Oops.  Liar.  Bald-faced liar.

 

On a happier note, we are still working on the house we’re hoping to move into next month.  My youngest daughter is thrilled with her room, which is an anachronistic wood-paneled time capsule right out of Mad Men.

But she’s decided to recreate a wall-sized version of one of her favorite paintings, Van Gogh’s Starry Night, on one of those walls.  She’s part-way through, and I’ve posted a picture of her at work – along with Cassie the Wonder Dog, who is supervising the production.

First, let me say that I’m not usually the kind of guy who enjoys watching senior citizens falling down the stairs.  Not usually.

But I’ll make an exception for Hillary Clinton.  I probably watched her slipping down that stone staircase in India half a dozen times, before I searched the internet, and sure enough, somebody has put together a montage of Hillary slipping, stumbling and falling, set to “Stairway to Heaven.”  Pretty good stuff.

But if I had any tech talent, I would do a mash-up of Hillary’s India trip (ha!) with Cagney tap dancing down the White House steps at the end of Yankee Doodle Dandy, and maybe for a little extra salt in the wound, Gene Nelson dancing up and down the stairs (and a bannister) in Tea for Two.

I can almost hear you saying, “Martin, we didn’t know you were 112 years old, and gay.”  Well I’m not.  I had to search “funny staircase dancing clips” to find both of those.

But once I found them?  I wish I could put them together with Hillary’s wild ride, maybe with a little Trump coming down the cheesy escalator, too, just for good measure.  By the way, whoever is in charge of Hillary’s security these days?  You might want to consider having the advance team build escalators every place she’s going to visit.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not concerned for her safety.  I just want to see what it looks like when a septuagenarian tumbles down a freaking escalator!

My favorite part was after Hillary slipped the second time and decided to kick off her shoes to give her a better chance of making it down alive.  And yes, the shoe did look familiar, to anyone who follows the Indianapolis Colts.  (That’s right, a subtle helmet/horseshoe joke.)

“Come on now, Simpson” you’re probably thinking, “You’re better than that.”

First, obviously I am not.  Because while you were thinking that, I was thinking that it might be cool to also inter-cut an old Howard Cosell fight call (“Down goes Frazier!”) in with Hillary’s staircase debacle.

Second, it’s not just Hillary.  I’ve also appreciated other presidents’ physical gaffes.  I thought it was pretty funny when Bush 41 vomited on the Japanese Prime Minister.  (Though I wished it had been on Arafat instead.)  And when Bush 43 dodged those shoes thrown by an ungrateful Iraqi at a press conference.

But I have noticed a subtle bias in media coverage of such things.  (The hell you say!)   Gerald Ford was a college athlete, yet he fell once or twice, and Chevy Chase turned that into a long (and painfully unfunny) career.  41’s vomiting makes lists of all-time presidential gaffes, and the media thought the shoe-throwing was hilarious, even though Bushie showed some pretty good reflexes while successfully dodging.

But compare Bush’s throwing out the first pitch in a major league game in 2001, to Obama’s attempt in 2010.  (Someone has already put those together on Youtube.)  Bush throws a strike.  But Obama’s pitch?  If Bush’s dad saw that, he’d pull another “bow to the Japanese Prime Minister” move, as I’m going to call it whenever anyone vomits on anyone else, from now on.  I’m surprised that half the dictators in the world didn’t start planning to invade the US after watching our commander-in-chief make that Malibu Barbie throw.

As unbelievably bad as that pitch looked, I’ve got something worse.  You’ve probably never seen this video before, but once upon a time, Barack did a photo op in which he showed off his basketballs skills.  The slick, cool, collected first African-American president started putting up shot after shot.

And – in the most perfect metaphor for his presidency that I can imagine – he looked great doing it, while getting terrible results.   He’d catch a pass gracefully, and square up, and follow his shot with a deft wrist-flip, like you’re supposed to.  But he Missed.  Every.  Shot.  Shot after shot.  With a clank clank here and a clang clang there, here an air ball there an air ball, everywhere a missed shot.

The guy built a brick house.  Then a brick guest house, with a brick six-car-garage.  Then he started on a brick driveway.  It got so embarrassing that he got closer, but still missed.  Then he missed a lay-up that was worse than his baseball pitch.  Then he missed a shot from right underneath the basket.

When he finally made a shot from about 6 feet, the crowd cheered the way you’d cheer if Stephen Hawking drained one from the top of the paint.  (Too soon?)

 

Anyway, lots of other stuff happened this week, and all of it was more important (but not more enjoyable) than Hillary falling down the steps of the Temple of Clutz-a-coatl.

(Okay, I know I’ve got the wrong continent and the wrong culture.  But c’mon, how many jokes combining Quetzalcoatl and Stumblin’ Hillary are you likely to read this month?  That one has to be in the top three, at least!)

Andrew McCabe got fired – and fired like a boss, only 2 days before he would have been eligible to collect his full (and fully UN-deserved) pension!  The only way that could have been better was if Sessions had waited to call him just before midnight on the last day before.  Don’t let the door hit you, you leaking, perjuring weasel!

When she wasn’t tumbling down the architectural treasures of India, Hillary also spoke, and you know that’s never good.  This time she blamed all the little American ladies who were bullied into voting against her by their big, mean husbands and bosses and sons.  That’s right, the Feminist Icon Who Would be President said that women are too weak and malleable, and that’s why she’s auditioning for a Falling Wallendas tour of the third world instead of barking orders from a double-wide recliner in the White House.

Crazy Walter Brennan released the tweet of the year, full of vitriol and drama-queenery and not-so-veiled threats against the president.

No, wait.  Not Walter Brennan.  He was a hell of a character actor, played Stumpy in Rio Bravo.  (I didn’t have to look that one up.)  My grandpa introduced me to him in some westerns when I was a kid, and we both developed a limping, old-timer-voiced impression of Brennan that cracked my grandma up.

I meant John Brennan.   He played a CIA head, but he wasn’t much of an actor, and had no character at all.  It’s hard to believe how many of these empty suits with formerly good reputations – Comey, Mueller, Strzok, McCabe and now Brennan – have shown themselves to be bitter, partisan hacks.

Finally, on a sad personal note, my aunt passed away this weekend.  I’ve written about her here before – she got a cancer diagnosis back in October, and by Thanksgiving it looked like she might not see Christmas.  But she rallied, and held on for a couple of more good, mostly pain-free months with her kids and family.    I’m heading up to Illinois to be a pallbearer for her later this week.

She had the best spouse-meeting story I know:  She was waitressing in a diner in the late 50s on a Thursday night, when my uncle was driving past after a shift at a chemical plant.   (I’m not making that up: my relatives are all straight out of a Tom Waits song.)  He saw her through the window and made a u-turn, went in and had a cup of coffee, and introduced himself.   His name was Don; her name was Donna.  (Really.  Not making this up.)  They went out on Saturday, he proposed on Sunday and they were married the next Saturday.   And they stayed that way for over 40 years, happy as clams, until he passed in 2003.

The moral of the story: marry someone after you’ve known him/her for 10 days, and everything will work out fine!

I’ve spent a big chunk of the last few days listening to some music that reminds me of her, and that comforts me.  I know that many in the CO nation are likely not Christians, and that very few are likely quasi-hillbillies like my dad’s family.  But no matter your background, if you haven’t heard some of that old time rootsy/gospel stuff, you’re missing out.  Especially when it comes to burying a loved one, the consolation of faith is all the sweeter when accompanied by some fiddle, banjo, mandolin and accordian.  (As a general rule, most 15^th English hymns/drinking songs are at least 23% better when some small self-taught Bluegrass group sings in southern accents and “grasses it up” with an acoustic arrangement.)

For anyone interested, you could do worse than this list:

All My Tears – Julie Miller wrote this, and I like her version that appeared on the Songcatcher sountrack.   But some crazy Norwegians called the Hayde Bluegrass Orchestra do a pretty cool version too, until they go all Whitney Houston and overdo it at the end.  (Something about the idea of a bunch of Viking descendants named Ole and Magnus and Joakim singing Kentucky Simpson songs cracks me up.)

By the Mark – Gillian Welch wrote this one, and the Appalachia in her version is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Nothing But the Blood – this old standard works just about every way it’s played, but Nathan Drake does a good, stripped-down acoustic version.

I’ll Fly Away – Aussies Ashleigh Dallas and Kasey Chambers play a live duet version that is imperfect but somehow better for it, and there’s a little violin business in the middle that always gets me.

Because we’ve got some Irish background too, I couldn’t skip the Wailin’ Jenny’s doing the best version of The Parting Glass that I’ve heard.

 

Here’s to you, Aunt Donna, until we meet again.

There’s a lot to hate, unfortunately:

1.Trump took a couple of left turns that resurrected some conservatives’ worries about his ideological consistency.  His post-Parkland statements about guns may have been well-intentioned, but were not helpful.  I think the left’s instinctive gun grabbing dishonesty has earned our slippery-slope-based resistance to their efforts: they say they’ll only go after “assault-style” weapons, or automatic weapons, or energy-pulse weapons that only exist in science fiction movies.  But the next thing you know, they’re talking fondly of British or Australian-style handgun confiscation.

That being said, I’d rank Trump’s proposals — from justified to unjustified — as follows: allowing teachers with gun training to carry at school, banning bump stocks, and raising the age to buy rifles from 18 to 21.  I like the first one, don’t care a lot about the second, but am bothered by the third.

In a perfect world, I’d like to see us decide on a single age of maturity, and make that consistent across the board.  Let’s decide when people are old enough for adult responsibilities:  consuming alcohol, voting, buying rifles/guns, etc.  Let’s make up our minds whether that age is 21 or 18.  I wouldn’t mind seeing it raised to 21, if that meant we’d have fewer 18, 19 and 20 year olds voting!  (No offense, 18-20 year olds.  But c’mon.  Too many of you know who DJ Khaled is, but not who Johnny Cash or John Prine is.  Plus, very few of you pay taxes, and a lot of you voted for Bernie in 2016.  So a lot of you would do way more damage at the polls than at a gun range.)

In fact, I’d rather see a mandatory IQ test before you vote:

Question 1: Is Elizabeth Warren (we should never stop mocking her) a Cherokee?

Question 2: Would you rather trust Sheriff Steve “not an Israeli” Israel to protect you more than you would trust yourself with a gun to protect you?

Question 3: Should any country be forbidden from controlling its own borders?

Question 4: Does socialism work better than free market capitalism?

Anyone answering “yes” to any of these questions should be banned from voting.  Problem solved, and you’re welcome.

The worst part of the gun debacle, for me, was Trump’s castigating GOP pols for being “afraid of the NRA.”  That’s the kind of shoddy talk that we expect from Dems, and it’s not justified.  The NRA has sway in Washington – to the extent that it does – because millions of Americans value the 2^nd amendment and support the NRA’s agenda.  The NRA doesn’t give nearly as much money as Big Labor or George Soros or a bunch of other interest groups, and it’s lazy to make the ad hominem “bought and paid for” charge.  I love to see Trump slap around GOP pols when they deserve it, but in this case they don’t.

Next: tariffs.  Ugh.  CO knows more about this than I do, but even I know that trade wars aren’t great things, and easy to win.  Again, Trump’s heart is in the right place, but his head isn’t.

Finally: Stormy Daniels.  I think this story has been overblown by the hypocritical media and Dems, who were more than happy to cover for girlfriend-murdering Ted Kennedy and rapey perv-meister Bill Clinton.   And don’t get me wrong: if the alternative is voting for leftist Clydesdale Hillary or socialist mummy Bernie, I wouldn’t care if Trump came down the escalator with an unconscious stripper draped over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, he’d have my vote.  But it’s still depressing to see a GOP president credibly accused of affairs with strippers.

It’s also depressing that someone named “Stormy” is involved.  At first I assumed that that was a nom de nude, but it turns out that her sisters are Misty and Sunny.  (Oddly enough, her other sister, “Occluded Front Daniels” went into accounting.   True story.)

2. On the other hand, the Dems have engaged in a lot more hate-worthy behavior, as always:

Creepy CA senator Kamala Harris said that she 100% supports creepy Oakland mayor Libby (HA!) Schaaf’s decision to warn a bunch of criminal aliens about pending ICE raids, allowing hundreds of them to avoid capture.   If there were any justice in the world (full disclosure: even though I’m a Christian, I sometimes think I’d prefer my Deity with 10% more Old Testament in Him, with the wrath and the smiting and the plagues of boils), the very next victims of criminal alien attacks or robberies in CA would be Schaaf and Harris.

Skeevy Hollywood lefties rolled out another unwatchable Oscars, and proved themselves impervious to all objective feedback about their condescending politics.  My favorite part was when Jimmy “waaaah!” Kimmel defended a movie featuring a 17 year old gay kid having an affair with a 24-year old man, and admitted that the Best Picture nominees were mostly financial losers.  Old Quiver Lips said, “That’s not the point.  We don’t make films like “Call Me By Your Name” for money. We make them to upset Mike Pence.”

So let me get this right: if Trump sails a few “Stormy” seas, that’s an outrage.   But when moral dinosaur Mike Pence – with his anachronistic “fidelity” and “wedding vows” and “Christian principles” – seems to object to adult-adolescent sex (even when both parties have the same genitalia!), he’s also outrageous.

Okkkaayy, Jimbo.  And by the way, re: “we don’t make these movies to make money?”  Mission accomplished.

 

Thankfully, there’s been more to love than to hate:

1.Along with the Bad Trump, we’ve had a few servings of Good Trump, as during his boisterous speech the other day, when he laid into many worthy targets, including labeling Maxine Waters as a “low IQ individual.”  And before you object that that isn’t presidential, let me point out that truth is an absolute defense to charges of slander.

Also, to say that Waters has a room temperature IQ is an insult to the temperature in most rooms, which in my experience is usually quite comfortable.  Okay, sure, she might actually have a room temperature IQ … but only if that room is in an uninsulated house in northern Minnesota in the third week of January, and the house is heated only by solar panels, and the sun hasn’t been out since St. Crispen’s Day.

Once someone explained to Mad Maxine – repeatedly, and slowly, and in very small words — what the president had said about her, Waters shockingly accused him of being a racist.

2. The unwatchable Oscars turned out to be… unwatched, with the lowest ratings in years. The preening leftists in Hollywood have made it clear that they hate more than half of their (former) audience, and that audience is saying, “Right back at ya, you bunch of preaching Polanskis!” It always warms my heart to see people vote with their remotes, and their feet.  Although there are some good people in high-tax, business-hostile blue states, it is gratifying to watch productive citizens fleeing CA and IL and NY for places like TX, TN and FL.  It’s also satisfying to see big gains in NRA membership after the shameful post-Parkland straw-man bonfire.   Reap what you sow, you condescending jerks.

3.  Ah, Elizabeth Warren — the gift that keeps on Indian-giving. (HA!) She went on Fox on Sunday, and be-clowned herself yet again.  When John Roberts told her that a local MA paper had asked her to take a DNA test to once-and-for-all settle the question of her alleged Indian heritage, she declined, saying, “I know who I am,” and repeating the slanderous stories about how her Injun’-hatin’ paternal grandparents objected to their son marrying a (blue-eyed) squaw like her mom.

Because who would believe something as sketchy as DNA evidence, when you’ve got family gossip and rumors?  The Party of Science™, that’s who!

Tragically, Warren said that she won’t be running for president in 2020.  Say it ain’t so, Liz!

4. Finally, my favorite kind of favorite stories: another dumb criminal tale.

This time, let me take you to Hartford, Connecticut, where an upstanding young man named Jonathan Rivera went to Superior Court to answer a charge of car theft from February.  While he was in court talking to the judge – mentioning how he was the victim of a corrupt judicial system, and racial profiling, and the kind of brutal capitalism that prevented him from getting access to transportation, I’m guessing – parking enforcers were scanning license plates in the courthouse parking lot.

One set of plates came up stolen, and when the parking cops checked the VIN on the car, it turned out to be stolen, too.  So they set up an elaborate sting operation.  By which I mean, they stood around until someone came out of court and got into the stolen car, and they grabbed him.

Guess who he was?

Anthony Weiner!

Ha!  I’m kidding of course.  Because the car was not in fact a 15 year old girl, but a 4 year old Subaru.

And the driver was Jonathan Rivera.

That’s right.  This criminal mastermind went to court to contest a stolen car charge, driving a stolen car, with stolen plates on it.

I give you the next Democratic candidate for Governor of Connecticut: Jonathan Rivera!

The last half of February was a target-rich environment of leftist shenanigans, from the Dems’ vaunted memo dropping (and then sinking without leaving a ripple), to leftist Olympians mouthing off and then under-performing.   But two stories — one that no one noticed, and the other that we can’t stop talking about — most caught my attention.  Both happened on Valentine’s Day.

First, Elizabeth Warren gave me a sweet, sweet present.  She spoke at the National Congress of American Indians (am I wrong to have never heard of this group before?), and steered into the skid of her ridiculous, oft-told fairy tale that she is Native American.  She reaffirmed her transparently false family story – grammy was part Indian, granddad’s family didn’t like that, so they eloped.

This story has been extensively researched – and extensively debunked – and the smart thing would have been for Warren to let that old story get older.  But she hasn’t learned the old Clinton scam:  grope and then force yourself on the interns, and then claim they are all trailer trash who are lying.

No, wait.  Not that Clinton scam.   The other Clinton scam: start a phony foundation to sell influence to a Star War’s bar scene full of miscreants, ne’er-do-wells and jackanapes, making millions doing it.

No, wait.  Man, you need a score card to keep the Clinton scams straight.  Let me go through my Clinton Scandal rolodex:  sell missile technology to the Chicoms, put an illiterate bouncer in charge of going through the private FBI files of your political enemies, rent out the Lincoln Bedroom like it was a mob-controlled hot pillow joint in Hell’s Kitchen, spread STDs far and wide like a priapic Johnny Appleseed (but instead of Granny Smiths, you’re tossing gonorrhea in your wake)…

Got it: this is the scam where you lie and dodge and fight in the courts to delay news of your terrible behavior coming to light.  Then, when the scandal is ultimately proven, shrug your shoulders and call it “old news,” and say that it’s time to move on.

THAT’s the old Clinton scam that the Nordic Cherokee has not learned.   She used fake Indian ancestry to get an affirmative action job at Harvard, and launch her academic and later political career.  And she contributed a few alleged Indian recipes for Oklahoma Crab Bisque to a cookbook called (I’m not kidding) Pow Wow Chow.  (This clever recipe would definitely fool anyone who has never seen a crab, or been to Oklahoma, or is otherwise unable to look up either crabs or Oklahoma.)

But that’s done.  It’s in the past.  Or it would be, if she wasn’t stupid enough to bring it up again in front of the National Congress of American Indians!

Look, Liz, you’ve got to face facts.  You’re the least convincing Indian since Cher put on a bedazzled loincloth with a ginormous headdress and sang Half Breed.  (Watch that on Youtube right now, if you haven’t seen it.)  Or since an entire cast of buckskin-wearing vaguely ethnic extras made the tv show F-Troop (Youtube.  Right now!)  Larry Storch, who was supposed to be a white soldier, was a more convincing Indian than you.

Remember Iron Eyes Cody, the Indian who cried over litter in commercials? (Youtube, I tell’s ya!)  He was not an Indian.  He was an Italian guy named Vito Lucchese Siciliano, or something like that.  But at least he had dark skin and dark eyes, and changed his name to “Iron Eyes.”

You’re blonde, and blue eyed, and you look like a New England WASP who is none too pleased that the help is getting a little chatty as she dusts the cherry wood harpsicord that great-great-great-grandfather brought over with him on the Mayflower.   And your name is ELIZABETH!  First it was Elizabeth Herring, and then you married some sap named Warren.

And you know what no librarian has ever said, when surrounded by a semi-circle of bright-eyed four-year olds, on a faded carpet near the circulation desk?  “Gather round, kids, and I’ll tell you story of when the noble Sauk Herrings went on the war path against the fearsome Chickasaw Warrens!”

You’re a doddering old white lady, Liz, and you’re as phony as a Clinton wedding vow, and we will never stop mocking you.

 

Right now, some of you are probably thinking, why is Martin still on the warpath (HA!) against Forked-Tongue Warren?  I didn’t hear anything about her talk to the wigwam convention.

That’s because the same day Lizzie was addressing the Indians, a lunatic was murdering school kids in Florida.

This is such a sad story, and I’m sure you’re all sick to death of it by now.  So I won’t dwell on the details, other than to say the obvious: this kid presented more red flags than a May Day parade in Moscow.  Consider: 39 previous police calls to his house, his own mom met with the police about him, he had violent and threatening social media posts going back several years, and many people saw something and said something to the local FBI.  Who promptly dropped the ball, and didn’t follow up.

Which makes sense.  Because as long as phantom Russian hookers might be allegedly peeing on hotel beds somewhere in the Eastern bloc, you can’t waste valuable man hours (no offense) on trivial things like powder keg loons threatening school massacres.  Priorities, people!

Ugh.  Rather than re-hash the tragic story of that day, I’ve got a few thoughts about the aftermath, when CNN hit a new low, even for CNN.

I’m referring, of course, to last Wednesday night’s Howling Mob Straw Man Bonfire– er, Town Hall Meeting.  The whole thing was sickening, from Jake Tapper’s egging on the knuckle-dragging no-nothings in the crowd, to Sheriff Scott “Barney Fife’s less competent cousin” Israel’s dishonest blame-shifting, to the way that Dana Loesch and Marco Rubio were ambushed and abused by screaming morons.

I do see a silver lining in that town hall, though.  I think it is likely to be a moment of bracing clarity, when the bad-faith gun grabbers showed their true, and truly ugly, colors.  After watching that, everyone but the farthest left slice of the population knows two things:

1. There are some really angry, ignorant and bullying people in this country who are determined to take all guns away from law-abiding citizens if they can ever get the power to do so.
2. You cannot count on law enforcement – even well-meaning and well-led law enforcement, which the Parkland police and local FBI office clearly were not – to protect you when a bad guy with a gun goes on a rampage.

I can’t think of a better motivational advertisement for the 2^nd amendment and the NRA than showing any given two-minute segment from that town hall debacle.

And while a couple of the smug, uninformed kids (whom CNN is busy turning into celebrities) may be truly grating, you’ve got to cut them at least a little slack because of their youth and naivete and (I assume) terribly under-performing parents.  Not so with Scott Israel, the new front runner in “America’s Worst Sheriff” competition.

By the way, the Jewish state has just released a statement, which I quote in its entirety:  “The State of Israel would like to clarify that we are in no way related to Sheriff Scott Israel.  Really.  His last name is a total coincidence.   Wait.  Okay, it turns out he is Jewish.  But he’s not a resident of the State of Israel.  And we’ve got some of our best people working on having him convert to something else.  Anything, really. Scott, if you’re watching, Episcopalian might be the way to go.  Also, we’ve heard good things about Zoroastrianism.    So, in conclusion, and to summarize: Scott Israel — NOT an Israeli.  Thank you.”

That reminds me: I am NOT related to famous running back and wife-murderer OJ Simpson, or creepy Fusion GPS co-founder Glenn Simpson.  (Any resemblance to either Bart or Homer are also completely coincidental.)  But I may be a distant relative of Ulysses Simpson Grant, because he was a bad a** Republican who whipped some slave-holding Democrats and looked mighty fine in a greatcoat, sitting on a horse.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, colossal hypocrite and non-Israeli Scott Israel.  The guy had the gall to pander to the crowd and go after Dana Loesch, but from the minute that televised would-be lynch mob ended, one damning fact after another about Israel (the terrible sheriff, not the nation) has come to light.  His department was called to the shooter’s house dozens of times, his armed deputy stood outside the school, etc.  His reputation is in tatters, and if there’s any justice, he’ll soon be fired and driven from polite society

Hey, I just got another great idea.  (“ANOTHER one?” I can hear the sarcastic among you saying.) (I’m not going to dignify that with a response.)

Every state should have a “most infamous Democrat” associated with it, just to remind citizens of every state how bad that party is.  In fact, maybe some CO readers would like to nominate a high profile Dem candidate from their state?

I’ll start: from California, how about malevolent multi-millionaire mummy (ahhh, sweet alliteration) Nancy Pelosi?  From Pennyslvania, depraved abortionist Kermit Gosnell.  From Illinois, two nominees are battling it out: Rahm “dead-shark-eyes” Emmanuel, and Dick “no one ever calls him Richard” Durbin.  From Colorado (specifically South Park, CO), Adam “Mr. Mackey” Schiff (m’kay?).  From Massachusetts, the afore-mentioned Pale-Faced Pocohontas Warren (never. stop. mocking.).

Until recently, Florida was most ably represented by cowboy-pimp-hat-wearing moonbat Frederica Wilson.  But step aside FW, because there’s a new Sheriff in town: Scott Israel.

 

So I survived the flu, and a trip to Illinois to see some snow and my tough-as-a-two-dollar-steak aunt – cancer, schmancer, is apparently her philosophy, and she’s hanging in like a champ! — and I’m back home, catching up on work and world events.

And man, have there been a lot of shenanigans going on already this month.   Let me just hit a few high points.  By which I mean low points, at least when they apply to people who irritate me.

No discussion of low points would be complete without at least a brief mention of the Grammys, the annual self-congratulation fest put on by a cavalcade of vapid, talentless hacks and alleged musicians.  I watched about 10 minutes of that – I blame the Nyquil and my fever – after which I had not recognized a single “artist.”  Or “song.”

I’m going to go out on a limb here, and risk my reputation as a hipster with his finger on the pulse of modern American culture, by saying that I used to appreciate music more when it involved some discernable talent.   When musicians could read music. Or play an instrument.  Or sing.  Instead, there’s now a guy called “D.J. Khaled,” who has made a career out of being chunky and tramping around a stage gracelessly, while hollering into a microphone such lyrics as, “Uh huh huh, huh huh,” and “Less go!” and “Get yo hands up,” over and over again, while he is surrounded by people who can at least sing a little bit.

So, to summarize my review: Get off my lawn!

But that wasn’t the most egregious crime against humanity at the Grammys.  For that honor, you’d have to go to the compulsory segment on all modern award shows in which brainless leftist celebrities foist their room-temperature-IQ political thoughts on their rapidly dwindling audience.   The Grammys’ entry took the form of a line of “Who’s that?” illiterates stumbling through excerpts from the anti-Trump smear “book” Fire and Fury, culminating in a surprise special guest reader.

At first she’s holding the book in front of her face (not a bad strategy for her, by the way).  But you don’t need to see her, once you’ve heard the first nasally “caw caw caw!” from her pie hole.  And then she lowers the book, and it’s Hillary Clinton.

And the (very small, mentally infirm) crowd goes wild!

By the way, if you had told me that Hillary would make an appearance on a national television event in the winter, my money would have been on her showing up in one of those adorable Super Bowl Budweiser ads, as lead Clydesdale.   Which is why I don’t gamble on sports.   (Well, that, and the fact that the Bears haven’t covered a spread since Mike Ditka had a buzz cut.)

Where was I?  Oh yeah, Cankles McPantsuit and her dramatic reading.   Please keep it up, leftist celebrities and Hillary fans!  Please keep trotting that hideous woman out to remind us of how happy we are that she lost the election.

 

Speaking of schadenfreude, how about that memo, and the collapse of the Russian collusion story, and the smoking rubble that used to be the reputations of Comey, and Buck Naked (um, I mean “Peter Stroke”), and his unattractive mistress, and Hillary and Obama and the entire MSM?  Look upward if you dare, at a sky blackened by the swirling flocks of chickens coming home to roost on the leftist liars who pimped the Russian story for over a year.  (I mean, if chickens could fly.  Stupid, flightless birds, ruining my picturesque metaphor!)

Oh, I know.  The media is doing their best to not report any of this, and to gloss over their hypocritical reversals at every turn.  But it’s still fun to watch those weasels squirm.

Remember when the Dems and MSM made such a huge deal out of the revelation that Don Jr. had agreed to meet with the Russian team of Boris Badanov and Natasha, on the promise that they’d have some political dirt on Hillary?  Though nothing came of that meeting, it apparently really did happen, and I agreed at the time that it did not exactly cover Don Jr. with glory.  But it also seemed to me as pretty much commonplace rough elbows politics, played by both sides from the dawn of time.   Every campaign does oppo research, and it was grotesquely entertaining to watch the MSM pontificate on what an unspeakable horror it was that the president’s son was interested in hearing scandalous information that might damage his dad’s opponent’s chances to win.

But now it turns out that Adam Schiff has been caught on tape being pranked by a couple of Russian comedians.  If you haven’t heard that yet, go listen to it now.  Those knuckleheads, posing as authentically evil Russians, working on behalf of evil Russia, and the even more evil Vlad “the Impaler” Putin offering Schiff photos of “naked Trump.”  And Schiff audibly salivates on the phone call, and had his minions follow up afterward to secure the imaginary damaging information.

But the MSM is in full “nothing to see here” mode, and will not cover the story.

By the way, Rush has labeled Schiff “Pencil Neck,” which is perfect.  But I must also point out that since Harry Reid mercifully left the scene, Schiff has the highest Simpson Face Punchability Index (SFPI ©) of any active politician of either party.  (9.95, if you’re scoring at home.)  Plus, he bears an uncanny resemblance to South Park’s Mr. Mackey (m’kay?).

How ironic is it that after more than a year of coordinated pursuit and smearing of Trump, the only one in Washington who apparently WASN’T in bed with the Russians was Trump!

• Obama was caught on a hot mic creepily collaborating with Putin, when he told Medvedev, “Tell Vlad I’ll have more flexibility after my election.”
• Hillary and the DNC paid for creepy Steele to get false info from Russian spies to interfere in an American presidential election.
• Pencil Neck Schiff (m’kay?) definitely tried to get dirt from Russian spies, except that he was too stupid to tell Yakov Smirnov from Lavrenti Beria. (That’s right – a Beria reference in the same sentence with a Mr. Mackey reference.  Boom!)

 

Finally, I read about an event that so perfectly sums up the apogee of leftist governance that, after my fever broke, I thought that I had imagined it.  But no, ‘tis true.

I give you: the San Francisco poop map.

If you haven’t seen this – and you’re not sitting down to a meal — check out the story on Redstate.   It turns out that someone had the idea of charting all of the 311 calls to city officials reporting waste in public.  When I saw the phrase “urban poop map,” my first thought was that thoughtless dog owners were not taking responsibility for their animals.

But no.  It’s human poop.  A map of one of the formerly great cities of our great nation, liberally sprinkled with emojis to indicate the reported sites of human excrement.  (Insert your own “sh–hole” city joke here.) Can you think of a better way to sum up the result of decades of elitist Democrat rule?  We’ve always been able to point to the architectural ruins of Detroit, the graffiti-defaced desolation of Baltimore, and the soothing night-sounds of small arms fire on the south side of Chicago.

But now we have the specter of neighborhoods of multi-million-dollar houses in SF, the streets in front of them ankle-deep in human waste.

By the way, the SF city map on the website lists various neighborhoods by name.  The one neighborhood called “Dogpatch?”  Ironically, no poop emojis.  But the neighborhood just north and west of there, called “Democrat Base Patch?”

Completely covered with poop emojis.  True story.

 

I’m not going to end on that morose note.  Instead, let me leave you with three stories that have brought joy to my heart so far in February:

1.It seems that poachers have been running rampant in a South African national park lately.  But there is now one less of them, after – prepare yourself for some great African names — Limpopo police spokesman Moatshe Ngoepe (pronounced just like it’s spelled, duh) reported that some local lions apparently expressed some strong anti-poaching sentiments.

By which I mean, they ate a poacher.  Apparently they left just his head and “some remains,” along with a crudely lettered sign reading, “This one’s for Cecil!”   (Okay, I made that last part up. But how cool would that have been?)  Along with, I’m guessing, a nearby poop emoji that would not have been out of place in a large, Democrat-run city.

I love animals, and I hate people who are cruel to them.  So good on you, poacher-eating lions!

2. During my flu-induced delirium, I spent part of a post-Grammys evening on Youtube, watching various videos of actual, talented musicians. (For example, Tom Waits singing “Martha,” Kasey Chambers and Bernard Fanning singing, “Bittersweet,” Blossom Dearie singing “Someone to Watch Over Me,” anything by Bach. I defy anyone to listen to any of those and think, “You know what this song needs? Big fat D.J. Khaled strutting around screaming, “Put Yo Hands Up!” and “We duh best!”)

And I came across a video piece on Dave Grohl talking about playing drums for Tom Petty on SNL in 1994 on “Honey Bee.”  Watch that video, and the manic, ecstatic way Grohl hammers the drums.  I want to live my life the way that guy attacks that song!

3. This past weekend, there was an event that I only just now heard about. It was sponsored by Tim Tebow’s foundation and called “Night to Shine;” it was a coordinated event on several continents, during which a lot of churches and volunteers put on a prom for mentally and/or physically disabled people.  If you can watch any video of that event and not tear up a bit, you’re dead inside.

I could sit for hours, watching those sweet, life-loving people – all of whom can dance better than I can (I am absolutely not joking about that), and whose joyous expressions make Dave Grohl wailing on “Honey Bee” look only mildly pleased – and the good-hearted Christians doing their makeup and escorting them down the red carpet, and high fiving them.   I can’t see those giddy people with Down’s Syndrome, though, without thinking about the darkness in the world, and what so many people would do to them, if they had it in their power.  (I’m looking at you, Planned Parenthood.)

What a gulf there is between the best and the worst of us, and our impulses!

That’s probably a good thought to end on:  Yes, there are people in the world like Chuck Schumer and Adam Schiff (m’kay?) and Lieawatha Warren (we should never stop mocking her) and Roy Moore.

But then there’s Tim Tebow, and Tom Waits, and the Cautious Optimism page, and my daughters, and my wife.

And that’s not bad.

o this week I caught the flu.   Many people might point to a scientific explanation, but I’m convinced that the problem was that in my last column, I bragged that I’ve got the strength of 10 men, because my heart is pure.  And a vengeful God then struck me down.

So now I’m keeping my head down, and humbly spreading the sarcasm.  And the last half of January certainly provided a target-rich environment for that.  So here are my 4 favorite stories from the last several weeks:

1. To much fanfare last year, Marvel rolled out a collection of social-justice themed comic books. These comics had it all: angry gay characters, angry black characters, and angry characters of other types, probably.  These comics revolved around such crowd-pleasing issues as black lives matter, immigration, and LGBTQ themes.

One actually sounded good to me: “America.”  A young Martin Simpson loved him some Captain America, so maybe…

Nope.  This little gem features “a teenage Latina girl named America Chavez, whose stories revolve around her life as a queer immigrant in college.”   (Strike one.)  The writer is described as “an outspoken ‘LatinX” (strike 2), who likes to indulge herself in “periodic rants” (strike 3) about “sexism” (the second batter takes a strike) “antiblackness” (and another), and “President Trump” (two down). Another comic focuses on Black Panther, which sounds pretty cool.  But it’s written by a feminist (third batter, first strike) and “body positive” (strike 2) activist, along with Ta-Nehisi (gesundheit) Coates.  And the side has been retired: no hits, no runs, lots of errors.

By the way, if you use the phrase “body positive,” I must squint at you skeptically.   Teenage boys are very much “body positive” when it comes to female characters; there are few things that boys are more positive about than female bodies.

But not ALL female bodies.  And therein lies the rub.  (Or the lack of a rub, I guess.)

Anyway, the LGBTQ activist group GLAAD nominated a raft of these comics for Outstanding Comic Book of the Year for their “contributions to queer culture and social justice.”

Annnndddd… they’re all canceled.

Yes, you’ll be shocked to hear that these enlightened, scolding, condescending comics were not well received by actual comic book readers.  In fact, some wags on social media dismissed them as “hamfisted, socio-politically-charged drivel.”

Sounds about right.

2. On January 23, angry Dreamers stormed Chuck Schumer’s house, protesting and chanting in Spanish, “Silencio, por favor, Martino!”

Actually, that’s not what they chanted.  But it’s the only Spanish I remember from two years of high school Spanish.

But how sweet is that?  A whole ginormous flock of chickens coming home to roost… and they’re roosting on Schumer’s front lawn!  Talk about poetic justice: after months of casting these people as salt-of-the-earth angels filled with patriotism for the US, they show up at your place, and it turns out that they’re a bunch of entitled, aggressive lawbreakers who are going to turn their rage on you first.

Ah, Chuckie, this couldn’t happen to a more deserving, creepy sleazeball.  Just keep telling yourself, though:  They’re Dreamers.  They have a dream!

Yes they do.  And it’s a dream of violently storming your house!   If only walls worked, you might be able to prevent that.  (This is the part when, if this column had a soundtrack, I would cue Nelson Muntz saying “HA HA!”)

 

3. The best interview in the history of interviews happened in January.

Side bar: the “best interview” title only goes to this one because Bill Clinton’s doctor never had an hour-long press conference in which his boss ordered him to answer every press question, as Trump did with his doctor several weeks ago.    If he had, imagine the transcript:  “When it comes to STDs, I’d like to draw your attention to page 3, where you’ll find a list of diseases which we don’t usually see in humans, but which we’ve detected in Mr. Clinton’s blood stream, included bovine syphilis, porcine gonorrhea and reptilian chlamydia.  Also, despite the fact that we’ve so far been unable to detect life on Venus, Mr. Clinton has somehow contracted Venusian clap.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go burn this space suit, and scrub myself under a scalding shower until the tremors go away.”

This interview was not that entertaining, but it was close.   British “journalist” Cathy Newman was interviewing Canadian Psychology Professor Jordan Peterson about various issues involving gender.  You’ve probably heard about it, but if not, Google it immediately, and then prepare to be dazzled.

Over 30 excruciatingly hilarious minutes, Newman asks mostly loaded and tendentious questions, Peterson gives thoughtful but blunt answers, and then Newman twists his answers until they bear no resemblance to what he actually just said.   He says something like, “There are many reasons why a gender pay gap exists.”  She argues that the gap exists, and that it’s not fair, and that he has denied that it exists.   He says, “No, I admitted that it exists.  It does exist.  But there are many reasons for it.”  And then she says, “So what you are saying is that it doesn’t exist.”

By the end, Newman has become the perfect example of the biased journalist, doggedly forcing her own agenda down her interviewee’s throat in ever-more ludicrous ways.  If Peterson says, “Many women may choose less stressful careers,” she says, “So you’re saying that women should all be barefoot and pregnant.”  He stammers out, “No, that’s not—” and she says, “So you think that women should all be beaten by their husbands, and subjected to sexual assaults, and never be allowed to go outside.”

Okay, I made up those quotes, to illustrate her method.   But this next one is not made up: when Peterson counters the idea that all gender inequality is the result of patriarchal capitalism, he makes an analogy to lobsters, and the way that their nervous systems are attuned to hierarchy.  He points out our evolutionary connection to and similarities with that primitive aspect of a nervous system, and she actually says, “You’re saying that we should organize our society along the lines of the lobsters?”

I found myself wishing that at that point he would have nodded sagely at her, and said, “That’s EXACTLY what I’m saying.  We must all move to the bottom of the sea and focus all of our energy on growing pincers and becoming delicious.”

We’re probably all subject to the temptation to distort our opponents’ positions into straw man arguments.  But no one has more completely succumbed to that temptation than leftist journalists like Cathy Newman, God bless her!

4. I generally dislike State of the Union speeches. I don’t like bringing guests to use as political props (even though that was started by Reagan), I don’t like sleazy partisanship which requires only half of the chamber to be applauding at any given time, or the hypocrisy of both sides for applauding statements that they don’t actually believe but feel that they must pretend to. I’m old school about this, and thoroughly approve of George Washington’s practice of giving a concise SOTU in the form of a letter to the congress:  “Things are hunky dory overall.  The crops are coming in pretty nicely, the Navy could use a few more ships, fall pork bellies look pretty good, and we need to get to work on inventing the internet, because the WIFI at Mount Vernon is atrociously slow.  The end.”

But if we have to have a State of the Union speech, this is the kind we should have.   Though it was too long, it allowed Trump to show that he’s not the evil caricature that the MSM portrays him as, and it provided the self-destructing Dems just enough rope to hang themselves with.

It’s hard to fathom how they could have thought that responding to every sentence with stone-faced petulance would make them look good.  As Ben Shapiro pointed out, manipulative politicians are constantly trying to maneuver their opponents into looking like they are opposing motherhood and apple pie, but with the current crop of Democrats, Trump doesn’t even have to try that: the Democrats are more than happy to put themselves in that position.

Think about the quotes that the Dems would not even tepidly clap for: black unemployment is at record lows, so is Hispanic unemployment, the economy is booming, companies are moving plants to the US, and passing some of their tax savings on to their employees, ice cream is delicious.

Only one of those examples is made up, and the Dems sat on their hands for all of the others.

One of my favorite post-speech reactions came from the ACLU, which decried the fact that Trump used some variant of the word “America” more than 80 times in his speech.

Quick quiz: Does “ACLU” stand for:

1. Anaerobic Civil Liberties Union
2. Anatolian Civil Liberties Union
3. Andalusian Civil Liberties Union
4. American Civil Liberties Union

Trump’s speech had 3,394 words in it.  If America appeared 80 times, that would be 2.4% of the speech.  By contrast, 25% of the jingoistic, ultra-nationalist ACLU’s name is “American.”

They should be ashamed of themselves!

Or, as Cathy Newman would put it, “So you’re saying that non-Americans should NOT have civil liberties, and should live as wife-beating lobsters?”

So January is already half over, and especially after such a great December, the new year is off to a bit of a rough start.   I started January 1^st with a New Year’s resolution: to be more patient with people who disagree with me.  (In other words, with those who are wildly, unforgivably wrong about everything.)(P.S. This may not be my easiest resolution to keep.)

But then God tested my resolve right out of the box, by confronting me with several aggravating stories.

For example, I heard that the northeast was going to be hit with a “bomb cyclone,” and my first thought was naturally, “Holy Cow, what is Rocket Man up to now?  Last I heard, he was firing missiles toward Japan, half of which didn’t make it to their target.  And now he’s developed a Bomb Cyclone that can reach our east coast?!  Where are we with our own Bomb Cyclone technology?  The last cool thing we came up with was Stealth Fighters, and now we get beaten to the punch by that roly poly little guy who was barely able to outwit Hans Blix in that puppet movie?”

Then, of course, I learned that “Bomb Cyclone” means “snow storm.”

Okay then.   What is it with our populace and storm names?  Several years ago I was visiting family in Illinois in the winter – I went there specifically to see a little snow – and I got there a day before a heavy snowfall.  But the news media didn’t call it a heavy snowfall.

Half of them called it, “Snowpacalypse” and the other half called it, “Snow-mageddon.”   (I guess “Snowlocaust” was too soon?)

I’m not sure what it says about a society when citizens start to over-dramatize routine, seasonal weather, but it’s not good.

 

Also at the beginning of this year, I experienced a whirlwind round of what Ben Shapiro calls “good Trump, bad Trump.”   The good was very good: in one tweet, he mentioned that he won the presidency “on the first try,” and – in what has to be my favorite phrase of the new year so far – that he was “a very stable genius.”

How can you not love that?  Yes, it’s cartoonishly self-aggrandizing and even adolescent.  But he’s fighting with people who give adolescence a bad name, and are so dishonest and corrupt that it is one of the greatest pleasures of public life to watch them be trolled into a state of frothing, irrational hatred.   And boy, did “stable genius” stick in their craw.

On the other hand, as CO readers know, I’ve got mixed feelings about our president.   After one needlessly self-destructive tweet or another (that judge can’t give me a fair shot because he’s a Mexican, I like war heroes who didn’t get captured, etc.), I begin to despair at the damage that he might do to the GOP brand (even though I care a lot more about defending conservatism than the GOP brand that has already been regularly undermined by establishment squishes), and to his ability to advance a conservative agenda.

But then there are the other tweets, and their abrasive dose of much-needed reality: the UN is a bunch of kleptocrats and we’re going to insist that they shape up or we’re holding back our money (yes!), the same goes for the Palestinians (yes!!), Crooked Hillary this (Yes!), Pocohontas that (YES!!), we’re going to have a big, beautiful tax cut that also kills the Obamacare mandate (Meg Ryan in the “When Harry Met Sally” faked-O scene YESSS!!!)

The best thing that conservatives have going for them – and what I think has helped to neutralize what otherwise might be more damaging errors on Trump’s part – is the Democrats’ idiotic, dishonest insistence on blowing everything Trump does so far out of proportion that it often ends up helping him.

Exhibit A: The “Haiti, El Salvador and much of Africa are “s—holes” kerfuffle.  That was not a smart comment, and it obscured the valid underlying point (it’s self-destructive to admit people from dysfunctional countries over people from more functional, assimilation-friendly ones) in a particularly unhelpful way.

And yes, I know that we are relying mainly on Dick Durbin’s word that Trump said it.  (And by the way, have you ever heard anyone calling Durbin “Richard?”  Of course you haven’t.  His first name is as fitting as Anthony Weiner’s last name.)  Lindsay Lohan also said Trump said it.  Oops – Graham.  Lindsay Graham.

But as sleazy as those two are, my instinct is that Trump did say it.

Still, the bonehead Dems are mishandling the opportunity by turning their outrage meter to 27, which I think will backfire on them for 2 reasons:

1. It’s pretty rich to watch these hypocrites act offended by either the vulgarity or the insult inherent in the statement. When Obama was signing his signal accomplishment of the Hindenburg-Titanic-New Coke-Edsel-Solyndra-Dumpster-fire Act (AKA, Obamacare) into law, Joe Biden called it “A big f**king deal.” Obama himself called Libya a “s**tshow,” and he referred to the democratically elected leader of our only consistent ally in the Middle East (Netanyahu) as “chickens—t.”  In both instances, the MSM yawned.  So I don’t think that vulgarity is the issue.

Maybe it was the insulting nature of the comment that is the problem?  But when Dick (no one ever calls him “Richard”) Durbin compared US troops in Iraq to Nazis and the thugs working for Stalin and Pol Pot, the MSM ignored it.  When Michelle Obama said that she’d never been proud of her country until her husband was elected, the MSM ignored it.  When Barack said that his mom’s racism was because she was “a typical white person,” the MSM went nuts, excoriating him for his blatant racist stereotyping.

Just kidding! They ignored it.

All of those insults – directed at Americans – were fine. But Trump’s comment is beyond the pale!  It’s S—hole-ageddon!  The S—pocalypse is upon us!

2. As they say in the law, truth is an absolute defense. And what Trump said – as insultingly phrased as it was – is true.

I got a kick out of watching several MSM figures tying themselves into verbal and metaphysical knots, trying to keep a straight face while they insisted that everything is just hunky dory in Haiti and Africa.

Yes.  That’s why Nancy Pelosi has a palatial winter home in Port au Prince, and Elizabeth Warren summers in Ghana, and Obama is building his hideous presidential library in Zimbabwe.   Because a long life expectancy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and functioning sewer systems are over-rated, and an intermittent electrical supply is charming.  Also, medical care that doesn’t involve diagnostically reading chicken entrails, and housing constructed out of something other than straw and the fecal matter of animals were both invented by dead white males.   So, yuck.

Anyway, perhaps the best example so far this year of how the Dems are driving non-committed citizens toward Trump is their pathetic performance when they interrogated Trump’s doctor for an hour on January 16^th.  (Am I conflating the loony Dem left with the MSM reporters at that presser?  Yes.  Yes I am.)

I don’t know how anyone who doesn’t already despise Trump could watch that debacle and end up feeling anything but sympathy for him, and an overwhelming desire to kick the closest reporter in the groin.  In fact, I’ve just been handed a bulletin confirming that that motley collection of “reporters” constituted the highest collective Simpson Face Punchability Index (SFPI©) ever assembled in one room at one time.

The travesty started with the doc stating that Trump’s health is “excellent” and that he has “no mental or cognitive issue whatsoever.”  For a normal bunch of humans, that would elicit a “no story here” reaction, followed by a few perfunctory follow-up questions (“How about that cholesterol, though?”) and an early break for lunch.

But for this bunch of hacks, it was the opening salvo to a 21-gun salute of stupid.

They spent an hour asking variations on the same few questions (“But he might be crazy, right?” “Can you definitively rule out that he’s nuts?” “How many chicken nuggets is Trump short of a Happy Meal?” “But what about the dozens of leftist hack ‘doctors’ who have diagnosed Trump as a paranoid schizophrenic without ever having been in a room with him?)

The “mental acuity” test was a highlight of the circus.  The reporters thought it was a trap they were going to spring on Trump, but it turned out to be a rake that kept whapping them in their empty, coconut skulls.

Usually, I’m very content with my lot in life.  I married up, I’ve got two world-class daughters, I’ve got a good career and a small real estate empire, and the strength of 10 men, because my heart is pure.  My mental acuity is off the charts, and I own a dog who is the envy of the entire canine community.

But I think I would give all of my earthly possessions to have been in that doctor’s place at that press conference:

Reporter: “Why did you give him a mental acuity test in the first place?  Were you worried about that?”

Doctor Me: “Thanks for that inane question, you dolt.  Actually, he asked to be given that test.”

Reporter: “Is that because he is worried about his mental acuity?”

Me: “No.  It’s because he knows that a bunch of you soul-less hacks have been smearing him as mentally unfit.”

Reporter: “So how did he do?”

Me: “He got a 30.”

Reporter (beside himself with glee): “30%?!  That’s awful!”

Me: “Not 30%, you moron.  30 out of 30.  Put your shoes back on, Acosta – that’s 100%.”

Reporter:  “But this test doesn’t mean that he’s psychologically healthy, necessarily.  It only measures acuity, right?”

Me: “You can’t even spell ‘acuity,’ can you?”

Reporter:  “A – Q –”

Me (slapping my forehead):  “Idiots.”

Reporter: “Hey!  These are legitimate questions.  The people have a right to know about their leaders’ health!  We’re just doing our jobs!”

Me: “Like when you ignored Hillary Clinton’s bi-weekly near-death experiences during the campaign?  She had to wear Coke-bottle Mr. Magoo glasses for a while to help prevent seizures, and you never mentioned it.  She collapsed into the side of a limo like the sniper victim in Saving Private Ryan, and you ignored it.”

Reporter: “That wasn’t—”

Me: “During every other speech she went on a coughing jag like a chain-smoking octogenarian in a TB ward!  Nancy Pelosi slurs her speech like Chelsea Handler on the last night of Mardi Gras, and Frederica Wilson’s hat collection is clear prima facie evidence that she’s clinically insane!  And you’ve never asked any questions about any of them, have you?”

Reporter: “But—”

Me: “Shut up.  We’ve administered that same mental acuity test to some of the congressional Democrats.  Would you like to know how they scored?”

Reporter (in a wee, small voice): “no.”

Me (flourishing a print-out):  “Chuck Schumer got half a point.”  (looking over my glasses at the reporters)  “You get one point for spelling your name correctly.”

Reporters: “I don’t think we—”

Me: “The rest of the Democrat leadership scores didn’t make any sense to us, so we consulted a variety of experts.  Finally, a zoologist recognized that their calibrated scores were equivalent to those of several animal species.”

Reporters: “Oh, come on!”

Me: “According to these results, Elizabeth Warren has the mental acuity of a platypus.  And not the brightest of the platypi, either.  Fourth quintile platypus at best.  The kind of platypus that – if platypi had developed a tiered university system – would be trying to get her gen ed requirements out of the way at a community college with the hope of transferring to a weak state school.   Also, little known fact: the platypus is not a Native American species, even though the slower ones pretend that they are.”  (We must never stop mocking Elizabeth Warren.)

Reporters: “We don’t see what this has to do with—”

Me: “Nancy Pelosi?” (pause for effect)  “Third quintile racoon.”  (uncomfortable murmuring in the room)  “Dick Durbin?”  (no one will meet my eyes)  “Second quintile marmoset.”

Reporters: “What’s a—”

Me: “We had to re-test Frederica Wilson twice, before someone found a botanist who confirmed that she has the acuity of an unspecified deciduous tree.”

Reporters (after a long, shamed silence): “But still, what about Trump’s weight?  That’s not good, is it?”

Me: “That’s it.  Everybody line up.  I’m going to give a Three Stooges’ style sequential face-slap to the whole rotten lot of you!”

And, scene.

So… my new year’s resolution is not going so well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In September, Stately Simpson Manor was threatened by a hurricane. (We came through almost unscathed, after a pretty stressful 48 hours or so.) But the nasty weather made me think of global warming, which made me think of the instructive (and hilarious) failure of GW doomsayers. I recounted two recent examples:

“Exhibit A. In July of 2016, a bunch of global warming alarmists – “adventurers, sailors, pilots and climate scientists” — went on what was supposed to be a two-month trip around the North Pole. According to their website, their mission was to demonstrate, “that the Arctic sea ice coverage shrinks back so far now in the summer months that sea that was permanently locked up now can allow passage through.”

Cue the great South Park sketch: “Aannnndddd, they’re stuck.”

An article in Real Climate Science summed up their situation in this quote, which I am not making up: “They are currently stuck in Murmansk, Russia because there is too much ice blocking the North East passage the team said didn’t exist in summer months.”

I know what you’re thinking. If only they had had something other than shaky computer climate models and bong-hit-induced deep thoughts to guide them! If only there had been some historical precedent from which they could have learned!
Which brings me to…

Exhibit B. Two and a half year earlier, a group of scientists, their assistants and “adventure tourists” were sailing in the Antarctic, also intending to document the ravages wrought by our horrendous global warming crisis.

By the way, what’s with these “adventurers” and their choice of adventures?! I was never a particularly adventurous young man. But when I imagined going on an adventure, I thought of scenarios like, “So I’m in a Turkish bath in Monte Carlo, with two gorgeous Bosnian co-eds, the American ambassador to Greece, and Sean Connery, and we’re all kicking around the idea of knocking over a casino.”

Do you know what I was NOT thinking of? “So I’m stranded on an ice-encrusted trawler near Murmansk, with my extremities blackened by frost bite while a blocky Women’s Studies prof explains how global warming often manifests itself by freezing people to death.”

But back to our story. This adventuresome crew was sailing on a Russian-operated ship called the Mika Brezhinski. (Just kidding. It was actually called the Akademik Shokalskiy. But when I think of things that are thick and sluggish and ineffectual, I can’t help but think of Mrs. Morning Joe.)

Anyway, our intrepid crew on the Mika had set sail from Australia at the end of November (i.e. summer in Australia), bound for Antarctica, where they expected to lounge about in beachwear, demonstrating how our SUVS are boiling our precious environment, or something.

Guess what happened to their ship?

If you guessed that the ocean got too hot and they were all scalded to death, you are not paying attention.

In fact, it got stuck in the ice that they were shocked to find.

But wait! There’s more hilarity.

While the global warming alarmists were spending Christmas day stuck in the ice, mourning the death of Gaia instead of celebrating the birth of Christ, they had high hopes. Because the cavalry was on the way, in the form of a Chinese ice-breaking ship called the “Snow Dragon.”

Until the Snow Dragon got stuck. In the ice. The ice that it was designed to break.
But never fear, because a second Chinese ice breaker named the Aurora Australis was on its way. (And by the way, if that’s not a good stripper name, I don’t know what is. “Gentlemen, welcome to the main stage… Aurora Australis! She’s from Down Under, and she just wants to break… your… ice. Make it rain, make it snow, it’s all the same to Aurorrrrrrra.”) This ship was bigger and more powerful than the Snow Dragon, so it would make short work of the–

Annnnnddddd, it’s stuck.

Actually it didn’t get stuck. But the captain had to turn back from rescue attempts, because his ship was on the verge of getting icebound, too.

Oh, Chinese icebreaker boats. You had one job…

Anyway, the global alarmist knuckleheads were eventually – tragically – rescued.
And two and a half years later, the next group sailed for sunny Murmansk, undeterred.”

In October, Florida Congressdope Frederica Wilson briefly got herself into the news, by attacking Trump for allegedly bungling a condolence call to an army widow:
“I’ve spent the last 15 minutes – which I will never get back – looking through the debris field of Wilson’s political record. And from that I learned two things: 1. She is a far-left loon whose presence in Congress speaks very poorly of the constituents who elected her. And 2. She apparently inherited an extensive hat collection from a wealthy cowboy pimp.
I’m guessing that her parents were really hoping for a boy who would one day drive cattle from Topeka to Dallas. To assuage their disappointment when she was born, they nailed her with the name “Frederica,” stuck a ridiculous baby cowboy hat on her empty head, and foisted her upon the voters of Florida’s beleaguered 24th District.

Seriously, look at her hat pictures. In fact, pull up a split screen of a few lovely ladies in the reproductive organ headgear from January’s march, alongside one of Wilson’s garish hats. If you could look up the phrase “opposite of a thinking cap” in the dictionary, those are the pictures you would see.

If there is no such cliché as “a half-gallon brain in a 10-gallon hat,” I would like to invent that now, and apply it to Wilson.

But not satisfied with eavesdropping on a condolence call and then trying to score political points off of it, she steered into the stupid skid, releasing this tweet: “ I still stand by my account of the call b/t @realDonaldTrump and Myesha Johnson. That is her name, Mr. Trump. Not “the woman” or “the wife.”

Hilariously enough, the mother’s name is actually “Myeshia” Johnson.

I am not making that up. In a snotty, three-sentence tweet meant to excoriate Trump for not using the grieving widow’s proper name, Hopalong Bonehead GOT THE GRIEVING WIDOW’S NAME WRONG.

Ugh. To complete the empty barrel trifecta, Wilson gave an interview afterwards, an excerpt of which appeared on Bret Baier’s show. Wilson said, “Let me tell you what my mother told me when I was little. She said, ‘The dog can bark at the moon all night long. But it doesn’t become an issue until the moon barks back.’”

Cut back to Bret, wearing the same confused expression that my Aussie shepherd gets when I try to explain to her that Frederica Wilson is in congress.

By the way, I would bet my life that Cassie ‘the Wonder Dog’ Simpson would make a much better representative than Wilson. She doesn’t have much foreign policy experience, but she is a strict constructionist on Supreme Court nominees, and she is very tough on crime, having protected our house from burglars for over three years now.

Plus she’s up to date on all of her shots – which, judging from that little barking moon story, I’m guessing that Frederica Wilson is not.

If it didn’t mean moving to the 24th district, I would create an exploratory committee tomorrow. The first ad would feature my beautiful girl at attention – her one brown eye and one blue eye staring soulfully into the camera — behind a chewed-up, bedazzled cowboy hat, with the slogan, “Cassie Simpson – Who’s a good girl? Not Frederica Wilson!” Tagline: “My name is Cassie Simpson, and I approve this—WOOF!”

As fall turned to winter, the unfolding Perv-alanche (hat-tip to an astute CO reader) sex scandal story gave me hours of endless fun. (Although thanks Roy Moore, for giving the hypocritical left their own talking point during this mess.)

“After watching the reports of the rampant sexual misbehavior of our moral superiors in Hollywood and the corporate and political worlds, I’ve come to realize that I might be the only adult male who HASN’T been routinely groping my colleagues and subordinates over the last 30 years. (No one in HR told me that that was an option. And now that I’m deliriously happily married, my wife informs me that it is still not an option. So, great timing on my part.)

First, thanks again, prominent celebrities and high-profile social leaders, for giving us lowly deplorables such a smorgasbord of world-class examples of hypocrisy we can use to instruct our children on how NOT to live.

To my hypothetical son: “This is a picture of Kevin Spacey. If he invites you to his house for a sleep over, NOPE!”

To my very real daughters: “Girls, do you see this picture? What’s that? No, that is not an unshaven, overweight Gollum. Well, it is. But it‘s also Harvey Weinstein. If he should invite you to discuss an acting role over lunch, you can only meet him in a public place. And your mother has sewn you a burka, which I have modified with an unbroken coil of wire connected to a car battery, which will function as your own personal electric fence. Also, here is some bear mace, and a taser. And your krav maga instructor will be here at 2:00.”

Perhaps my favorite example of “left-on-left” crime was the picture of Ellen Degeneres drooling over Katy Perry’s chest from about 4 inches away, which she wisely sent out as a tweet with the hilarious caption, “Happy Birthday, @KatyPerry! Time to bring out the big balloons!”

(By the way, I am so non-tech savvy that I have never thought about getting an “@” tag for myself. But if it’s not taken, I wanted to request “@hilariousgenius.” One CO reader called me that last year, and I really like the sound of it. Wait, this just in: my 15-year-old tells me that I have to be on Twitter or Instagram to actually use that, and I don’t know what either of those are. So I guess I can’t just go to work and request that everyone address me as “@hilariousgenius?” Fine. Forget I said anything.)

Anyway, pointing out double standards like Ellen Degeneres’ is way too easy. It’s not even like shooting fish in a barrel. It’s like shooting a large fish in a one-gallon bucket, if the fish had the lowest IQ in his school (HA!), and he was sleeping in the bucket. And I had a new shotgun that came with a five-year no-miss fish-shooting warranty.

And yet, I’m going to point out that double standard anyway. Can you imagine if a male tv-show host had posed with Katy Perry, staring deeply into her cleavage, accompanied by a double-entendre so tired that it would have embarrassed even creepy old Hugh Hefner? How do you think that guy’s career would be going right about now?

Because I am nothing if not a strict empiricist (I originally wrote “rigid empiricist,” but in this context, I took the high road with a tasteful word choice edit. You’re welcome.), I put this hypothetical to the test. Yesterday, for Halloween, I went to my office dressed as a combination of Harvey Weinstein, Ben Affleck, Kevin Spacey and Ellen Degeneres. (It was a very complicated costume, and no one got it.)

As soon as I came in the door, I slapped my secretary on the behind, took a selfie while motorboating an intern in a low-cut top, and then wedgied a row of sales reps who had dressed up as Little Bo Peep, slutty nurse and Lady Gaga, respectively.

So I’m unemployed, and my trial date is December 12th.”

And then it was December, and I came across a story from the always-heartwarming Middle East:

“In other peace-on-earth-related news, have you heard about what happened to the Miss Iraq contestant at the Miss Universe International Beauty Pageant? (And yes, that is a thing. And yes, there is a Miss Iraq. And no, she does not have a Saddam-esque mustache, you xenophobic jokesters.)

Well, she took a picture with Miss Israel, and put it on Instagram, captioned, “Peace and love from Miss Iraq and Miss Israel.” (By the way, Google that picture. If you say that your religion requires that either of those young women should be forced to wear beekeeper outfits whenever they go outdoors, I am going to violate CO’s rules about no profanity on this site.)

When the citizens of Iraq saw that photo, they said, “What a sweet sentiment. We love to see Miss Iraq and Miss Israel getting along so well together. We can learn a lot from them.”

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

HA! That is not what happened at all. In fact, here’s what happened, according to a story posted on MSN (I know, but still): “Miss Iraq, Sarah Idan, and her family had to flee their homeland after receiving death threats over a photo she posted online last month.”

I know, pick your jaw up off the floor. You’re probably thinking, “Maybe the photo she posted was of her being baptized in a Christian church. Or of her wearing an “Islam Sucks” t-shirt. Or of her chowing down on a big pork sandwich.”

Nope. It was the “peace and love” pic that caused her co-religionists to get their chadors in a bunch.

Her hot Israeli friend in the picture explained that in Miss Iraq’s home country, “people made threats against her and her family that if she didn’t return home and take down the photos, they would remove her title, that they would kill her.”

So remember this when you gather around your Christmas tree or Hannukah bush or festivus pole: we can never judge, and no culture is better than any other.”

But the rest of December was pretty great. Trump and the GOP passed a tax cut which did everything but cure cancer. (In addition to cutting corporate and personal tax rates, it killed the Obamacare mandate, and trimmed the deductability of state income tax, which should bring well-deserved tax payer outrage down on the heads of the blue state pols who have been financially punishing their citizens for years.)

The economic numbers and growth stats came in that confirmed how much better an economy does when politicians encourage (instead of punishing) working and earning. (Shazam!) For the year, Trump has cut something like 22 federal regulations for every new one imposed, EPA functionaries are retiring like they’ve suddenly developed allergies to sloth and malevolence, and Nikki Haley is bringing hot, hot justice to the scoundrels at the UN.

There are definitely storm clouds on the horizon as we head into mid-term season in 2018, but 2017 was a better year than many of us had reason to expect when it began.

May was something of a down month politically, but I still found a few things to amuse myself, starting with a great Planned Parenthood faux pas:

“Planned Parenthood tried to do a little PR work recently, as they are wont to do.  But they picked an odd holiday to make their appeal: Mother’s Day.  The fine folks at PP are oblivious to many things – basic biology, ethics, maternal instinct, irony – but does no one down there realize the value of timing?  Would they suggest wishing all of your British friends a Happy Independence Day?  Or all of your friends who are struggling with alcoholism a Happy St. Patrick’s Day?  Or all of your ISIS friends a joyous Yom Kippur?

The head of PP sent out a tweet that began, “Nothing says, ‘I love you, Mom!” like…”  And I stopped reading.  Because all I could think of was “…a child.”  Oops.

Later in May, the Democrats had a national convention in CA, and hilarity (predictably) ensued:

“No matter what kind of new trouble Trump or the GOP can get themselves into, and no matter what kinds of wild exaggerations the MSM can bring to bear on said trouble, there is one political constant that we can all count on: the Democrat party (new slogan: “When they go low, we go much, much lower.”) is behaving horribly.   If it’s not Carlos Danger sexting the toddlers at a local daycare, or Nancy Pelosi losing her place three times per cue card, or DNC lead vulgarian Tom Perez swearing like he’s just got the lead in a Tarantino movie, it’s the California Democrat state convention.

On Saturday, 20 May, some of the sophisticated convention attendees began a rousing chant of “F*** Donald Trump.”  And because those sweet-tempered lefties are always sensitive about not excluding the differently abled, they accompanied the chant with a visual aid for the hearing impaired, in the form of upraised arms and extended middle fingers.   (Do you know the most calorie-burning and yet easiest gig ever for a sign language interpreter?  Translating for the CA Democratic convention.  You start out with the gestures for, “Hello, Sacramento!”  Then you paste a wild-eyed look on your face and flip the bird maniacally for 13 minutes.  Then you sign, “Here’s Maxine Waters,” and circle your temple with one forefinger in the universal symbol for “cuckoo” for 11 minutes. Then you introduce Tom Perez, and alternate between bird flipping and pelvic thrusting and grabbing your crotch like vintage Michael Jackson and sneering like Sid Vicious at a meeting with the Pope.  Then you hammer your check and go home and take a long, hot shower.  But you can never wash off the shame.)

I know what you’re thinking: well, you can’t blame the state party if a tiny group of trouble-makers in the back of the room gets picked up on a hot mike, and inadvertently exposes what they’d meant to express only privately.

Au contraire, mon frere.   This wasn’t a handful of stoners on the fringes.  This was a huge group of attendees front and center, during the convention in their most important state, being lead in the chant by outgoing CA Democrat chairman John Burton, with elected officials on the stage laughing along with the high-brow bon mots.

And how did the AP write up the story of the profane chant, you are probably not wondering, because you already know?  That’s right:  “In a sign of the vigor of the party’s distaste for the president….”  Ah yes.  “Vigor” and “distaste.”  The report does manage to admit that Burton is “known for his blunt and profane manner.”  You don’t say.

Stay classy, Sacramento.

On the last day of May, I was cheered by the news that another leading jihadi bit the dust:

In happy international news, an ISIS chief cleric who called himself “the Grand Mufti” – probably because “Grand Kleagle” and “Exalted Cyclops” were already taken, and his real name was Turki al-Bin’ali – caught an air strike in the face on May 31st.

I would like to renew my call that instead of a respectful moment of silence, we greet this kind of news with a few moments of raucous and celebratory noise.  I’m recommending a garage band playing the first 45 seconds of the Beastie Boy’s “Sabotage,” followed by the open to “Stranglehold,” followed by my dad’s 1972 Gran Torino with the pedal floored, and then a wood chipper working through a cedar tree.

(“Hey Martin,” I can almost hear you asking, “what dad joke did you tell your 15-year-old-daughter about this international incident that made her roll her eyes and slap her forehead and mimic the dry heaves?”  Since you asked so nicely: That’s one Turki who didn’t make it until Thanksgiving.  Boom!)

One news source called al-Bin’Kaboom “one of the most visible ISIS preachers.”  Am I the only one who sees the irony in a group who forces their women to wear tarps in public being done in because their Grand Mufti was too visible?

I am?  Fine.  Moving on…”

In June, Hillary made the media rounds with her various theories on why she lost the election.  “Many commentators have noted that by now Hillary has blamed nearly every person or group on earth for her sweet, sweet loss.  (Piggish men, insufficiently feminist women, Russians and Comey and Bernie, etc.)  But this time she added a new culprit: Macedonians.  Let’s savor her schadenfreude-tastic quote:

“So this was different because [the Russians] went public, and they were conveying this weaponized information and the content of it, and they were running, y’know there’s all these stories, about y’know, guys over in Macedonia who are running these fake news sites, and you know I’ve seen them now, and you sit there and it looks like you know sort of low level CNN operation, or a fake newspaper.”

First, there’s no such thing as a “low level CNN operation.”  You cannot get lower than CNN without being subterranean.  CNN is a low level CNN operation.

Second, “weaponized information?”  You mean, facts and things that you and your creepy circle of co-conspirators wrote and said, right?  They released things that you said and did, and you’re calling that “weaponized information?”  Ohhh-kay.

Third, something goes horribly wrong, and you look around for scapegoats.  I get it.  Blaming others is always tempting, and often entertaining.  For example, when my oldest daughter was toddling around at about age 2, I taught her a verbal trick.  In the middle of any conversation, I could point to her and ask, “Who do we blame for that?”  And she’d look at me with her enormous brown eyes and say, “The Democrats.”  That’s the kind of Norman Rockwell moment that makes the diaper changing and future college expenses all worthwhile.   And my lefty in-laws were mortified.  So, win-win.

Anyway, enough about my fantastic parenting tips.  We were discussing Hillary’s blame game.

There’s hilarious, well-adjusted Simpson-style blaming, and then there’s grim, sociopathic Hillary-style blaming.  But she outdoes even herself when she uncovers the sinister Macedonian cabal.

Move over, Jews and Global Warming, because there’s a new scapegoat in town.  And it’s the Macedonian Menace.  (If this were an old timey radio show, I’d insert a scary organ sting here.) (That reminds me: Anthony Weiner.  Boom!) (Admit it: you read “insert scary organ sting” and you beat me to the Weiner reference.  You’ve officially sunk to my level, God help you.)

By now, it’s easier to identify groups whom Hillary HASN’T blamed for her loss.   By my count, that list comes to:  the ancient Etruscans, the Hapsburg Empire, the Hottentots, and Hillary Clinton.

One other note: Did you hear what kind of conference she was speaking to?  A tech conference.   Hillary Clinton, who set up a server in her back bedroom — using open-source software, with a hardline strung out her window and across country to the Russian embassy, installed by Boris and Natasha Badanov — was invited to speak at a tech conference.

Were there no Amish people available?”

One other great event also happened in June: Pajama Boy Jon Ossoff – the Democrats’ “Great Gender-Non-Conforming Hope” lost in Georgia, after having soaked up millions in donor dollars.  And again, because I am not a better person, I derived great glee:

“A couple of weeks before the election, when several polls showed Ossoff up around 7 points, one lefty blog commenter crowed that June 20th was going to be like Sherman marching through Georgia again.

Yes.  Exactly like that.

Except if this time, when Sherman sat astride his horse at the head of the Union column and gave the command to begin the march, his horse immediately slipped in the mud and broke a leg, pitching Sherman into a puddle.  And in the puddle was a deadly snake, which then bit Sherman in the face, causing him to flail about in death throes that then spooked all of the other horses, causing them to charge off in all directions, throwing their riders and trampling infantrymen.  And sending an ammo wagon full of black powder careening into a mess tent, where a cooking fire set off a gigantic explosion which killed all the Union soldiers.  And then Robert E. Lee marched on Washington unopposed, conquered it, and renamed it Jefferson Davis-ville, and the Democrats won the Civil War, and so we’d still have slavery, which they were quite fond of.

Because for the Dems, June 20th was just like that.  Only much, MUCH funnier.”

I also mentioned that the Dems shouldn’t have been so shocked at Ossoff’s loss, pointing out that I predicted that back in April, when I wrote that after not winning a majority in the primary, “he’ll likely lose to the GOP nominee in June.”

“Did you get that?  “He’ll likely lose,” said Mr. Non-Expert, Non-Professional Pollster me (along with a lot of other people, of course.)  To discern that, I didn’t have to go to Georgia, or talk to any Georgians.  The sum total of my Georgia-related knowledge is pretty thin: “Sweet Georgia Brown,” is a catchy tune, as is “Georgia on My Mind;” peaches are tasty; the Falcons had a good year, and trying to take I-75 through downtown Atlanta anytime other than between midnight and 4 a.m. is a mistake.  That’s it.

So how was I able to see what brainiacs like Nate Silver and savants like Rachel Maddow couldn’t?  I’ve been pondering that question for almost a week now, and I’ve come up with an answer, in the form of The Simpson Face Punchability Index (SFPI) (copyright right now, by me).

Human faces can elicit strong reactions.  We’ve all known some guy who gets in a lot of fights, not because of his actions, but because people just don’t like his natural expression.  And we’ve all known unfortunate women who have been stricken with the heartbreak of resting b**ch face.

I’ve taken those facts, and through a proprietary process of rigorous thought and research, arrived at the conclusion that all human faces can be assigned a punchability value on a scale of 1 (a face that even a sociopathically violent person would be disinclined to punch) to 10 (a face that even a Buddhist monk so committed to nonviolence that he goes out of his way to avoid stepping on a bug can barely restrain himself from punching.)

For example, I have a pretty low SFPI.  I’m not very attractive, but small children and animals are drawn to me, I always got along well with my girlfriends’ parents, and strangers regularly ask me for directions, even though I am never the least bit helpful with directions.  On the other hand, thin-skinned, humorless leftists really REALLY want to punch me, so I can’t be a 1 or 2.  Thus, my SFPI is 2.5.

This is not a partisan issue, either.  Rush Limbaugh and Ted Cruz both have SFPIs of 8, while Trey Gowdy is an 8.5 – and I like all of them!  By contrast, NY Senator Kirsten Gillibrand, North Dakota Senator Heidi Heitkamp and actor John Cusack all are 2s, even though they all could objectively use a good pummeling.  Trump and Hillary are both 7.5s, which is what made the November contest so close.

Because I know you’re curious: the highest SFPI ever recorded was Harry Reid, with a 9.9.  If Gandhi and St. Francis were walking down a hallway and Dingy Harry were walking the other way, Gandhi would set him up with a left jab, and Francis would put him down with a right cross.  And Harry’s mom, if she were inexplicably still alive at age 125, would high five both of them. (I think that that mysterious eye injury that Harry had during his last year in office came from his own fist, when he saw himself in the mirror and couldn’t avoid the sudden instinct to punch himself.)

Anyway, I know that you see where this is going.  Karen Handel is the PTA mom or sweet, quietly competent lady who does your taxes; her SFPI is 1.5.  Jon Ossoff is the Eddie Haskel kid that annoys everybody, and even his girlfriend won’t let him drive when they are going anywhere; his SFPI is 8.5.

Thus, $30 million thrown into a small district on his behalf could only get him to within 4 points.

Now I sit back and wait for the nation’s pollsters to come to me, offering millions of dollars for access to the Unified Field Theory of politics that is the Simpson Face Punchability Index©.  Bring your checkbook, Nate Silver, or continue to embarrass yourself.”

In July, I came across a great “my favorite feminist” story:

“Finally, I’ve discovered the purest distillation of a certain kind of misanthropically deranged feminism that you’ll ever see.   Please google “Jody Allard,” and read her article called, “I’m Done Pretending Men are Safe (even my sons),” and prepared to be dazzled by her contemplative open-mindedness.   Allard is a feminist writing about how horrible men are (surprise, surprise), with the added twist of calling out her two young sons as potential rapists, too.

After first throwing her boys under the gender bus in an article for the Washington Post, she writes this follow-up article in which she reports that even though her sons are “good boys,” they aren’t “safe.”  In fact, she cluelessly shows that she’s not just a sexist, but a racist too, by proclaiming, “White people aren’t safe, and men aren’t safe, no matter how much I’d like to assure myself that these things aren’t true.”

The kindest compliment that she can manage is to say, “My sons won’t rape unconscious women behind a dumpster, and neither will most of the progressive men I know.”

Gee thanks, mom.  Love you too.

And by the way, you’re probably asking yourself, does that imply that non-progressive men will obviously be raping women behind dumpsters pretty much every weekend, and on alternating Tuesdays?

Yes.  Yes it does.

At one moment in her written Rohrschach test of a screed, Allard almost achieves a tiny flicker of self-awareness, but then fights it off:  “I love my sons, and I love some individual men. It pains me to say that I don’t feel emotionally safe with them, and perhaps never have with a man, but it needs to be said because far too often we are afraid to say it. This is not a reflection of something broken or damaged in me…”

NO, of course not!  You’re doing great, just the way you are.  You just keep doing you, and I’m sure your boys  — Norman Bates Allard and Ted Bundy Allard — are going to turn out just fine.”

 

In August, my favorite story involved an airline, and the sexual preference of their seatbelts:

“Royal Dutch Airlines (slogan: “We’re not just wooden shoes and open-air heroin markets.  We have airplanes, too!”) decided that the best way to entice people to fly with them was to tout their hyper- extra- super-gay friendliness.  So they created an ad that features three sets of rainbow-colored seatbelts.

On top – no offense – is a pair of what might be called “female” seatbelts.   (Those are the ones with the handle that you pull on to release the belt in case you’ve crashed into a rocky outcropping 7 miles from Denver at 350 mph and are now experiencing discomfort, and would like to exit the plane in an orderly manner.)

In the middle is a pair of what might be called “male” seatbelts.  (Those are the ones that you would usually shove into the “female” ones – no offense – until you hear a satisfying click.  Or a less satisfying click, if both of you are tired and your mother-in-law called with some advice during supper and your boss has been on your back at work and won’t those freaking kids ever shut up and go to sleep so I can concentrate on what I’m doing here?!)

On the bottom – no offense – is one “male” piece and one “female” piece.

The tag line: “It doesn’t matter who you click with.  Happy #Pride Amsterdam”

As many commentators pointed out, the flaw in the ad is so obvious that even Paul Krugman could spot it: only one set of those seatbelts actually work, and this ad undermines its point hilariously.

If CO produced videos – and really, why doesn’t he? – this would be a prime candidate for a response ad.  Here’s the scenario:  The pilot announces that there is turbulence ahead, so he (or she – no offense) turns on the “fasten seatbelt” sign.   Everybody with heterosexual seat belts (no offense) snaps them on, and lives happily ever after.

Everybody with the “alternative lifestyle” seat belts rattles and pokes and bonks them together ineffectually, and then increasingly frantically, until the turbulence hits, throwing them all violently about the cabin, breaking limbs and fracturing T-3 vertebrae hither and yon.

Tag line: “Lufthansa.  We could not care less who you sleep with.  And our seatbelts work.”

 

Up next:  In the last third of the year, 2017 gets better and better.