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I hope that everyone had a great Christmas and have started the new year off well!  As 2017 ended, I felt very grateful for the past year of writing for CO’s site.  When CO first told me about his site toward the end of 2016, and asked if he could post one of my rants that I’d shared with him and several other friends privately, I was happy to have him do so. And I’ve been having a blast ever since — I can’t tell you all how much fun it has been to have the chance to pop off on the news of the day, and virtually “meet” all of you here.

I’ve always enjoyed Dave Barry’s year-end synopses, and I thought that as the new year starts, I’d like to look back on a very enjoyable year, and choose some of my favorite events of the year, as I commented on them in various CO pieces.  (Especially since the CO army is growing every day, I know that many of you may not have caught these musings the first time around.)

Because some of you have mentioned that some of my columns can get a little long – and by the way, how dare you! – I thought I’d divide these into 3 parts.

So I give you “The Best of 2017, Part 1: January – April”

The event that obviously dominated January was Trump’s inauguration, followed immediately by the wildly entertaining Inaugural Protest March:

“I’m sure that there were lots of well-meaning, good-hearted people who took part in the march in DC; I know at least one of my coworkers who did so, and she’s a good person.  And I know that it’s probably tough to police the group yourself, and to keep idiots from joining your group and discrediting it.

But Man o’ Manischewitz, what a menagerie.  The usual black-masked anarchists destroying property.  Unattractive people of indeterminate gender carrying signs forbidding evil males from impregnating them or telling them what to do once they are impregnated.  (I speak for all male-kind when I say, don’t lose any sleep over the possibility of the former.  Because, nope.)   Crude drawings of female organs, internal and external.  Obscenity-scrawled signs alongside marching children who should be taught not to say those words.  Shrieking celebrity harridans hollering about blowing up the White House.  Formerly attractive actresses screaming poems about incest.

And by the way, no decent poet ever had to scream his or her poetry.  No one in Christendom ever said, “Hey, you want to come down to the coffeeshop?  Emily Dickinson is going to give a high-decibel poetry wail.”  Or “Save the 15th, because Alfred Lord Tennyson is doing a standing-room only couplet yelping at the top of his lungs.”  Or, “You know what I like about Shakespeare’s sonnets?  They’re f**king deafening!”

(And yes, English majors, I’ve read self-proclaimed poet Alan Ginsberg’s  “Howl,” and it’s no exception: it might as well be screamed, and it’s terrible.  I’ve read the best minds of your generation too, and there’s a good reason they were starving.  No one in their right minds would buy that crap.)(To get that last joke, you may have to re-read the opening of “Howl.”  But don’t hold me responsible for any ill effects.)

Who exactly do the marchers think they are reaching with their subtle, persuasive message?  Think about it: a bunch of women marching in vagina-simulating hats?  Because if anything connotes well thought-out moral seriousness, it’s genitalia-evoking head gear!  Can you picture the impact of a million male march, all of us wearing phallic-symbol chapeaux?  (The ear flaps mimic testicles!  Get it?)  THAT would really make the matriarchy stand up and reconsider our point about the appropriate size of government!

Or would it just make us look like an army of un-telegenic lunatics? And launch a thousand late-night comics’ routines about whose hats were flaccid, and what the guys in the 10-gallon-size phallic hats were insecure about.   And what that Jenner person was doing there in a phallic hat and a vaginal scarf?”

 

Later in the month, as Trump had barely taken office, Chuck Schumer was already – literally – crying about it:  “When Trump’s perfectly justifiable but badly handled executive order temporarily banning foreigners from terrorism-riddled countries rolled out, Chuckie actually cried about it.  In public.  I was raised in the Midwest a hundred years ago, where there was a code about grown men crying.  A few tears were acceptable if your spouse died in childbirth, or your son died in battle, or you lost a limb in a farm accident.  If my sister or I had ever seen my dad in tears and ran to tell mom, I can predict her response:  “Oh lord!  Which arm is it, and can we pull it out of the thresher so the doctors can re-attach it?!”

You know what she would NOT have asked in a million years?  “Good God, how many foreigners have been momentarily inconvenienced at an airport?!”

 

In February, amidst the first thrashings of the lefty outrage that I had assumed would naturally die down after a while (update, so far: nope!), I wrote a helpful list of tips for my lefty friends on how to respond to the new president, one of which was:  “If you start with the outrage meter pegged to 11 for every garden-variety bonehead comment that Trump makes, you’re going to lose your voice, burst a blood vessel, and be thoroughly ignored when Trump does something truly egregious.  One of my favorite Simpson’s moments was when the mayor unveiled a presidential statue; the townspeople expected Abraham Lincoln, but Springfield could only afford Jimmy Carter.  When the statue is revealed, one character points and says, “He’s history’s greatest monster!”

Trump is likely to be an inconsistent president, but he’s not going to be a Stalin, or a Mao, or an Asmodeus, Destroyer of Men.  Don’t be the boy who cried Carter.”

A few weeks later, amidst leftist groaning about Trump’s narcissism, I pointed out that Barack “my election will halt the rising of the seas” Obama had just a tiny trace of egotism, too.  And I expressed a few thoughts on how leftist pols are probably more susceptible to egotistical mission creep because of their political beliefs:

“I would argue that leftist ideology tends to exacerbate and weaponize the narcissism that all presidents are prey to.  Small government, free market conservatism teaches humility, stressing that no bureaucrat in Washington knows as much about any area of the economy or society as those who specialize in those areas.  (Hence, “That government is best which governs least.”)   Yes, I know, very few pols live up to that ideal, we are all flawed and etc.  But at least a conservative pol who begins to over-reach has an ideology that will serve as a check, if s/he’ll try to be true to it.  (I’ll grant you that Trump has not so far been… how should I say this? … particularly dissuaded by that check.)

Not so, leftism.  An ideology that sees a huge role for a centralized, omnivorous governmental bureaucracy cannot help but tempt already egotistical pols into ever greater power grabs.  You say you don’t know a redwood from a crape myrtle?  Doesn’t matter.  You’re in the Interior Department, so you are WAY more qualified to set logging policies than those idiot families of little people who have only been in the logging business for 3 generations.  You’ve never had a job in the private sector?  By all means, set fiscal policy for 330 million people.  You’ve never been a security guard, or touched a real gun, or done anything more than watching a couple of seasons of NYPD Blue?  Please tell our nation’s police forces exactly how they should be doing their job.  You wouldn’t know a pancreas from a uvula? (which sounds like something dirty, but disappointingly, is not) Feel free to take over 1/6 of the US economy, and give doctors and nurses a helpful little 9600-page, rule-filled tome dictating how health care should work, down to the last mammogram and tongue depressor.”

In the middle of February came another entertaining lefty protest:  “In what parents throughout the saner precincts of the nation celebrated as the most teachable moment that their kids could ever have, the “Day without Immigrants” (2/16) was followed immediately in many areas (starting 2/17) with “A Future without Employment,” created when many employers decided that they could do without employees who don’t appreciate being employed.  I know that many immigrants who participated aren’t here illegally, but many are – I mean, that’s the point, right?  To show us how much we need all of the many workers who are living and working here illegally?  So leave it to the reliably thick-headed Atlantic magazine to publish an article on the topic, with the subtitle, “Around 100 workers were reportedly fired for participating in last week’s strike. Whether that’s legal remains to be seen.“   Yep.  We’re not sure that it’s legal to fire people who are working here ILLEGALLY.  Yikes.  You keep doing you, brilliant leftist magazines.

While I don’t usually enjoy seeing people lose their jobs, I certainly used this example to give a little “this is how the world works” life lesson to my two now-teenaged daughters.  Not that they needed it, however.  When my second daughter was born, my oldest was 4, and I had the talk with her that I’m sure all good dads have with their kids: “Honey, we now have an auxiliary daughter.   Should you be unable to carry out the duties of the primary daughter, your mother and I are going to move her up to the gold medal stand.  Now get back to your pre-K homework, because those state capitals and days of the week are not going to memorize themselves.”

I can only hope and pray that soon we will see a “Day without Lawyers,” followed by “A Day without Federal Bureaucrats.”  I would wish for “A Day without smarmy leftist Air America hosts,” or “A Day without President Hillary Clinton,” but then I remember that EVERY day is a day without those.  And I can’t stop giggling.”

 

By March, my Democrat friends seemed to be accelerating through “entertaining folly” and driving headlong into “incipient mental illness.”  Because I am not a better person, I have to admit that I enjoyed watching their reactions:

“As we approach the four-month anniversary of the election, I’ve realized that along with screwing up the economy, foreign policy, health care and being able to declare a Best Picture winner at the Oscars, the left has also screwed up the stages of grief.

I was a young man when I first heard of the Kubler-Ross grief cycle.  I was riding a lousy little Yamaha 400 then, with aspirations to move up to a Harley, but you can imagine my excitement that I could end up on a Kubler-Ross!  I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but it had to be German.  And a “grief cycle!?”  Can you imagine the reactions of the young women in my small Midwestern town when I cruised by in a leather jacket on one of those?  I sure could.  I figured I’d put some loud pipes on mine, and paint some flames on the gas tank.

Imagine my disappointment when I found out that Kubler-Ross was an academic, and the cycle of grief had to do with how we deal with loss.  You know the process: first denial, then anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance.

Not that I was thinking about any of that on election night.  I went into the evening thinking that Hillary would win, mostly because my fellow citizens had broken my heart in 2012 when they re-elected Obama.  (I could see voting for him in ’08, when he was young and new and biracial, and McCain was old and cranky and bipartisan.  But after those 4 years, and $6 trillion in new debt with nothing to show for it, and against the manifestly decent and competent Mittster? Ugh.)  But then the glass ceiling fell on Hillary like the house falling on the Wicked Witch of the East, and I shifted into the Simpson-Bailey giddiness cycle.

Named after me and Jimmy Stewart’s character in It’s a Wonderful Life, the stages are as follows:  1. scotch, 2. dawning euphoria, 3. running through downtown in the snow screaming maniacally (“Yeah!  Merry Christmas movie house!  Merry Christmas red states!  Yyyeeeaaahhhh!”), 4. Conan’s “What is best in life?” meditation (“To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, to hear the lamentations of their metrosexuals in the Javits Center.”), and then 5. a schadenfreude-induced reaction about which you are supposed to call your doctor if it lasts more than 4 hours.

Good times.”

In April, the year got even better when Nikki “joy of man’s desiring” Haley went to the UN:

“Not since I first saw an early 1980s Nena (and if you’re just joining us, drop everything and watch the Germanic adorableness that is the “99 Luft Balloons” video on Youtube right this minute), have I been as smitten as I am by 2017 Nikki Haley giving speeches at the UN.   In her first months on the job, she’s already lambasted the daily knee-jerk condemnations of Israel while overlooking human rights abuses everywhere else, slapped down Bolivia’s attempt to discuss Syria’s child-gassing behind closed doors (“Any country that chooses to defend the atrocities of the Syrian regime will have to do so in full public view, for all the world to hear.”), among many other rhetorical “drop the mike” moments. Almost all coverage of her, even by our reflexively hostile leftist press, has noted that she minces no words.  And after two terms of the Obama administration and their 8 consecutive gold medals in Greco-Roman Word Mincing, she’s a breath of fresh air, to say the least.

In fact, I’m not sure whether I now consider Nikki Haley more of a brilliant Indian-American Nena, or if I consider 1983 Nena as more of an irresistibly cute German Nikki Haley.  The point is, I can’t get enough Nikki Haley.  The only way I think her next speech could be better than her last several would be if she came out in skinny jeans and a black leather jacket, kicking red balloons out into the annoyed faces of the wretched hive of scum and villainy that make up the human-rights-trampling kleptocrats of the UN.”

Later in the month, I learned about a new lefty objection to Trump’s Wall (which, sadly, is yet unbuilt):

“When it comes to Trump’s Wall, I thought I’d heard every possible leftist objection: it’s racist, it’s Not Who We Are, it’s expensive, it’s not gluten free, etc.  But this month, some “scientists” pointed out a new problem, which the MSM then picked up with gusto: it will harm various migratory animal species.  I have to admit that I hadn’t thought about that, and at first blush it certainly seemed plausible, and as an animal lover, that bothered me.

Until I read that those soon-to-be-devastated creatures included “108 species of migratory birds.”  Now it’s been a long time since I won that Nobel Prize in Ornithology – bilingual ornithology, if I can be allowed to toot my own horn — and I haven’t kept up on recent developments in the field.  But if I remember correctly, many birds can fly.

Sure, a few can’t.  You’ve got your chickens, your ostriches, your emi.  (Not many non-ornithologists know that the proper Latin plural of “emu” is “emi.”  Again, you’re welcome.)

But are those leftist Chicken Littles (HA!) really expecting us to believe that there are hundreds of bird species out there who migrate ON FOOT?  They will stop at nothing to tug at our heartstrings, and I’ve got to admit that that PSA almost writes itself: Sarah McLaughlin sings softly in the background, while endless hordes of bedraggled birds trudge along through scorching sand, wincing at every step, until they bonk into a big black wall that looks like Sauron built it.  Then they stack up like cordwood at the base, quacking and bleating and making whatever other sounds they make (I didn’t really get a Nobel in Ornithology), while Trump and Ryan laugh from atop the wall as they start to tip over huge cauldrons of boiling oil onto the hapless birds.

And not for the first time do I wish that Sam Kinison was still with us, because you know that he’d bust into the middle of that PSA and start berating the birds: “Have you been WALKING across this freaking desert?  Really?!  Your feet have either tiny claws or webs on them – doesn’t that tell you something?  I’ve got an idea: how about you USE YOUR WINGS!!  They’re right there on your backs.  FLAP THEM!  OH! OOOHHHH!”

We miss you, Sam.  We don’t miss Harry Reid, or Obama, or Hillary.  But we miss you.”

Next up:  Part 2, May – August, in which Planned Parenthood embraces Mother’s Day, a national Dem convention embraces screaming obscenities, and an airline comes up with alternative-lifestyle seatbelts…

It’s only a few days before Christmas, and I thought I’d post one more time before everyone who hasn’t already scattered for the holiday scatters for the holiday.

I have a couple of favorite stories to mention, followed by a “Best-of” Christmas list.

Story 1 – Trump closes out the year with a great tax cut that is sweetness and light, six ways to Sunday!  Cutting the corporate rate from universe-high to competitive-with-other countries is going to boost economic growth to an extent that will surprise only single-celled organisms and Paul Krugman.  Plus, in probably the best under-reported, seemingly unrelated bonus ever, the Obamacare mandate was killed as a part of this!

Holy cow!  It’s like you were just given an amazingly delicious candy bar, and then you found out that the foil it was wrapped in is gold of such high quality that you are now in a higher tax bracket… and your taxes just got cut!  Plus, the chocolate that it is made of is delicious, and yet somehow causes you to lose weight and lower your cholesterol.  Plus it’s Christmas morning, and the prize turkey – the enormous one, in the poulterer’s window in the next street but one – is still available, and the kid passing by your mansion – delightful boy, remarkable boy – will run and get it for you for a crown.  Which you now have plenty of, because of your magical gold-wrapped candy bar, and your tax cut!  God bless us, every one!

2. What is the only thing more fun than watching the Trumpkin take a tax-cut victory lap right before Christmas? Watching the congressional Democrats lose their minds over it. Nancy Pelosi said, “Oil can.  Oil can.”  By which she meant, “this is a disaster, the world is ending!”  Chuck Schumer said, “Waaaahhhh!”   Elizabeth Warren painted her face with ashes and did the Ghost Dance, piercing her flesh in a mysterious ceremony understood only by the Connecticut Commanches.  Or was it the Massachusetts MicMac?  Or the Wampanoag WASPS?  I can never remember what tribe she is from.   (Say it with me: we should never stop mocking Elizabeth Warren.)

My favorite leftist reaction – dutifully picked up by various leftist reporters – was that this tax reform will mean a huge tax increase in 2027 for most Americans.   The first time I heard that, the date slipped past me.  But the third or fourth time, I started wondering, and with just a few seconds on Google, I realized what these slimy pols are saying: the tax cut will sunset in 2027.  So technically, they are correct – if nothing changes in 10 years (!), and the rate is allowed to revert to what it is now, then Americans will face a tax increase.

WHEN THIS TAX CUT ENDS!  Do you get it?  This tax cut is terrible.  Because it’s so great, that when it ends and rates go back to what Democrats want, it will be terrible.   That gall of these people should not continue to surprise me, but somehow it still does.

It’s like a doctor telling a 25 year old with a scary cancer diagnosis, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.  We have a treatment, but it’s going to result in you dying after what is likely to be declining health, in your mid-90s.”

The 25-year-old starts to cry, but then looks confused.  “What?  You mean, the treatment is going to cure my cancer?”

“Yes,” Doctor Schumer says, “for now. But I’m afraid that’s going to mean that you’ll die of old age, in a weakened state, after what we expect will be a long decline.”

“You mean, 70 years from now?!”

“Yes.”

“After I’ve lived a full life?  Surrounded by my kids and grandkids?”

Doctor, exasperated.  “Are you not getting this?  You’re going to die!”

“In the year 2087?  Not next spring, when all the flowers are in bloom?”

“Yes!  You finally understand!”

“Please stand right there, while I strangle you with your stethoscope.”

And, scene.

 

3 – A new poll just came out with the finding that Hillary Clinton’s approval rating is at an all-time low.

I know, she should be old news, and we should be tiring of kicking that nearly dead Clydesdale-ankled horse, and her approval ratings have no pressing political importance.  And yet, they fill me with sweet, unreasoning glee.

Several of you were kind enough to call me the gift that keeps on giving this year, but I am a lightweight in that category beside Hillary Clinton!  She has spent a full year stepping on one rake after another, with truly gratifying results; she’s written a book and given what seems like 1000 speeches, and has blamed everyone but the defensive backfield of the TCU Horned Frogs for her loss in the election.  And just by staying in the public eye, she is a constant reminder of how great it is that she is not the president.  Hillary 2020 – We’re all with Her again!

This has truly been a December that verged on “too much winning!”  So as I prepare myself to celebrate Christmas, and I warm myself by standing next to the embers that remain from the last of Obama’s legacy, now totally consumed and turned to ash by a fire as orange as the hair of the man who lit it, I reflect on the best of the Christmas season.

Best Christmas music/songs:  Handel’s Messiah; O Come, O Come Emmanuel; Once in Royal David’s City; and Hark, the Herald Angels Sing all have to be in the Top 5.  For a singer, I really like an eccentric guy named Sufjan Stevens – check out some of his Christmas songs on Youtube.  Also, our Lutheran church features Silent Night (sung by candlelight) on Christmas eve, and always has us sing one verse in German.  Which is hilarious, because there is no greater juxtaposition than that between lyrics about a soothing, moonlit scene and the lilting, back-of-the-throat consonants of German (“Stille NACHT, heilige NACHT!”).   (Manger owner’s kid:  “Daddy, where does that angry wise man who is cursing at baby Jesus come from?”  Dad:  “Germany.”  Child: “Ohhh. Now it makes sense.”)

Best Christmas writing:  Dickens to win, place and show on this one, with A Christmas Carol.   I love this one so much that I both watch at least two versions of it each year, and listen to it on cd as we drive to see family.  If you like to listen to books, get Frank Muller’s version, which is perfect.

Best Christmas decoration:  the tree, of course.   A wreath is nice, some garland is cool, and I can appreciate a Santa outfit, but the tree is the main event.   I know, it’s a pagan Germanic thing, but Christianity subsumed a cool tradition, and made it more about love and family and less about cleaving your enemies’ skulls with a battle axe.  So, well done, Christians.

Best Christmas memory: The year my sister and I got toys that were so gender appropriate that it was ridiculous.  Mom and dad got us each a giant, cardboard and plastic playhouse type of thing: my sister’s was a kitchen (with an oven that opened!) and mine was a tank.

A tank, I tells ya!  With a viewing slit to look through as I imagined steering over snowy fields near Bastogne, and a plastic machine gun with a range of fire that included whichever German pillboxes were nearby, and also my sister’s kitchen, which I repeatedly raked with imaginary .50 caliber bullets.

There was no gender dysmorphia around the Simpson household, is my point.

I hope you all have a great Christmas!

Because it’s my favorite time of the year, I thought I’d discuss a few Christmas-related stories.

Everyone has either already made their Christmas list, or is working on it.  My older daughter wants a newer used car than the one she has now, my 15 year old wants some sort of electronic gadget that does something I don’t understand, I would like a few decent draft picks for the Bears, my wife wants nothing because she is already married to me and is thus blissfully happy 24/7.

And Buzz Feed UK science editor Kelly Oakes wants a godless dictatorship that oppresses, impoverishes and murders its citizens.

Oh, she didn’t phrase it that way – what she tweeted was, “All I want for Christmas is full communism now.” But “tomato,” “to-mah-toe.”

I can only hope that her Christmas wish comes true for her.

On Christmas morning, she’ll wake up and run down the stairs to find two thugs with unibrows and heavy coats standing in her doorway.  They’ll take all of her possessions and strip her naked and throw her onto a cattle car that takes her to Siberia, where she’ll work for about 10 minutes trying to turn a big rock into a little one before she expires from a combination of hypothermia and the soul-crushing realization that she brought her misery on herself by being such a blind, naïve leftist stooge.

Merry Christmas, Kelly!

And, scene.

 

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.

 

Speaking of multi-culti boneheads who hate our culture: the Huffington Post has put out a little meditation on the beloved Christmas tv classic Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Now if everyone were like me – and oh, what a paradise this earth would be if they were – everyone would have fond memories of growing up watching Rudolph.  The avuncular snowman voice by Burl Ives, the primitive animation that was state of the art animation before these spoiled kids today ruined everything with their 4-D surround sound and sex robots.  The Charlie in the Box.  Yukon Cornelius.  (Which was going to be my nom de guerre if I could ever uncover some scandalous info about Hillary and surreptitiously release it to Wikileaks.)

But never fear.  Because the leftist brainiacs at Huffington Post have volunteered their valuable time to defecate on your fond childhood memories by educating us on what a horrible racist/sexist/bigoted/homophobic piece of garbage Rudolph is.

I’m not kidding.  Here is a small sampling of the leftist commentary on Rudolph:  “Yearly reminder that Rudolph is a parable on racism and homophobia with Santa as a bigoted, exploitative p**ck,” and “Santa’s operation is an HR nightmare and in serious need of diversity and inclusion training.” They point out that Rudolph’s coach and his dad and Clarice’s dad all berate him for the schnozz that makes him different, and that the misfit toys suffer ostracism, and that the lead elf tries to force the would-be dentist elf to conform to the career expectations of toy-making.

Ugh.  Try to imagine living in the head of the type of person who spends his or her time parsing every good thing in our culture for signs of nefarious motives.  Not to mention that these knuckleheads get everything wrong!  Yes, the other reindeer bully Rudolph, and the misfit toys feel bad … until the climax of the program, when the tables turn, and everyone comes to appreciate Rudolph for his nasal diversity, and the nerdy dentist pulls the Bumble’s teeth and saves the day, and even the Bumble becomes a lovable, kind-hearted, ennobled quasi-polar bear!  Have these people never watched the program all the way through?

I enjoyed Rudolph as a child, and it continues to speak to me today.   For example, in one scene, the exasperated lead elf tells the would-be dentist elf, “Now you come to elf practice and learn how to wiggle your ears and chuckle warmly and go hee-hee and ho-ho and important stuff like that!”

Before you judge the “Doctorate in Elf Studies” career path harshly, consider how many American kids graduate every year with degrees in ethnic studies and gay studies and women’s studies and post-colonial America-is-the-root-of-all-evil studies and journalism.  Then consider all of those youngsters coming into your office on job interviews, touting their special skills: “I can translate rap lyrics into English and prove that the biggest danger to young black males is police officers.”  “I can detect microaggressions at a distance of 100 paces.”  “I can demonstrate how reading Shakespeare  turns you into a patriarchal oppressor, if you ever read him.  Which you shouldn’t, because he’s a dead white male.”

After about 10 minutes of that, I’d be sticking my head into the outer office and calling out, “Can anyone here wiggle your ears and chuckle warmly?” and I’d hire the first person who can do it.

On the other hand, I suspect that a few of the HuffPo commenters might be conservative trolls, because they slyly display that which no lefty on these sites ever has: a sense of humor.  The piece is called “Rudolph the Marginalized Reindeer,” which is pretty funny.  In fact, it inspired me to go onto the HuffPo message board and post some other brilliant leftist interpretations of Christmas classics.

I addition to “The Grinch Who Stole Kwanzaa,” — which many of you COers may remember from my column earlier this year in response to the bonehead leftist librarian who argued that Dr. Suess books are racist — I offered these:

I’m Dreaming of a White Supremacist Christmas

Miracle on MLK Drive

It’s a Terrible, Oppressive Life

Frosty the White Devil

The Nut-Cracker Suite (with Hillary playing the lead, in her first post-election gig)

And finally, a re-vamped and de-Christianized Christmas Carol, wherein the three ghosts are played by Marx, Lenin and Saul Alinsky, with Bernie Sanders as a Scrooge who doesn’t reform, but instead keeps his fortune, and arranges for all of the poor characters to move into the work houses and prisons, where they can be cared for by the compassionate central government.  Kevin Spacey (with his limp from The Usual Suspects) co-stars as a handi-capable Tiny Tim who teaches us all a heart-warming lesson about the evils of body-shaming.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

So December is off to a great start.   There are already at least 3 stories that would each be the top story of a less action-packed month.  Consider:

1. Trump declares Jerusalem to be the capital of Israel, and announces that we’ll be moving the US Embassy there. The usual suspects go nuts. Democrats and media talking heads say that this is a reckless act that will upset the utopian status quo in the normally bucolic Eden that is the Muslim world.  Various Palestinian terrorist groups promise “Days of Rage” protests.  (As opposed to their previous days of rage: Monday through Friday, and every other weekend.  They usually spend the other weekend cleaning, oiling and reloading their AK 47s and sharpening their scimitars.)

I get that the Arab street will be upset.  I think we can all identify with the dissatisfaction one feels when the targets of one’s genocidal rage have a good day.  But the Dems and MSM really should be ashamed of themselves.  As soon as the news leaked, they lit their hair on fire and ran screaming about how no responsible president would ever contemplate such a radical move.

Never mind that there is video tape of Bill Clinton, George Bush, Barack Obama (and for all I know, speech transcripts from William Henry Harrison) proclaiming that Jerusalem is the capital of Israel, and promising to move our embassy there.   The “Jerusalem Embassy Act” was passed overwhelmingly by both houses of congress in 1995, and while Bill Clinton gave the idea lip service (sorry for the phrasing), he didn’t sign it, probably because it was “intern interviewing season” and he was otherwise occupied when it came across his desk.  Which an intern was likely crouching under at the time.

But now that a president is actually making good on that perennial promise, it’s a radical new idea that will bring about Armageddon.

In archaeological news, some clay tablets have just been discovered, dated to around 3000 years ago.  They tell of an uprising among the Palestinians – they were called “Philistines” then – outside of Israel’s capital, some town called “Jerusalem.”

 

2. Speaking of Armageddon, that’s what Nancy Pelosi said will be the result of the GOP tax cut. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I am not making that up.

During a press conference, the apparently partially embalmed California Democrat was being questioned by a reporter, who in an unexpected fit of reasonableness, said, “Democrats talk about this bill often in very apocalyptic terms.  But isn’t what is really going on is that many people are getting a very modest tax cut… but it’s not the end of the world?”

In the hands of a reasonably competent leftist politician, that’s what’s called a “softball.”  The proper way to respond is something like this: “We obviously shouldn’t exaggerate the danger of this proposal.  But that doesn’t mean that it won’t do real damage, to working people, people of color, people who want to be identified by pronouns that have not yet been invented, blah blah and etc.”

How did Madame Tussaud’s wax-figure Pelosi respond?  Behold:

“No, it IS the end of the world.  The debate on health care is life death.”  [For the record, I think she might have meant “life OR death.”  On the other hand, she seems a little zombie-like herself, so maybe “life/death” is a state that she understands in a way that we don’t.] “This is Armageddon.”  [Did I mention that I am not making this up?]  “…There’s really a very hard way to come back from this.  They take us further, more deeply into debt.” [Seriously.  Not making this up.] “What can you do but raise taxes?”

Did you get that?  Back when she was the Majority Leader and her party controlled the White House and congress, Pelosi helped run up as much debt in 8 years as the country had previously run up in 230 years.  But now she’s deeply concerned about debt.  And her last sentence – “What can you do but raise taxes?” – has coincidentally been the motto of her party for the last century or more.

Well, you’re thinking, at least the rest of the Democrat establishment would not go over the unhinged cliff with Dame Pelosi, right?

Wrong.

Extremist spokes-dirigible Michael Moore responded to news of the tax cut by saying, “The Republican Party is the enemy of the American people…. The coup is underway!”  He may also have said something about the 1%, capitalism and fascism, but his words were muffled because he was speaking while simultaneously devouring a foot-long sandwich and a turkey leg.

Pelosi’s fellow mummy Bernie Sanders said that the GOP is “looting the treasury,” and the New York Time editorial board agreed, calling the tax cut an “historic tax heist.”

Nice word choice, NYT.  I know that we all love the familiar tropes of a great heist movie: the diverse group of specialists getting together over a set of blue prints to plan the job, the musical montage playing as they prepare their weapons and assemble their vehicles and put on their disguises, the tense sequence in which they defeat elaborate security measures and escape with the contents of the enormous bank vault, only to distribute the cash to all of the bank customers who rightfully own it.

What’s that you say? No heist movie ever ends with the bank customers getting to keep their money?

Exactly.  Nancy, Chuckie, Obama, Hill-dog, et al: let’s try this one more time – letting people keep more of what they earn is NOT “theft,” or a “heist,” or “looting.”  It’s a tax cut for taxpayers.  You idiots!

 

3. The Mueller investigation is imploding right before our eyes, with one credibility-devastating revelation after another. Comey has provided tons of evidence that Trump was completely justified in firing him – not least because he actually leaked what he hoped would be damaging information against Trump. The MSM has repeatedly reported false or inaccurate information about the investigation; for example, ABC’s Brian Ross is serving a suspension, after which he will be kept from reporting on anything Trump-related.  (Hint to ABC: if you have a journalist who is so biased and/or incompetent that he can’t be trusted to report on one huge story… maybe he’s not really cut out for this whole “journalism” thing.)

Then it turns out that Mueller’s entire team was apparently hired through a “Help Wanted” blog entry on the Huffington Post, which read, “Are you a semi-employable leftist hack, unburdened by any ethics or scruples, motivated by a burning desire to destroy people with whom you disagree? Please inquire at the basement of DNC Headquarters.  Ask for Bob.”

My favorite disgraced jerk in the story (so far) is Peter Strzok.  This guy is a cross between Kato Kaelin and Zelig: his grimy fingerprints turn up at every point in the story.   He changed the crucial description of Hillary’s mishandling of classified information: he replaced “grossly negligent” — which was accurate, and criminal – to “extremely careless” – which is what my old girlfriends called it when I rode a motorcycle without a helmet.  He coordinated the interview that got Flynn on a process crime.  He apparently took breaks from his partisan hackery only long enough to text his mistress about how evil Trump is, and how much of a crush he had on Hillary.

But there are two other reasons to question his judgement.  First, his mistress is not particularly attractive.  Which pretty much misses the entire point of having an affair, doesn’t it?  If you are going to risk your marriage and your reputation for a fling, shouldn’t she be smoking hot?  What is it with these leftist pervs, who don’t seem to have mastered the basics of sexual misbehavior: Louis CK, Weinstein, Conyers?  If they’re not picking unattractive mistresses, they are gaining access to attractive, powerless females… and the gross men get naked and pleasure themselves in front of the women!

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m very much anti-affair, and not just because my wife will be reading this.  (Have I mentioned that she has the cheekbones that launched a thousand ships?)  There are few more reprehensible things you can do than to betray your spouse, and I strongly urge anyone who is thus tempted to do everything possible to dampen their libido:  cold showers, listening to Hillary’s cawing “Why am I not up by 50 points, you may be asking yourself?!” speech, googling photos of Lena Dunham with Kathy Griffin.  Whatever it takes.

But good lord, you lecherous, male sexual harassers: you’re supposed to get the beautiful women naked, while you keep your own hideous body clothed.  How hard is that?  When you’ve died and gone to the sex crimes section of hell, the demon in charge of your torment is going to ask, “What are you here for?  Raping a private plane-load of supermodels?  Installing cameras in a sorority house shower and then blackmailing the girls?  Partying with Bill Clinton and Roman Polanski?”   And you’re going to have to say, “I made hot women watch me take a shower.”  And he’s going to plunge a flaming pitchfork into your groin.  And you will deserve it.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, the second reason to question Peter Strzok’s judgement.

The silent “z.”  C’mon.  English is a strange and often illogical language.  You can have a silent “p”  (“pneumonia,”), even a silent “h” (“honor”).  But you know what letter can’t be silent?  That’s right: “z.”

If you don’t believe me, tell a friend that you want to go to the “oo” to see an “eebra” and he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.  Tell him that your favorite part of hockey is when the “amboni” comes out and drives around.  Tell him that your favorite book to read after you’ve ingested a lot of mushrooms is “Thus Spake Arathustra.”  Tell him… I already used “Zelig,” right?

Okay, that’s all the “z” words I know.

The point is, I’m not buying the silent “z.”  But it might be worse than that.  I’ve seen some media reports which say that he pronounces his name “strok,” but others that say that he pronounces it “stroke.”  If it’s the latter, I would like to nominate him for “Best Porn Star Name Ever.”   (Step aside, “Buck Naked,” and hand off the baton – HA! – “Rod Johnson,” because Peter Stroke’s in town!)

But still, he’s squandering that name.  The first time I saw it, I couldn’t help but think of the old Batman tv series, in which each fight scene would be punctuated by superimposed action verbs, like “Smack!” “Splat!” and “Ka-Pow!”  Am I wrong that the only logical choice for when Robin clobbers the Riddler with a plugged-in lamp would be “Strzok!”

Anyway, Mr. Stroke is not to be trusted, and he’s only one reason why Mueller is crumbling before our eyes.

And Christmas is still coming!

Yesterday I came across a leading nominee for “the most unintentionally funny article of the year” award.  It appeared in Salon right before Thanksgiving.  I apologize for not having seen it earlier, but once I saw it, I couldn’t un-see it.

The article is written by someone name Matthew Rosza, who I can only conclude has been struggling manfully with a ferocious addiction to psychotropic drugs.  The title is, “Here’s your leftover turkey: The case for Hillary Clinton 2020.”  With a title like that, it’s got to be anti-Hillary, right?  Not so fast.  It appears in Salon, and it begins, “Are you sick of Republicans? Or just right-wingers in general?”  The tone says, “Obviously!”

Rosza cites – in what I can only imagine would be the strained voice of someone who just took a long draw on a bong and is trying to speak without exhaling – four points in favor of the Dems nominating Hillary in 2020.

I cannot stress enough exactly how much I am NOT making any of these up:

1. “Hillary Clinton is the Winston Churchill to Vladimir Putin’s Adolf Hitler.” The author refers to Putin as having a “right-wing nationalist agenda.” Because nothing spells “right wing” like coming up through the ranks of the KGB in the waning years of the Soviet SOCIALIST Republic.  But don’t let that distract you from the headline: he compares Hillary to Churchill!  And not Ward Churchill – which might actually make sense — but the good Churchill!

Other than their jowly looks and rotund build, is there anyone LESS like Churchill than Hillary freaking Clinton?!  Do you remember when Churchill met with Ribbentrop and produced that childishly gimmicky “re-set button” that was meant to indicate how the Brits wanted a clean slate with the National Socialists?  Me neither.

Every sentence in this section is a delight.  For example, “This is where Clinton offers a quality that no politician in America can beat.”  Quick, who amongst you shouted out, “Ankle girth!”  You would be correct, but that’s not what the author said, so by definition he is wrong.

2.“Hillary Clinton being elected president (at last) would monumentally piss off misogynistic trolls, and what’s not to like about that?” That’s a great reason to elect someone, isn’t it?  Not to bring forth on this continent a new nation.  Not to create a Shining City on a Hill.  Not to further our progress toward being the last, best hope of mankind.  Nope.

We just want to piss off the opposition.  Like when a bunch of 18^th century Americans voted for Jefferson “just to get Hamilton’s goat.”  Or when the Democrats voted for Douglas as a way to tell Abe Lincoln to “stuff it up his stovepipe hat.”

There are always jerks on both sides of the electoral aisle, so electing anyone is always guaranteed to anger some bad eggs – so that argument has virtually nothing going for it.  And by the way, electing Nikki Haley would also piss off a ton of misogynist trolls – and we’d get an amazingly talented candidate then, instead of an incompetent, corrupt, pudgy, cross-dressing, cawing-voiced Churchill imitator in a bowler hat.

3. “By winning the popular vote convincingly in 2016, Hillary Clinton has earned the right to be considered the presumptive nominee in 2020.” Ah yes, the popular vote.  Not the electoral college vote – which, spoiler alert, to anyone who hasn’t paid attention to American politics for lo these many decades – actually DETERMINES THE WINNER! The popular vote is like “amount of game time spent in the lead” in the NFL.  Which is why the Atlanta Falcons are the reigning Super Bowl champions.

Oh, wait.

4. “We can expect her to be a good president.” Did I mention that I am not making these points up?

The beauty of the weapons-grade obtuseness of this section is that the author actually raises the specter of Hillary having helped Bill get away with his serial harassing.  But in his mind, the jury is still out on that. To wit, “Frankly, the worst thing that can be said about a potential 2020 Clinton candidacy… is that her husband still hasn’t answered for the numerous sexual abuse accusations against him.”  You don’t say?!

And no, that’s not the worst thing.  That’s not even in the top 3 worst things.  If there were a museum dedicated to “The Worst Things That Can Be Said about a Potential Hillary 2020 Candidacy,” this thing would be on the second floor, near the back, at the end of a poorly lit hallway, right next to the transgender bathroom.

But Rosza goes on, “While it may seem unfair for Hillary to be held accountable for Bill’s alleged predations…”  — and not since Marion Berry was caught on video smoking crack with a constituent has the word “alleged” been deployed so implausibly – “…it can plausibly be argued that she played a role in helping him cover them up.”

Here’s a partial list of other things that Matthew Rosza believes “can be plausibly argued:”

• the existence of gravity
• the roundness of the earth
• the hotness of the sun
• the cuteness of a kitten just after its eyes have first opened

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not arguing with Mr. Rosza.  I hope that his insightful arguments win the day, and the Dems run Hillary again.  I even have a bumper sticker idea for them: “I’m with Her again…and then maybe one more time after that.”

Tell me where I can send my contribution, and the check will be in the mail.

 

 

Another month has passed, which means that it’s time for my traditional retrospecticus (hat tip to anyone who gets that obscure Simpsons’ reference), as I look back on my favorite stories of November.

Obviously, the biggest story of the month is – as CO and the CO nation have alternatively named it – pervnado/pervalanche/hornucopia.  In just the last week, we’ve seen the fall of Charlie Rose, Matt Lauer and Garrison Keillor.  If you’re like me, your response was, “That old codger?”  “Who?” and “He’s still alive?”  But still, the hilarity is worth savoring.

In a healthy culture, these guys would all retreat from society to begin long, tortured conversations with their genitalia.  (“You see what you’ve gotten us into?  I knew that I should never have let you do the thinking for both of us, Charlemagne Lauer!”) (Yes, I think that Lauer is the kind of guy who would give a comically grandiose name to his almost certainly unimpressive equipment.) (Sorry about that mental picture I just stuck you with.)

But ours is not a healthy culture.  So Lauer has a team of lawyers working on getting him a golden parachute – not my words – in the neighborhood of $30 million.  (This is where a lesser writer might be tempted to make a “severance package” joke.  But I am way too dignified for that.)  Barely animated corpse John Conyers is clinging to the door frame of his Congressional office with his dessicated mummy hands.  Al Franken is apologizing, but he doesn’t remember doing anything wrong, but he’s deeply sorry for the bad things that he can’t recall, and now he has to get back to work for the American people.  In the Senate, where it would be an absolute outrage if he had to share that august chamber with the likes of Roy Moore.

Half of the middle and upper management at CNN and NPR and the three networks are cleaning out their desks and banging into each as they try to cram through the exit doors like a bunch of horny Three Stooges, only much less funny.   When they finally burst through the doorway, the cardboard boxes they were carrying fall apart, and they spend the next half hour on their hands and knees in the hallway, trying to sort out which marital aid belongs to which supervisor, and whose velvet-lined handcuffs are these, and is that blindfold a matched set with that ball gag?

Ugh.  If the offenders at Fox hadn’t been run out of town earlier in the year, they’d be lined up at the elevators so deep that they’d be lucky to make it out onto the street by Christmas.

 

But that’s not my favorite story of November.  That honor goes to Trump vs. Pocahontas Warren, Round Two.  Was it classy for Trump to put a rib kick in on Warren when he was supposed to be honoring the Code Talkers at the White House?  Was it juvenile, and a little embarrassing?  Did it still make me laugh?  No, yes, and I’m not too big to admit it.

Warren’s response was perfect, as she stepped right into the trolling trap, calling the name a “racial slur,” and vowing that she will not allow Trump to “shut [her] up.”  Guess what, Liz?  That’s the last thing he would want you to do.   He wants you to keep talking all things Indian – What do you think of the phrase “indian-giver,” Elizabeth?  Any thoughts on the name of the Washington Redskins?  Would you consider yourself a big Columbus fan? — and as you do so, he’s rhetorically putting a huge, feathered headdress on top of your dopey head, turning you into the Native American version of Dukakis in that tank commander’s helmet.

Especially since Warren is supposed to be a leading future Dem presidential contender, we cannot stress enough the sleazy details of her egregious faux-Indian scam.  In case you haven’t followed that story, here are my favorite details.   The blue-eyed, blonde, pasty-white future Senator began claiming to be Cherokee in her 30s, got herself listed as a minority in a directory of lawyers, and ended up with a job at Harvard, where the school touted her as a prominent minority hire.  She later denied that she got any advantage from her claimed minority status – a laughable claim to anyone even the least bit familiar with the political climate of academia.

What “facts” did Warren base her claims on? “Family lore” and the fact that her grandpa had “high cheekbones.”  I’m not making that up.

Hey, you know who else has some high cheekbones?   Melania Trump.  And we all know how feared the Slovenian Sioux were, all throughout the Badlands.

You know who else has high cheekbones?  My Norwegian-descent wife.   And yes, the Slovenian Sioux were only outstripped in their fighting reputation by the Oslo Apaches.  When the war canoes took to the fjords, pioneers knew that they were in for heap-big trouble!

My favorite Warren anecdote is that she once had the gall to submit five supposed family recipes as entries in a book of Native American dishes called – and again, I’m not making this up – “Pow Wow Chow.”

But it gets funnier – and I know what you are asking:  How?  (Get it?)

It turned out that two of her five recipes were plagiarized directly from another source: a man named Pierre Franey.  I know, you don’t often hear of Indians named “Pierre.”  (Although Pierre Horse, after merciless teasing during middle school, changed his first name to “Crazy,” and went on to become a ferocious warrior.  Also, Sitting Bull’s real first name?  “Jacques.”  True story.)

“Don’t be so dismissive, Simpson,” you might be saying.  “Maybe this Pierre Franey was somehow connected to the French and Indian War.  I remember reading about that in school.”

Nope.  It turns out Pierre was connected to… Le Pavilion, a snooty French restaurant in Manhattan.

“But Manhattan was once sold by its Indian inhabitants for a bunch of beads,” you might say.

And I’ll just nod my head sadly, and point out that Pierre wrote and published these two recipes… IN 1979!!

But wait.  There’s more.  The two recipes that she stole – recipes that she claimed came from her Oklahoma-dwelling Cherokee ancestors – were for “Cold Omelets with Crab Meat” and “Crab with Tomato Mayonnaise Dressing.”

Because when you think of lobster, you think of Maine.  When you think of corn, you think of Iowa.  When you think of potatoes, you think of Idaho.

And when you think of crab, you think of… Oklahoma?!

The lonesome, moonlit nights on the prairie.  The wind rustling through the grasses and wheat fields, the howling of a far-off coyote.  The campfire crackling under a starry sky.  And the clacking of millions of crustacean claws, as the great crab herds make their way across the endless plains in their awe-inspiring migration.

We should never stop mocking Elizabeth Warren.

 

Also in November, I came across three other stories that add to my happiness:

1. A study by researchers at Columbia and Harvard (I know, but still) found that sarcasm – writing it and reading it – makes people more creative. So we here at CO should all be a bunch of Michelangelos, DaVincis, and Edisons. The article also said that one potential downside of being sarcastic is that it “can come across as mean.”  But what do they know? Bunch of eggheads who ought to go “F” themselves!

 

2. A study conducted at the Medical University of Graz (Austria) found that, “Vegetarians are less healthy than meat-eaters, despite drinking less, smoking less and being more physically active than their carnivorous counterparts.” Not mentioned in the story was the fact that the most famous Austrian vegetarian in history was Adolf Hitler. So let me get this right:  I get to wash down some steak dinners with some fine alcohol, while not working out, and being less prone to go on a continent-wide anti-Semitic murder spree, AND I get to be healthier too?  Move over, Mayo Clinic and whichever medical labs housed the inventions of the artificial heart and Viagra (not that I need either of those, thanks for asking), and make way for my new favorite institution: the Medical University of Graz.

 

3. A Swedish study – reported in Fortune – finds that dog owners live longer and are healthier than non-dog owners. The study pointed to reduced incidence of cardiac disease, greater support and companionship, and stronger immunity because of exposure to dirt that dogs bring into the house.

So picture how sweet it is to be me.   I’ve been in the top 5 rankings of “Most Sarcastic People in the Northern Hemisphere” for 7 years running and am thus writing and sculpting and painting and inventing things 24/7; I’m washing down burgers and steaks and pork chops with beer and wine and scotch and am Olympic-athlete healthy, and Cassie the Wonder Dog is providing me with top-shelf companionship while helping me to live into my late 100s.  Plus I’m married to a woman with the cheekbones of a Norwegian/Navajo princess, and Christmas is coming.

The world is truly my oyster, with an appetizer of Oklahoma crab bisque.

 

 

 

I’d like to revise my comments over the weekend on the burgeoning sexual harassment epidemic.  Some thoughtful CO contributors have made some persuasive arguments on two points: 1. I might have been too quick to buy the MSM attacks on Roy Moore.  2. Women might be worse horndogs than my sheltered experience has taught me.

But first, there’s been some good news this week, mostly in the death-and-disgrace category.  Charles Manson has finally died, and good riddance to him.  We should never forget how the elite left romanticized counter-cultural creeps and criminals (that’s some sweet alliteration right there) like Manson.  For one example, hat tip to Breitbart for glossing a sickening 1970 Rolling Stone interview with Manson, which included quotes from a Manson friend to the effect that, “Charlie is very Christ-like and has a Christ-like philosophy.”

Yep.  Very Christlike.  Remember when Peter came running to Christ, warning that the Roman centurions were approaching, and Christ said, “Verily, thou shalt off the pigs, and pronounce that the time for Helter Skelter has arrived.  James, John, Barnabas, Tex, go forth and slay all whom ye find!”

Me neither.

Also Mugabe is finally out in Zimbabwe.  Or is it that Zimbabwe is finally out in Mugabe?  I don’t follow African politics as closely as I should.  I can never remember whether Tanzania is a guy or a country.   I know that Congo is both a country and the son of King Kong in a great 30s sequel, and that Rhodesia is gone, but the Rhodesian ridgeback is a fine dog.  Also, Toto had a nice song about Africa.  Where was I?

Oh yeah.  I’ve read enough about Mugabe to know that he’s in the Idi Amin school of horrible post-colonial dictators who combined the worst of tribal backwardness with the dysfunctional, destructive socialism that might be the worst thing the European colonizers gave to Africa.  (And yes, that includes making the pre-existing slavery systems even worse, if that were possible.)

In other “things I’m thankful for” news, at least one more female has come forward to have her tush dusted for prints left by smarmy Al Franken during an encounter at the Minnesota State Fair.  One of the CO commenters on my last piece coined the term “schadenboner,” and though that kind of term might be beneath the dignity of an august gentlemen like myself… YES!  Man is it fun to watch some Youtube footage from just a month or two ago, in which Franken was self-righteously mouthing platitudes about how women deserve the utmost respect, and what a shame it is when powerful politicians behave badly!

If only Lil Peep were still alive, and knew the word “derriere.”  I’m sure he could rhyme that with “State Fair” in a devastating rap “song” lambasting Franken!

Speaking of lambastable jerks now caught up in the harassment-palooza, smug leftist mummy Charlie Rose is out after his harassing ways have come – you’ll pardon the expression — to light.  Even more fun, creepy octogenarian racial arsonist John Conyers (guess which party?) seems to have been an abusive jerk for many decades.

It turns out that Hugh Hefner may have died just in time.  And if things keep going the way I think they’re going to for Bill Clinton, I suspect that within a few months, he may well be wishing that he would have checked out from a massive heart attack while ensconced in an “intern sandwich” a year or two ago.

All the lefty fratricide is looking like it’s going to be the feel-good hit of the winter.  Kirsten Gillibrand suddenly discovers that her patrons the Clintons are horrible people.  Donna Brazile suddenly realizes that Hillary done Bernie wrong.  Anthony Weiner suddenly realizes that he’s not even in the top 5 most embarrassing Democrat Weiners.

Gillibrand’s transparent fecklessness is especially sweet.  Quick, tell me what new info has come out about Bill Clinton in the months since Gillibrand was sucking up to him and touting Hillary’s wonderfulness as a potential prez?  That’s right: nada.  Yet Gillibrand has reversed herself like Sulu coming across a bevy of naked green slave women on the planet Gorlok.  (Yes, I enjoyed Star Trek as a kid.  And even then, I sensed that there was something off about Sulu.)

Good times.

Anyway, I have taken under consideration the charge from some COers that I may have been too hasty to condemn Roy Moore.  It’s not that I wouldn’t put it past the MSM to try to smear a GOP pol right before an election, and it’s not that I think all female accusers are automatically believable.  For example, Anita Hill.

I think the strongest evidence that Moore might be innocent is that there are no reports of his piggish behavior in the intervening 40 years, and I think that that’s super-rare.  Generally, if you’re the kind of guy who will repeatedly prey on vulnerable women when you are young, you keep doing it for years, until you are eventually Bill Clinton.  In other words, this kind of behavior very rarely flares up for a year or two, and then goes into abeyance for the rest of your life.

On the other hand, and though I haven’t followed the story extremely closely, at least one of the women that I saw seemed pretty credible, and there are enough similar accounts that it would be unusual if there was no fire in all of those clouds of smoke.

I just think we need to resist the impulse to believe the worst of our political opponents and simultaneously bend over backwards to dismiss and overlook bad behavior on our side of the aisle.  It’s a human and natural impulse, but it can take us to bad places.

Finally, I got a kick out of some of the responses to my weekend column from female COers, including Georga Collins, Erva Mercer, Tina Smith and Vera Rivers.  They pointed out that women can be as raunchy and offensive as men, but they did it in such a disarmingly frank way, and they obviously have a point.

I’m of mixed minds about this.  Biologically, males have a greater hard-wired interest in pursuit and seed-dispersing to the maximum extent, and between that … design feature, let’s call it … and the natural size and strength differences between the sexes, and the power differential that older men often have compared to younger women, male-to-female harassment is always going to be a more serious issue.

I remember an old Larry Miller routine about male/female differences.  In response to a female friend arguing that women can be just as horny as men, he pointed to the difference between women watching male strippers, and men watching female strippers.  The former are always in giggling groups, and their groping and sleaziness is light-hearted, celebratory and ultimately non-threatening.  But the latter, whether in groups or alone, are usually creepily serious, staring at the flesh on display like a cheetah watching a gazelle for signs of a limp.   He was not wrong.

The harassment issue is so vexing partly because it includes such a mix of real victims and villains, mixed with political opportunists and hypocrites, and there are so many variations in context that it is difficult to address one type of harassment without either dismissing or exaggerating other types.  The gender feminists’ tendency to lump all sexual behavior together – from an uncomfortable stare to a clumsy proposition to a hand on a shoulder to a drunken kiss attempt to a pat on the butt to an attempted assault – doesn’t help.

I also know that perceptions of the negativity of harassment varies hugely from males to females.  Most males are rarely displeased when females – any females! — express a sexual attraction to them.  During my first year of college, I was going into the cafeteria when I thought I heard my name, and looked over at a group of 4 girls, who were looking at me and laughing.  I checked to be sure that my fly was up, and went about my business.

That evening, I asked the only one of the 4 girls I knew what that had been about.  She told me that one of the girls asked who I was, and when she told her my name, the other girl said, “I’d like to jump his bones.”  Not exactly a vulgar comment, I know, and not Weinsteinian in its offensiveness.  But to hear a lot of gender feminists talk, that would be an offensive, even devastating comment if the genders had been reversed.  But was I devastated?

Are you kidding?!  I was over the moon!  A pretty girl wanted to jump MY bones?  I told all of the guys in my dorm.  I may have told my mom, the next time I called home.  I walked around campus for weeks with the melody to Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots are Made for Walking,” repeating in my head, as I mumbled to myself, “These bones are made for jumping, and that’s what you can do…”

I admire the attitude of the above-mentioned CO commenters.  In the case of relatively minor offenses — a clod making an offensive comment or grabbing a tush – the best response is probably a slap or a groin kick and a rebuke, following by getting on with one’s life.  If we start criminalizing every awkward and unpleasant interaction, or handle charges of harassment with one extreme (dismiss them or blame the victim) or the other (destroy the accused’s life with no attempt to determine the truth of the charge), we’re going to create a cultural mine field.

On the other hand, watching the lefty elites get into a circular firing squad over this is pretty entertaining.  Who do you think will be next?

Please God, let it be Schumer.  Or Stephanopolous.  Or Keith Olberman.  Or John Oliver.  Or Stephen Colbert.  Or…

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To read Martin’s other columns – or some of his short stories, more of which will be posted on his site in coming weeks – go to Martinsimpsonwriting.com

If you are like me, you are probably trying to read this through tear-filled eyes, as you struggle to cope with the tragic loss of Lil Peep.

What’s that?  You’ve never heard of Lil Peep?

Let me paint you a word picture: White Rapper.  Totally lacking in musical talent.  (But I repeat myself.) Worse fashion sense than I had as a pre-teen in 1974.  (Which was the cultural nadir in fashion sense since the short-lived micro-toga-with-sandals-and-black-socks craze in Greece 300 years before Christ.)  Tattoo aficionado, with bonus points for including facial tattoos in the mix.  Extra bonus points for the “crybaby” tattoo over one eyebrow, and for the fact that some of the tattoos looked like they were done by a twitchy meth-head in a county lock-up, with ball point pen ink and a shank fashioned out of a piece of rough metal as the tattoo needle.  Looking at him, you’re pretty sure that he didn’t vote in the last election, but if he did, you’d bet your mortgage that he voted for Hillary.

Okay, now Google him, and behold the wonder of my descriptive powers.

Yeah.  Even with all of that going for him, he somehow fell prey to an opioid overdose.

First it was Yung Mazi, the bullet proof rapper who was shot to death.  Now it’s Lil Peep, lost to drugs.

It’s like The Night the Music Died.   Except instead of a plane crashing into a corn field, it’s bullets and oxy.   And no musical talent was lost.   Anyway, RIP Peep, I guess.

 

In a more culturally significant development, as the avalanche of sexual harassment stories continues to come out, I have been forced to think about this disconcerting topic.  So far, I have 5 thoughts about it:

1. I am beginning to get the horrifying, discombobulating suspicion that the unlikeliest, most unexpected event since Hannibal showed up on the wrong side of the Alps with a bunch of guys riding elephants has happened:

The misanthropic gender feminists may have a point.

Even typing that sentence made me throw up in my mouth a little, and now I’m dizzy and my vision is blurring.

But it might be true.  When they are not arguing that women and men are exactly the same — and if you suggest that there are even the tiniest differences between them you are a horrible sexist caveman bigot — gender feminists are arguing that OF COURSE men and women are totally different, because all men are execrable sexist pigs who can’t be trusted alone with any woman under any circumstances.

The first idea is transparently stupid, and accounts for the wisdom of shunning misanthropic gender feminists as if they were a combination of Scientologist and Jehovah’s Witness who coincidentally really want to talk with you about a multi-level marketing opportunity if they can have just a few minutes of your time.

I have always thought that the second idea was a ridiculous exaggeration, pushed mostly for reasons of personal animus, political gain and/or revenge against a world that values female beauty over other qualities too much.  I knew that men are both blessed and cursed with a sex drive perhaps a tad bit more… let’s say “persistent”… or maybe “omnipresent”… okay, okay, let’s go with “all-consuming”… than most women fully understand, and that many men have treated women more than disrespectfully on at least some occasions in their lives.

But after the last month or so, I’m starting to think that it may have been almost all men, with almost all women, and almost all the time!

2.One upside of this depressing glimpse into human behavior?  I personally am looking better and better by comparison.

As a Christian, I believe that we are all fallen and flawed, and to quote Christ, “People suck.”  (I think that’s the NIV translation, but your mileage may differ.)  And I’ve always known how compromised my impulses were in that area.  I would not deny sometimes looking upon a woman with lust in my heart.  Like from age 13 to about 26, with brief breaks to watch football or read or sleep.  Come to think of it, even the sleeping didn’t stop the old unconscious mind from churning with a few cheerleader-related scenarios.

But luckily for me, I met the alluring Mrs. Simpson in my mid-20s, and since then all other women have become invisible to me.  Am I aware that young ladies enjoy wearing yoga pants in recent years, you ask?  I have heard rumors to that effect, but I could not personally confirm it.  On account of their invisibility to me, as I may have mentioned above.

Anyway, as the numbers of accused male harassers has continued to balloon recently, my stock as a husband, father, colleague and boss has continued to rise.  I had never thought of “managed not to grope or assault my co-workers and employees” as a very high bar to get over.  But apparently only a few of us have managed to pass that stringent test.

As I told my wife after the latest harasser accusations came out this week, “I don’t like to throw around the word ‘hero’ lightly.  But I may be the greatest hero in Christendom.”

To the untrained eye, she seemed to be unimpressed, but you don’t know her as well as I do.  She did point out – with only the subtlest hint of sarcasm — that I’m going to have to choose between that title and “hilarious genius” on my next box of business cards.  So now I’ve got some serious thinking to do.

3. We are all hypocrites about this issue.

I will not deny that I have taken great pleasure in watching the industrial-sized barrel of karmic whoop-ass being unloaded on piggish Democrat fund raisers like Harvey Weinstein, and piggish Democrat politicians like Al Franken and Bob Menendez and the long list of piggish Dem pols in California and elsewhere whom the MSM are working overtime to ignore reporting on, and piggish lefty actors like Ben Affleck and Kevin Spacey and Sulu, and piggish lefty comedians like Louis C.K..  Not to mention whichever piggish lefties may have been accused in the minute or so since I started writing this paragraph.

One of the joys of the last couple of weeks for me has been watching some sheepish Democrat national politicians finally having to turn on the Big Creep Himself.  NY Senator Gillibrand may be the best example.

Until 10 minutes ago she was praising Slick Willie – and his enabling moll and founder of the “Bimbo Eruptions” bullying squad Hillary – and accepting his money and stumping for Hillary.  But now, after 20 years of careful deliberation – and, totally coincidentally, after neither Clinton holds any political power for the first time in…would you look at that? 20 years! – she is suddenly shocked to realize that Handsy McGroperton™ behaved badly, and should have resigned in disgrace.

Ugh.  You enabling creeps are beneath contempt!

But speaking of contemptible creeps… Roy Moore and Dennis Hastert and some high profile Republicans have been piggish harassers (and in some cases, much worse) too, and we on the right hate to face up to those cases.  Trump himself has (at the least!) talked very rudely and behaved crassly toward women in the past, and we do ourselves no favors by trying to excuse or downplay the sins of the guys on our side, just because the other side is also living in a glass house.

4. Here is something that I know many of us are sorely tempted to say, but that we should NEVER say: The political right is not as bad on this issue as the political left.

Not because that’s not true – I believe that it is manifestly true! – but because it is the first step on the road to becoming evil creeps ourselves.  We have to expect and demand better from those on our side, even if that has some political cost.  We can and should try to wisely limit that political cost – by write-in voting for another Alabama conservative instead of Roy Moore for example, or by finding a constitutional way to not seat him and call another special election to replace him, if that’s possible.

But we cannot jump on Franken and excuse Moore, or we’re going to become the same kind of hypocrites as the lefties who are now criticizing Clinton only because it allows them to attack Moore.

5. All that being said, the double standard in the mainstream media is continually infuriating.

To pick one quick example: I just came across a story about how Ohio state supreme court judge William 0’Neill and potential gubernatorial candidate bragged about all the women he has been with.  (You can find the story on MSNBC’s website.)  As I started reading it, within 3 paragraphs I knew to a certainty that he was a Democrat.

Not because it identified him as such – oh no!

The story did not mention his party affiliation in the first three paragraphs.  And no GOP pol has ever been the subject of a scandal story without his party being mentioned in the first three paragraphs.  Or the first paragraph, for that matter.  Or the first sentence, now that I think of it.

Usually, such stories start like this:  “Republican Senator John Doe (R-Indiana) allegedly groped a young female staffer in his Republican Senatorial Office during a conversation about supply side economics just after a meeting with a local Young Republicans club and before meeting with his fellow Republicans on the Ways and Means committee – where he is the senior Republican member.”

When did the lefty reporter get around to mentioning that William O’Neill is a Democrat?  Paragraph 8.  And even then, the reporter didn’t bring it up – the candidate did:  “Lighten up, folks.  This is how Democrats remain in the minority.”  If the boastful pol hadn’t mention his own party affiliation, I’m not sure that the reporter would ever have gotten around to it.

Okay, now I realize that I have a couple of more thoughts on this issue, but this column is long enough.  So I’ll post again in a day or two, with a few reasons why I think the well-intentioned “#metoo” campaign may ultimately do more harm than good.

This is going to be a good news/bad news kind of column, and I always like to get the bad news out of the way first.

Last Friday my mother-in-law passed away, after only two weeks at our house (with support from hospice).  We had expected to have around 3 months with her, but she declined very suddenly.   We took her to a beautiful hospice facility in our town on Thursday for what we thought would be a temporary pain management issue, and she never regained consciousness after that evening.

On the upside, she had a pain-free last couple of weeks, and she passed very peacefully, surrounded by those who loved her, both at our house and in the hospice.  Her last words were to tell my wife that she loved her.  She is survived by her two sons and daughter, and she will be very much missed.

 

In another, much less consequential helping of bad news, Democrats won elections in VA and NJ on Tuesday, in a mostly expected but still sobering result.  I think Ben Shapiro’s cautionary take is probably right.  He pointed out that Dems did well in down-ballot races in VA, as well as in a couple of nominally red districts in Georgia, and suggested that the GOP brand has not been helped by holding power for a year without getting much done, that Trump is not very popular outside his base, and that without the giant political black hole that is Hillary on the ballot, Dems improved their numbers from the last cycle.

I don’t have any deep or personal stake in any of those elections, but I did hope that Gillespie would unexpectedly win in VA, mostly because of the despicable ad that some leftist group put out against Gillespie.  I’m sure you saw it: a faceless white guy in a truck with a Gillespie bumper sticker and a Confederate flag tries to run down a racially diverse group of kids.   Very subtle, you racial arsonist creeps!

To top it off, the ad ends with the tag line, “Reject hate.”  And the incoming governor’s victory speech included some blather about how the VA voters have rejected bigotry and want to come together.

You people ran an ad smearing a milque-toast, center-right candidate as a homicidal, racist freak.  You don’t get to stroke yourselves over how morally superior you are.  That would be as absurd as Harvey Weinstein posing as a benefactor of actresses, or Hollywood “feminists” praising Roman Polanski, or Cankles McPantsuit feigning advocacy for the kind of vulnerable women her husband preyed on.

Oh, wait.  All of those people did that.  Bah!

I do have one last bit of explanation for why Ed Gillespie lost that I have not seen reported in any media source.  And that, of course, is the role played by the awesome prognosticating powers of… The Simpson Face Punchability Index™ (SFPI).

For those of you who hadn’t discovered CO before this past summer, you can go to Martinsimpsonwriting.com, and find my archived column from July, in which I unveiled the SFPI.

The short version is that every human face has an inherent punchability rating between 1 (the human equivalent of a virtually unpunchable Cassie the Wonder Dog when she was an adorable puppy) and 10 (Bill Clinton during his finger-waving “I did not have sexual relations with that woman – Miss Lewinski…” speech).  In the absence of any hugely significant extenuating circumstances, the candidate with a lower SFPI will defeat the candidate with a higher SFPI.

In the run-up to this Tuesday’s VA election, I entered photos and detailed facial measurements of Gillespie and Northam into the Cray supercomputer that houses the proprietary SFPI algorithms, and the results will probably not surprise you.

Northam is a mixed bag: healthy set of eyebrows, fairly regular features, not too good looking but not ugly.  He’s also mixed in the subtler, character-influenced features that only the sophisticated technology behind the SFPI™ could detect.  He’s a Democrat, which invariably raises one’s punchability, but he’s also an Army veteran, which invariably lowers it.  His SFPI is a 4.

Ed Gillespie, unfortunately, is a sufferer from Acquired McConnell-itis, also known in the medical literature as “Chinless Cartoon Turtle Syndrome.”   (You’ve probably seen the telethons.  “For the price of a cup of coffee a month, you can help provide the facial reconstruction and chin implant surgery that will bring hope to the life of a needy child who is otherwise doomed to a life of relentless mockery and eventual defeat at the hands of a candidate with a lower SFPI.”) Gillespie’s SFPI is a solid 8, so his loss was a fait accompli.

 

One last bit of bad news this week is that apparently we no longer hold drum-head court martials or trials and speedy executions of traitors and deserters anymore.   So Bowe Bergdahl is now free to roam the earth.

Six good men gave their lives looking for that jerk.  Plus a military service dog, Cassie informs me.  (Islam teaches that dogs are unclean animals, and disdains them.  If Islam had done nothing wrong but screw up Cat Stevens and slander Man’s Best Friend, those two facts alone would rank it at the bottom of world religions in my book.   And in Cassie’s, since she is very sensitive to anti-caninism in all its pernicious forms.)

And Barack von Clausewitz called Bergdahl a hero who served with distinction, and traded 5 hardened jihadi terrorists for him.  And stood by in the Rose Garden, grinning, while Bergdahl’s weird-beard dad spoke Arabic and praised Allah.

Ugh.  I wouldn’t have traded the lone service dog for him.  Or a service cat, if there were such a thing.  Or a service hamster.  Or a civilian skink.   Or a Norway ray with an advanced case of rabies and a four-day life expectancy.

I hope Bergdahl has enough moral sense to repent and regret his actions, and feel the moral weight of the good men who lost their lives because of his idiocy.

And I hope that some day, a police K-9 dog who has a cousin service dog in the military recognizes Bergdahl walking the streets of some American town, and takes a chunk out of his arse.

 

And now, on to some good news.

 

First, the reprehensible Teen Vogue magazine is shutting down.  I know, I hadn’t followed it either.  But apparently it had been chock full of mindless leftist agitprop and relentless promotion of the joys of slutdom to vulnerable young girls.  Satisfyingly, it closed shortly after running a “Guide to An*l Sex” story aimed at teen girls.

Sadly, they turned down my freelance story pitch, “Guide to An*l Sex for Teen Vogue Editors,” which begins with an angry dad who finds his daughter’s Teen Vogue magazine, goes to their office, forces an editor down over a desk, rolls up a copy of the magazine into the shape of a cylinder… [story continues on page 43].’’

 

Second, it seems that last Saturday, fascist group Antifa threw a series of well-advertised and hyped rallies in large cities from coast to coast, and not many people showed up.

After taking out full page ads in the NY Times among other papers, and getting tons of publicity, the fascist group Refuse Fascism – whose stated goal was “organizing millions of people to drive out the fascist Trump/Pence regime” – was able to get a decent sized crowd in LA, but not much anywhere else.  Seattle (home of hordes of ne’er-do-well lefties who can usually be counted on to turn out for anything that doesn’t involve honest work or coherent thought) produced around 50 attendees, while Boston and Chicago had around the same result.  Philly had a little more, but most places had less.

And the dramatic, Gotterdammerung-style pitched battles were not in evidence, either.  One woman in NY was arrested for “splashing a drink on a Trump supporter,” though.  So … take that, Fascism!   (Remember when that Parisian waitress threw a glass of wine in Himmler’s face in 1942, and the Nazis pulled out of France the same day?  Me neither.)

Texas was an even more encouraging story.  “Around 30 protestors” came out in Austin… and were outnumbered by around 50 police, and 200 Trump Supporters.  And that’s in Austin – the San Francisco of Texas!  (And I don’t mean that as a compliment.)

 

Speaking of Texas, although the evil atheist gunman’s attack on the church last Sunday was a tragedy, it’s denouement was anything but.

In true Texas fashion, two bystanders who saw the gunman run out of the church stood by, helplessly wringing their hands while he got away, before they called the police.  One of them told a local reporter, “That poor shooter was obviously under the spell of an evil firearm.  I only hope that he can get the kind of therapy that he obviously needs.”

HA!  I tricked you.  What actually happened was that one bystander – an ACLU member wearing a floppy rasta hat — jumped into the other’s Prius (with a “coexist” bumper sticker on the back), and they slow-chased the gunman down, then used a combination of blunt language and sweet reason to appeal to his conscience, whereupon he turned himself in and apologized to the community.  Then a Texas jury sentenced him to community service, and the sheriff ordered in kale and a vegan buffet for the jurors.

HA!  I am truly an unreliable narrator.

You know what really happened.  Former NRA instructor and Hemingway-look-alike Stephen Willeford heard the shooting, grabbed his ammo and rifle and ran barefoot out into the street.  As one does.

When the killer came out of the church, Willeford exchanged shots with him, hitting him twice.  The killer fled in his truck.  Regular citizen Johnnie Langendorff, wearing a cowboy hat and driving a pick-up truck – check and check – was passing by.

Willeford jumped into his truck and said words that have never been said in LA:  “”That guy just shot up the Baptist church. We need to stop him.”  Langendorff replied with words that have rarely been said in LA:  “Okay.”

Those two badasses then chased the gunman — Mr. Majestyk-style — at speeds up to 95 mph until the evil dope crashed, and ended up killing himself.  After which – I can only hope – local residents came by and urinated on his body.

 

There are a lot of things wrong in the world.  My mother-in-law is gone, Virginia has voted for a hateful candidate who prides himself on his lack of hate, and our military justice system lets traitors go free.

On the other hand, there’s Texas!

 

As November begins, it’s time to reflect on the three things I learned in October.

First, I learned that Glamour magazine is run by a bunch of leftist dunces, because they chose Linda Sarsour as one of their “Women of the Year.”

If you don’t know Sarsour, here’s a brief overview: Palestinian-American “activist/writer,” protestor of police surveillance of Muslims, regular attendee at Black Lives Matter protests.  She’s also a big supporter of Sharia Law, and has attacked Sharia critics such as Brigitte Gabriel and Ayaan Hirsi Ali as women who deserve to have “their [female genitalia] taken away.”   (Sarsour’s sleazy insult is even worse than you might realize, since Hirsi Ali – who in a sane world, would be at least a “Woman of the Decade” – suffered genital mutilation as a child being raised in the Religion of Peace©)

Also, in 2012 Sarsour was honored by the Obama White House as a “champion of change.”  Naturally.

The brain trust at Glamour honored her primarily for the lead role she played in organizing January’s Women’s March in Washington, DC, i.e. the march where many women paraded in the opposite of thinking caps, and Ashley Judd screamed the incoherent, spittle-flecked keynote address at the top of her lungs.

Or, as all of us right-thinking-Americans know it, “The Schadenfreude-Palooza Blow Out Gala Celebration of Hillary Clinton’s Non-Inauguration Day Festivities.”

You’re probably asking yourself whether Glamour made up for the egregious Sarsour pick by honoring other “Women of the Year” who maybe don’t hate America and/or promote clitoridectomies in their spare time?

Let me guess: one of your teachers in grade school told you that there’s no such thing as a stupid question.  If so, that teacher lied to you.  Because THAT was a stupid question.

Among Glamour’s other honorees: Nicole Kidman (meh), Samantha Bee (coincidentally also being honored this year as “Unfunniest Woman in the Solar System”), Solange Knowles (no idea who she is, but I’m going to guess that being named “Solange” is not a good sign) and – last and definitely least – cognitively impaired US Congresswoman Maxine Waters.

That right there is a Murderer’s Row of Bad Choices.

Though to be fair, Kidman had the brains to dump kooky Scientologist Tom Cruise, and Solange turns out to be Beyonce’s sister (I just looked her up), and is not responsible for her parents’ cruel child-naming practices.    Plus, her middle name is “Piaget,” which almost makes up for “Solange.”  In fact, I also just learned that Beyonce’s middle name is “Giselle.”  Wow!  How funny would it be if we learned that after naming Beyonce Giselle and Solange Piaget, their parents had a third daughter and just went with “Janet?”

Where was I?  Oh yeah.  Glamour’s amazing judgment when it comes to picking women to honor.  Sarsour, Samanthee Bee and Maxine Waters on the same list, huh?

Apparently, Eva Braun, Squeaky Fromme, Lizzy Borden, famed eugenicist Margaret Sanger and Aileen Wuornos were unavailable.

 

Second, I learned that Jake Tapper is becoming an increasingly disappointing human.

At one point, I thought he was clearly the smartest person at CNN.  (I know, that’s a very low bar.  Like “the tallest skyscraper in Kansas,” or “The Most Ethical Kennedy.”)  And he used to have at least a baseline of common sense; for example, he called Linda Sarsour’s evil insults to Ayaan Hirsi Ali “ugly sentiments,” which is more than I can see dim bulbs like Don Lemon or Lawrence O’Donnell admitting.

But when the news broke this morning of the latest example of a grateful, salt-of-the-earth immigrant doing his best to assimilate into our Western society – i.e. the jihadi freak who rented a truck and ran down several dozen pedestrians on a Manhattan bike path, killing at least 8 – Jake was on the beat.  The details became pretty clear pretty quickly: the driver intentionally ran down everyone he could hit, then jumped out with what turned out to be two fake guns, and ran around screaming, “Allahu Akbar” until some cops shot him.  (Tragically, he survived.)

Now, the usual MSM take on such events is clear.  “We may never know what motivated the killer.  The obvious initial inference is that he may have Tea Party ties.  On the other hand, he had a ridiculous-looking beard with no mustache, and we all know how the inscrutable Amish often wear their beards that way.  We have linguistic experts on staff who are trying to translate, “Allahu Akbar,” which they believe may be a Pennsylvania Dutch phrase which roughly translates to, “Come hither, Hezekiah, so that we may make haste to flee in our inconspicuous black buggy with the reflective orange triangles on it.”

But not Jake the Snake.  He was all over the jihadi angle from the beginning, saying – and I am not making this up — “The Arabic chant Allahu Akbar, God is great — sometimes said under the most beautiful of circumstances…”

Wait, what?!

Ah yes, the beautiful circumstances that we associate with that poignant phrase.  Those Hallmark moments that mark the idyllic life in an Islamic theocracy:

A clean, sword-stroke beheading of a Sunni or Shia infidel, as the case may be.

A clean, sword-stroke be-handing of an adolescent who stole whatever is the Muslim equivalent of a pack of Twizzlers from the local “Crazy Akbar’s” corner store.

A clean, cane-stroke whipping of a woman wearing a pup tent who still doesn’t know her proper place.

An enthusiastic celebration of every Tuesday’s “throw a homosexual off the roof” ritual in beautiful downtown Damascus.

And now, in Manhattan, a boisterous installment of the soon-to-be-commonplace “Running of the Infidels.”

Clearly, the mainstream Left and GOP establishment are right: what we need now is many more unvetted immigrants to add to the rich tapestry of life in America.

 

Finally, the third thing I learned in October is how to treat people in the workplace.

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 12^th.

On the upside, I’ll have more free time to write CO columns now.