Martin Simpson

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or is it?

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

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

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

Or Kevins.  Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Avenatti/Sticky-Fingers Jackie 2024!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behold, the smorgasbord of bat-guano crazy:

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

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

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

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

Peter Doocy: “But are we, though?”

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

WHSW: “Absolutely not.”

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

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

Biden: “Yes!”

Spokes-weasel: “No!”

Biden: “I mean, No!”

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

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

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

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

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

Biden: “Shmictionary.”

Doocy:  “What?”

Biden: “Schmictionary schmictionary.”

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

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

Doocy:  “It’s Peter Doocy.”

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

Doocy:  “It’s Doocy.”

Biden:  “Pass the Dutchie?”

Doocy:  “Peter Doocy.”

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

WHSW: “He means Zelensky and Chairman Xi.”

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler alert: he’s never the duck.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doocy: “What?”

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

Doocy: “Ummm?”

Biden: “Congratulations on your Graduation!”

Doocy: “Are you reading from cards?”

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

Doocy: “It’s Peter Doocy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, scene.  Again.

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

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

Here’s a few off the top of my head:

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

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

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

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

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

Or to the Middle East.

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

Or the grocery store.  Or out in public.

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

Avenatti/Goosey Loosey 2024!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well played!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And here’s what we already knew:

Trans women are not women.

Open marriage is not marriage. 

And the Oscars are not worth watching.

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

As you faithful readers know – if you’ve read my columns and the responses to them – I’m often praised as a once-in-a-century combination of wit and wisdom, a modern day Pitt the Elder, and a man among men.

Okay, that’s a very loose translation.  But most people’s feedback is pretty kind.  The one common critique of my columns, though, is pretty consistent: they’re too long.

So about 10 days ago, I made a little “Ides of March resolution,” as one commonly does this time of year, to pare things down, and start writing shorter pieces.

And then — because Man plans, and God laughs – we have the last week, a week so full of fertile ground for comic and caustic commentary that dozens of columns could be written about it, while barely scratching the surface.

Biden takes a trip to Europe.  (A dozen Hope and Crosby road movies contained less raw comedic potential than that.) Que Mala also visits Europe. (A dozen 3 Stooges movies contained—well, you know.)  Supreme Court hearings on a far-left nominee feature her being asked reasonable questions, prompting Spartacus Booker to out-Spartacus himself, and the rest of the MSM to react as if she were being flayed alive by the Spanish Inquisition. 

And that’s not to mention the story of the angry mom who read excerpts from a sex book that the school board wanted the kids to read, in the middle of a school board meeting.  (Hilarity ensued.) Or the story of the vomiting Oklahoma Dem congressional candidate ending her campaign.  (She’ll be missed.)  Or the story of pretend GA governor Stacey Abrams appearing as the pretend President of Earth in a Star Trek episode. (Yikes.) 

So what’s an incorrigible smart-arse to do? 

Write two, shorter columns this week, I guess.  Here’s part 1:

I like to collect perfectly stated thoughts.  Here are a few examples, from past columns:

• When fascist Ken Doll Fidel Trudeau was spouting some lefty claptrap and other pols were interrupting, an anonymous critic of his said, “Let him explain.  He’s not good at this.” 
• After the first bloody day of Shiloh, a fatigued Sherman visited Grant’s tent, saying, “We’ve had the devil’s own day, haven’t we?” Grant’s perfect response: “Yes. Lick ‘em tomorrow, though.”
• A video shot by an unseen black guy showed an angry woman with a baseball bat screaming threats and starting to cross a street toward another woman she was arguing with.  When the other woman displayed a pistol, the first woman immediately shut up and retreated, and the unseen videographer repeated, “Ooh, that iron get ya mind right!”

This week’s gender confusion – expressed at a swim meet, and also during the SC hearings – provided another great line. 

A British lady was watching an NCAA swim meet where a dude calling himself “Lia” Thomas destroyed a bunch of female swimmers in a women’s swimming competition.  She was making the obvious point that Thomas was a man, while a young woke-ster guy beclowned himself by debating the issue. 

The best he could do was to challenge her by saying, “Are you a biologist?”

“Oh my god,” my new heroine said, “I’m not a vet, but I know what a dog is!”

Somebody crochet that onto a throw pillow! 

And then give it to Ketanji Brown Jackson, because she resorted to the same idiotic line during questioning.  When asked if she could define what a woman is, she also said, “I’m not a biologist.” 

Ugh.  First, these numbskulls don’t even realize that their attempt at an evasive answer undercuts their ridiculous idea that gender isn’t real.  Because if a biologist can say what a woman is… gender is obviously real.

Adam Carolla occasionally plays a little game on his podcast, after he’s heard a particularly stupid statement from a politician or celebrity.  The game is called, “Stupid or Liar?” and it involves trying to determine whether said pol is the former or the latter.

In the case of Ketanji – worst Nancy Drew mystery ever, by the way – she’s obviously lying.    

What’s even more laughable is watching the MSM and Dems (but I repeat myself) lose their Schumer over the GOP questioning of Brown-Jackson.  They screeched that every line of questioning the GOP employed was illegitimate, character assassination and (of course) racist. 

So what were some of those questions?  Did they ask about whether she drank beers in high school, or wrote mean things in her peers’ high school yearbook?  Did they even bring up my assertion that she sexually assaulted me when we were in high school together? 

And before you can ask, I don’t want to talk about the traumatic details.  Suffice it to say that to this very day, I’m deathly afraid of flying in an airplane, for some reason.  The mental anguish was also so severe that I can’t remember what year it happened, or what city or state we were in, or who else might have been there.  

But it did happen!  Believe all victims, people!

Where was I? 

Oh yeah.  The outlandish GOP questions.

They asked questions about her past judicial rulings.  (The nerve!) They asked about her judicial philosophy.  (How dare they?!)

Even the inquiry about how to define a woman was not some irrelevant gotcha question.  Dozens of cases working their way through the courts involve that suddenly (and irrationally!) contentious issue. 

Title 9 cases that affect millions of people in colleges all over the country rely on a clear definition of women.  Sexual harassment and civil rights cases, affirmative action cases and federal programs that create financial set-asides for women-owned businesses, trans-rights and gay rights and educational curricula cases – all presuppose a clear definition of what women are. 

In a sane world, such a question would be laughed out of the courtroom.  But in our world today, it’s a vitally important, litmus-test question.

And when a candidate for the highest court dissembles on that question so lamely?

To paraphrase that smart British lady, I’m not a hunter, but I know what a duck is.

Stay tuned for Part 2, later this week…

Avenatti/ Pretend President of Earth Stacey Abrams, 2024!

The Cautious Optimism Roving Correspondent for Affairs (and Stuff) – CORCA – surveys personal and national goings-on:

I’ve got a bit of personal news before I dive into another week of elite lefties doing their best to keep making things worse for our country. 

Last week a young man proposed to my oldest daughter.  Frequent readers of this column may remember her as the nurse who saved a child’s life in November… because I may have mentioned that. Several dozen times. 

The week before he proposed, he met with my wife and I (without my daughter’s knowledge) to ask our permission to propose to my daughter.  And because — in addition to being known as a “Man of Ice Cream, Man of Principle” — I am also known as “Man From the 19^th Century,” that was a wise move on his part. 

It has been daunting to be the father of daughters in this century.  You pray for them from the day they’re born, and when it comes to prospective mates, you start with your wish list.  “I hope he’s a Christian, and conservative, and appreciates Johnny Cash and football and a well-struck 3-wood, and has a solid trade and just enough education to not be turned into a moron, and some handyman skills and will be a great father to my grandkids.”  

Then you spend a couple of decades watching a little tv and some social media, and teaching at a university, and you’re tempted to start lowering the bar.  Until by the time she’s a young woman, you’re just hoping that her guy identifies as a male, isn’t a furry, and doesn’t vote Democrat. 

And, if push comes to shove, you end up imagining introducing him to people by saying, “This is my gender-fluid, furry son-in-law.”  (Because I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, even when desperate!)    

Thankfully, this young man seems okay.   And when I shook his hand and then drew him in for a hug, and whispered that if he mistreats my daughter I’m going to descend on him with the vengeful fury of an Old Testament God, he managed not to turn and flee from the house.

So we’re off to a good start.

Speaking of problematic gender news, I really feel sorry for women lately.  Because they are getting hammered by the progressives who never stop virtue signaling about having their backs!

First the greatest female Olympic athlete in history turns out to be a man named Jenner.  Then the greatest female collegiate swimmer happens to be a man named Thomas.  

And now, one of the leading contenders for Woman of the Year is–  Well, you see where this is going. Cue Austin Powers: “She’s a man, baby!”

The person in question is our Assistant Secretary for Health, and is called “Rachel.”  But if you’ve seen any pictures, this is not the “Jennifer Aniston at the height of her powers” kind of Rachel.  (And this Rachel’s haircut is never going to spark a copycat craze among fashionable young women.)

The way things are going, in about 2 years the Mother of the Year will be a father, the matriarchy will be run by patriarchs, the WNBA will be the “NBA 2,” (at least the scoring will go up.), and the leading cause of death among women will be testicular cancer.   

We have lost our freaking minds!  

Speaking of which, I’m sure you caught the ludicrous White House effort to get their political message out by coaching up a bunch of Tik Tok “influencers” to be spokes-weirdos for them.

There is a LOT wrong in that sentence. 

First, I don’t trust any platform that is owned by the Chicom-adjacent, and can properly spell neither “Tick” nor “Tock.”  Both of which, I’ve confirmed through research, are one syllable words, and thus not particularly hard to spell.  (Unlike the dozen variations of “Vladimir” that I’ve recently learned make up 78% of all male names in Ukraine and Russia, for one example.)

Second, these vapid little oddballs shouldn’t be able to influence anybody.  They’re barely smarter than AOC!  In a sane world, “influencers” would be people like Shakespeare, or George Washington, or CO.  Or – sure, I won’t let false modesty keep me from saying it – like me.

But I shouldn’t be too hard on the TikTok dullards, especially when you consider the recent arguments made by the professional leftist politicians.

Take the issue of high gas prices.  In the last week, two high-profile Dems have advanced two of the dumbest possible reasons to explain the price hike.

First up was Grandma Squanto, who proved yet again that she is a few feathers short of a headdress  (#wemustneverstopmockingher), by rolling out the tired old canard that the problem is that the oil companies are just greedy. 

In one, incredibly simplistic sense, that is true.  Companies always want higher profits, the same way you or I want higher salaries, or Lizzie Warren wants more wampum for her beaver pelts. 

In fact, it’s an axiom of leftist theology that corporations are always and forever driven by greed.

But if that’s the case, her position refutes itself.  If companies are always driven by greed, why weren’t gas prices this high last fall, or last spring, or when Trump was president?  Why do greedy corporations seem to only start gouging people when incompetent leftists control the government?

The obvious answer is that Biden’s policies of slashing the supply of oil and natural gas – killing pipelines, forbidding exploration on federal lands, tying up drilling in Gordian knots of regulations, slow-walking permits on previously leased ground – is doing what decreased supply always does: increasing prices.

Enter Hacky Psaki, with an equally stupid answer.  When questioned by Jacqui Heinrich about why Brandon isn’t open to allowing oil companies to produce more oil in America, the Ginger Prevaricator said that,“There are 9000 approved oil leases that oil companies are not tapping into currently.  So I would ask them that question.”

When various reporters asked some oil company spokespeople that question, they provided logical answers, including that many of the leases are on land that has been tested and found to be dry holes, that finding oil on leased land often means pushing ahead to get a permit to drill, which Dem politicians have promised to make as difficult and time-consuming as possible, etc.

But forget all of that.  You don’t need more than a tiny bit of common sense to see that Psaki’s implication is ridiculous.  She’s suggesting that the oil companies are sitting on 9000 productive leases that they could start drilling on tomorrow, but they’re not doing it.

Presumably because they don’t want explosive showers of Texas tea to spray gobs and gobs of icky money all over themselves?  

And instead, they’re asking for access to even more leases… which they will then sit on, while not drilling them either, I guess?

Ugh.  Put Warren’s and Psaki’s “explanations” together, and you get a double-barreled blast of stupid: the greedy oil companies are super-greedy, but they didn’t act on their greed until Joe Biden got into office, and now they’re gouging people with high prices on oil, while they’re sitting on 9000 leases that would allow them to get much more oil to gouge people with… but they’re stubbornly refusing to enrich themselves by drilling more. 

Out of extreme greed.  

Okay, we get it: The redskin and the red head are not exactly a dynamic duo of insight.

But one leading Dem came heartbreakingly close to the truth last week, and it’s the DCCC Chair whose name I only learned last week:  Sean Patrick “Mijo” Maloney.

During his comments at a retreat in Philly, Maloney ran through a litany of negative perceptions the voters have about Democrats, ending with the correct interpretation: “The problem is not the voters.  The problem is us.”

Yes!  Exactly! 

But just when I had a glimmer of hope, just when I thought I’d found that unicorn horn in a haystack – a rational, insightful Dem – I read on. 

And cue the sad trombone, because after accurately diagnosing the disease, Maloney prescribed a big ol’ dose of cyanide as the treatment, saying that Dems must “embrace Biden’s style.”

That’s not a typo.  Mijo said of Biden – and I swear that each of these sentences are actual quotes, “He is that person that in many ways we need to become.  If there’s a kid with a stutter, the president’s going to fall all over him.  If there’s a cop or a firefighter who had a tough time, Joe Biden’s going to wrap his arm around him.”

Let’s break that down: First, we are all on our way to becoming what Joe Biden is today, in the sense that Biden came from the dust, and when he died several years ago, he returned to the dust, as will we all.

And yes, there’s a good chance that if a stuttering kid gets near Biden, he’ll likely fall on that kid.  But that’s not a good thing.  It’s a mortifying experience that will likely add night terrors and PTSD to that kid’s list of problems.

And if any cops or firefighters have had a hard time, it’s likely because of Biden’s “defund the police” and “arsonists are just peaceful protestors” policies.  And the only ones Biden will put his arms around are adolescent girls, or adult women, or the wives of other men called to the podium.  THOSE, he’ll put his arms around.

And then he’ll sniff their hair, and make all of us shudder.

So close, Mijo!

It’s been a long 4 years and it’s only been 60 weeks.

The Cautious Optimism Roving Correspondent for Affairs (and Stuff) – CORCA – surveys our political landscape:

In my pre-emptive defense, I wrote this column after watching a weekend’s worth of Ukrainian bravery and suffering, and an impromptu but thorough taste-testing of several varieties of Bourbon and Scotch that were in my house.  (For those of you scoring at home, Four Roses is in the lead so far.)

So read on at your own risk, I guess.       

To the untrained eye, the Democrats may seem to be in a spot of trouble lately. 

After a decade-long year of runaway deficits and inflation, an unprecedented border implosion, exploding crime rates and the Afghanistan debacle, they were already ill-prepared for Putin to invade Ukraine, even after Brandon invited him to invade Ukraine – as long as it’s only a minor incursion.

Before you know it — bingo, bango, bongo (hat tip to Jamie) — Putin invades.   

Biden immediately signs a top-secret order activating Operation Decapitated Chickens, which apparently involves getting all of the cabinet members together so they can run around the Oval Office shrieking in panic, knocking over the furniture and bashing into each other, until they finally drop, exhausted, onto a carpet befouled with a noxious mix of arterial spray, death spasms and terrible ideology.

So, done and done.

When a secret service detail broke into the room, knocked the sawdust out of Biden’s third-rate cranium and reattached it to his decomposing corpse, he then shuffled out into the sunlight, squinting the squint of the damned, and began conducting foreign policy.

First, he warned Putin that he’s going to be receiving a strongly worded letter of disapproval, as soon as Biden can find his trusty old Underwood typewriter, a tin of typewriter key oil, and a ream of foolscap. And believe you him, he may be typing so angrily that all of the keys will repeatedly get stuck together in a big clump right above the paper, but he’ll still be sending that outraged missive before Putin can say “Jack Robinson.”

[I interrupt this column to announce that I’ll be submitting the previous paragraph for consideration in the “Most Old-Timey Terms Crammed into a Single Paragraph in 2022” competition.  Vote early and often.]

Second, Brandon pulled General “Thoroughly Modern” Millie out of an “Understanding Toxic Masculinity and White Rage” seminar being led by Bradley/Chelsea Manning to ask for his advice.  Millie shrugged and said we could send the Ukrainians some Javelins. 

When the prez asked what good a bunch of pointy sticks that they throw in the Olympics will do against Russian tanks, General Vanilli explained what an anti-tank missile is. 

After a short nap and some jello, Biden said, “That sounds pretty good, Colonel Mustard. When should we send those?” 

And Donald Trump, who had been watching with his hands on his hips from right outside the Oval Office window, shouted, “A month ago, when I said to, Joe! Worst so-called President ever!!”

Third, Biden announced that we were immediately placing heavy sanctions on all of Russia’s exports… but we would not stop buying Russian oil, which is their only significant export. 

After four days of outrage, and after all other countries had stopped buying Russian oil, Biden announced that he had gotten all of our allies to stop buying Russian oil four days ago, and that he would now lead the way by declaring that we will no longer buy Russian oil.  Starttinnnggg…. NOW!

Fourth, Biden’s SecDef – or maybe it was Mayor Pete, freshly returned to the office after delivering a baby by C-section and solving the supply chain crisis – held a press conference.  When he was asked whether the US would greenlight the Poles sending fighter planes to the Ukrainians, he said, “Yes.  That’s a greenlight.”

Then, four days later (I am not making this up), after the Poles offered to send their planes to our air base in Germany for transfer to Ukraine, our SecDef – or, to be fair, possibly Mayor Pete – said, “Homina homina homina… No.  We hate that idea.”

When some confused reporter said, “But you just said four days ago that you were all for sending planes to Ukraine.”

The Secretary of Pointless Paternity Leave then stammered, “Oh, did you say ‘planes to Ukraine’?  The president thought you said, ‘Insane in the Membrane.’  Which is his all-time favorite Cypress Hill song.”

The reporters all looked at each other, confused.  “First, that is a terrible song.  Second, there is no way in hell that Biden knows that song.”  Another reporter piped up, “You thought we were asking the President to greenlight his favorite rap song?”

Before the flop-sweating bureaucrat could answer, the late president stumbled into the room.   Once an aide helped him get untangled from the blue curtain, he shuffled to the podium and winked at the SecDef, whose name he could almost remember.  “What’s up, Champ?”

A reporter said, “We were just asking why you reversed yourself on sending planes to Ukraine.”

Biden said, “No, no, c’mon man.  I said we were sending Claire Danes to the Great Plains.  Her flight lands in Minot in half an hour.” 

More confusion in the press corps.  One reporter began, “Why would you send Claire Da—” before another spoke over her.  “We thought that you thought we were asking about your favorite rap song.”

“What? No! Why would I think ‘99 Problems’ had anything to do with Putin’s invasion?”

And total, confused silence descended on the room.

Biden looked at his sweating SecDef, then back at the discombobulated MSM stooges, plus Peter Doocy.  He coughed, and said, “You know the thing… ‘If you’re having girl problems, I feel bad for you son?’”

Doocy looked away in embarrassment.  Biden turned to his mouthpiece, who looked like he might resign on the spot.  “C’mon, fat, sing with me.  ‘I got 99 problems and Jill ain’t one!”  He raised his hand in the air.  “’Hit me!’”

The SecDef looked like he was about to pull an Abby Broyles.  (See my last column.)  But he tentatively stepped forward and lightly gave Biden five, which sent the centenarian doofus pinwheeling backwards and off the podium.

The nearest Secret Service guy leapt toward Joey Gaffes while speaking urgently into his wrist mic:  “Flatline is down!  I repeat, Flatline is down!” 

Brian Stelter then shrieked, “Does this mean Comma-la is president?!” and fainted dead away.

And, scene. 

Wait a minute.  Did I say that the Dems seem to be in a little trouble “to the untrained” eye?

Scratch that.  To EVERY eye that isn’t clouded over with severe glaucoma, or that hasn’t been instinctively gouged out when its owner inadvertently came face-to-face with Hillary without her makeup on, or Rashida Tlaib or Maxine Waters with their makeup on.

But don’t fret.  Because a brain trust of congressional Dems and other lefty big brains met in Philly this past weekend to strategize a way out of their current dilemma. 

I know this because I read a story in Hot Air about it, and learned several things.  For example, did you know that the chairman of the DCCC is Representative Sean Patrick Maloney?  Judging from the DCCC’s performance over the last year, I assumed the chairman was Bozo, or AOC, or Mao. 

But nope.  It’s Sean Patrick Maloney.  Who apparently doesn’t realize that a name that sounds that Irish is a liability in the far-left identity-politics swamp of today’s Democrat party. 

That’s why Robert Francis Brendan “Faith-and-Begorrah” Murphy-O’Rourke picked the fake-Hispanic nickname “Beto.” 

So as a public service to the poor guy, let me publicly suggest that he quickly — “andale andale!  arriba arriba!” — snag himself a Hispanic moniker.

Anyway, “Mijo” Maloney – you’re welcome, Sean Patrick! – said that the Dems’ main focus should be to talk like real people and not – and I am quoting here – “sound like a jerk.”

You know you’re in trouble when a professional politician from your own side tells you that you need to tone down your innately stratospheric jerk quotient.  

Observers took Mijo’s warning to be a shot at the loony left-wing fringe who are ruining everything for the extreme far-left wingers who are trying to control the party by posing as everyday far-left wingers.

But Rep. Pramila “Apu” Jayapal (D-Kremlin) was having none of that.  She thinks that the voters are just dying for more of the bloated fiscal train-wreck/ruinously utopian socialist spending of the ironically and cruelly named “Build Back Better” agenda. 

But she knows that even the initials “BBB” are now so tainted that the Better Business Bureau has to change its name ASAP, lest it become SOL and then DOA. 

Her response?  Let’s just not say its name.

I’m not kidding.  Here is her actual quote: “It’s like Voldemort. We just don’t say those words. But we continue to work on the pieces of the legislation.”

For those of you who missed the Harry Potter craze, Voldemort is a cosmic antagonist so hideously evil that people hesitate to even say his name.

So let’s recap.  The Biden mal-administration has stumbled from one disaster to another, and now has approval ratings hovering just above Vladimir Putin and just below untreatable genital warts. 

And the best campaign slogan that nationally elected Democrats have come up with is, “We sound like jerks, and we can’t even say the name of our flagship policy because it is so similar to a pop-culture Satan-figure.  Vote for us!”  

It’s been a long four years, and it’s only been 59 weeks.

Avenatti/ “Mijo” McBlarney Stone, 2024!

As all mortal men, I’m often tempted to take the low road, while the better angels of my nature pull me toward the high road.

An example of the former: as I contemplate the nature of our political opposition, I am tempted to write another vomit-themed column.    

As you may remember, in my column before the state of the union, I wrote an appreciation of Oklahoma Dem House candidate Abby Broyles, who made what I think we can all agree is an unorthodox campaign stop recently. 

By which I mean that she attended a Valentine’s Day sleep-over with a bunch of middle-school girls, where she got drunk, made some catty comments about some of the girls’ appearance and Hispanic ethnicity, and then vomited in their shoes.

I know what you are thinking: this gal sounds like a long day, but she would still be a good choice to bring some energy to Biden’s 2024 ticket, once he throws Que Mala under the bus. 

And you’re not wrong. 

That’s the kind of column I might write, were I to give in to temptations to take the low road.  

But – as is said by every pol who gets caught in a humiliatingly revealing scandal – that’s not who I am.  Instead, I’m going to take the highest of roads, and apply a Biblical analogy. 

As today’s text, I’m taking a verse from Proverbs: “As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.” 

(See what I did there?  Some of you were primed to be offended by my crassness, but then I went all Old Testament on you.) 

Now I’m no Thomas Aquinas, but I think today’s Scripture can obviously be applied to today’s Democrat party, who are continually proving that they are incapable of learning from their mistakes.

Exhibit A comes from today’s foreign policy headlines: only a short time after Donald Trump had made America an energy exporter by incentivizing fracking, oil exploring and drilling, Brandon took office and reversed course.  In 12 short months, gas prices went through the roof, and we were once again reduced to begging the miscreants in Russia and the Middle East to sell us more oil. 

This is what we call the,“Honey, Rusty has upchucked on the Welcome Mat again!” stage.

But before you can grab some paper towels and water, your senile grandpa tells Putin that if he invades Ukraine, grandpa will grab some crayons and compose a strongly worded letter of protest.

So… Putin invades Ukraine.  (I know: this is a complicated analogy.  But stay with me.)  

Now the Dems have a dilemma.  They can strengthen the worst people in the world – Putin, Iran, maybe Venezuela? – by buying their oil, thus buying Putin missiles that he can fire into apartment complexes, grade schools, and Holocaust memorials. 

This is the part where Rusty slinks ever closer to the Welcome Mat, sniffing and looking guilty.

Or – and this might just be crazy enough to work – the Dems could listen to a few sane Republicans and most of the American public, admit they were foolish to strangle our fossil fuel industry, and reverse course. 

Which would constitute whacking Rusty with a rolled-up newspaper and cleaning up the mess.

This is obviously the right course.  Surely they won’t wear Ukrainian flag lapel pins and emote over video of fleeing refugees while buying millions of dollars’ worth of oil from Putin every da—

Annnnnnd… Rusty is muzzle-deep in last night’s kibble again.

Or consider Exhibit B, from the domestic policy front.

Just a few short months ago, the national Dem avant-garde were pushing on all fronts to defund the police.  They wanted social workers and reparations and no cash bail and “the first $950 you shoplift is free!”  policies. 

That yakking sound you’ve heard for the last year is the skyrocketing cases of burglary, assault and murder, along with the sound of footfalls and revving U-haul engines sounding a stampede away from blue cities. 

Because this is an election year, our shameless Cadaver in Chief had to wobble to the SOTU podium and mumble, “Sssslution znotdefundpleece.  Zzz FUND pleece.” 

Which, if you had engaged your “dementia-to-English” translation app, came out, “The solution is not to defund the police – it’s to FUND the police!”

But the Left hasn’t turned from its folly.  It’s just waiting until after the election, giving the side-eye to the steaming pile of its pro-crime policies that are currently soaking into the living room carpet.  And if the voters don’t grab it by the collar and drag it to the back yard, the Dems will be putting the “bone” in “bon appetite” once again.    

Our progressive elites have been feeding on a steady diet of Karl Marx, Saul Alinsky, and Bernie Sanders, and that stuff will make you sick.  Our job is to keep them from forcing our country back to their folly, and allowing them to regurgitate their same failed policies, all over again.   

To close out today’s Bible drill, the most obvious allusions in the news today have to be related to the mini-apocalypse happening in Ukraine.  It’s hard to contemplate the four horsemen from Revelation – conquest, war, famine and death – without thinking about Putin’s terrible attack on Ukraine. 

But for those of you who caught our vice president’s recent radio interview, you may be aware of the apocryphal verses describing the fifth horseman: “And long after the four horsemen had ridden by, behold I saw a fifth horse, wandering, lame, and piteous.  This foul beast’s name was Stupidity, and Que Mala rode with him!”

During that interview, Harris was asked to explain the conflict “in layman’s terms for people who don’t understand what’s going on and how can this directly affect the people of the United States?” by some goof who goes by the name “Headkrack.”

Apparently Meshach and Abednego were out sick that day.   (Boom!  That’s from “Obscure Old Testament References for 2000,” Alex.) 

The VP apparently translated that request as, “please explain this to a toddler with a severe learning disability.” 

Because she answered speaking very slowly, starting with, “So, Ukraine is a country in Europe.  It exists next to another country called Russia…”

Which leads to my third and final Biblical quotation:

“Jesus wept.”

It’s been a long four years, and it’s only been 58 weeks.

Well, Joey Gaffes has spoken, and a nation mourns, with millions wearing ashes today.

As bad as the speech was, I’m not sure I understand that last gesture—

Wait.  A Catholic friend has just informed me that today is Ash Wednesday. 

Come to think of it, I saw a pic on Cautious Optimism yesterday of IL Gov Pritzker, and I now realize that yesterday was Fat Tuesday.  So it’s all starting to make sense.

Anyway, back to the Slur of the Union.   

Of course the president struggled to produce words in coherent sequences.  As is his wont.

A few examples:

“You can’t build a wall high enough to keep out… a… a… a… a vaccine… the vaccine can STOP the spread of these diseases.”

Okay.

“Putin may circle Kiev with tanks, but he’ll never gain the hearts and souls of the Iranian people.”

To which many Iranians scratched their heads and said, “Why would Putin be concerned with gaining our hearts and souls?”  

Meanwhile, Ukrainians just shook their heads.

Watching the Dems applauding even that obviously blown line was pretty entertaining.

“…and a pound of Ukrainian people. The proud, proud people, pound for pound, ready to fight with every inch of er-nergy they have…”

You’ve got to give Biden this much: he’s a real ball of er-nergy.   And it’s a cliché because it’s true:  a pound of Ukrainians are worth an ounce of cure.   And if we’re in for a penny of Ukrainians, we’re in for a pound of Ukranians.   

Or something.  

“It’s time to see the… th… what used to be called Rust Belt BECOME the the the home of of of significant manufacturing…”

It’s just a childhood stutter, people.  

Re-appearing in his late hundreds.

But it wasn’t all just an assault on English grammar and syntax.  There were also assaults on common sense, and truth, and rationality.

Biden spent what felt like 6 months touting his Build Back Better bill… with Joe Manchin sitting right there!  That bill is deader than Julius Caesar.  It’s almost as dead as Biden himself (RIP), and everyone in the room knew it. 

And don’t forget the very odd moment when Pelosi, seemingly attempting a smile but producing that strange, rictus grin of hers, stood up for no reason, and spent a full 30 seconds… Rubbing. Her. Knuckles. Together. 

Not clapping, or palming her forehead, or any other vaguely human gesture.  Just rubbing her knuckles together.   And maybe it was just the way I was watching the screen through my hand — with my fingers spread a tiny bit apart, the way I watch all horror movies – but I swear I saw a fine rain of dusty powder – or maybe it was powdery dust – falling from those hideously scraping knuckles.

And Biden was talking about, “burn pits in Iran and Afghanistan… meant to incinerate the waste of war.”  So it wasn’t like she was responding to an applause line.  Unless the ancient Egyptians used burn pits as a part of their pagan celebrations, and she was feeling nostalgic.

The scene was surreal.  The only rational response to the sight of Biden’s animated corpse yammering about burn pits, and then the specter of Imhotep Pelosi standing behind him and rubbing her dessicated forelimbs together would be to shout, “AIEEE!  The mummy rises!  Chase it back to its crypt and kill it with fire!!!”

But everyone just sat there, half of the chamber even applauding!  Yikes!

The normally feckless GOP even had a few reasonable reactions.  They stood and applauded, with a few chanting, “Build the Wall!,” when Brandon was audacious enough to say that we should “secure our border and fix the immigration system.”

And Lauren Boebert responded to Biden referencing “flag-draped coffins,” by shouting out, “13 of them!” 

That was an interesting moment, because initially many Dems gasped and kind of booed, and I was reminded of the time a GOP pol shouted out, “You lie!” during an Obama speech, at a moment when he was obviously lying.

The reaction then was nuclear, with the talking heads outraged for days, filling the airwaves with apocalyptic outrage about the end of civility, and what an unprecedented breech of decorum that was.  But there has been only a very muted response today to Boebert’s impromptu outburst.

I think that’s for two reasons:  1. Even such dullards as the MSM Dem-sympathizers know that Biden’s botched Afghanistan withdrawal and the resulting 13 US military casualties is such a toxic subject with voters that they dare not bring it up.  

2. After Pelosi ostentatiously tore up Trump’s speech on the podium, something like a shouted comment seems almost genteel by comparison.

The speech ended with Biden pumping his fist and saying, “Go get him!” 

Which caused the audience members who were still awake to look at each other in confusion.  Who is he talking about?  Putin?  Joe Manchin?  Joe Rogan? 

But I think the answer was obvious: Corn Pop.  We must go get Corn Pop, and take him out behind the gym, and beat the hell out of him.  C’mon man!

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m just glad that Joe Biden wasn’t alive to hear that sad, sad speech.

It’s been a long 4 years, and it’s only been 57 weeks.

The Cautious Optimism Roving Correspondent for Affairs (and Stuff) – CORCA – is on the road, and posting a column late.

I’ve spent the last four days traveling to see an old grad school buddy in Phoenix, so I’ve only been able to catch bits and pieces of the news amid some cool desert hikes and taking a tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin West architectural studio/compound.

As I’ve been trying to keep up on Ukraine and rooting for the Ukrainians, I find myself looking back on the past year, partially with relief, despite the damage from a year of the Biden administration.  As he took office, I was dreading the idea that he was going to get credit for all kinds of things that he didn’t deserve, especially since the sycophantic MSM couldn’t wait to be rid of Trump, and lavish praise on their guy.

And that’s how it should logically have gone.  He had an amazing opportunity handed to him on a silver platter – vaccines that minimize covid hospitalizations and death, low inflation, a first-ever state of energy independence, and an economy that had been artificially repressed b/c of a pandemic, and so was poised for a barn-burning fiscal comeback.  

It was a classic case of being born on third base and getting credit for having hit a triple.  All Biden had to do was stand there like a barely animated corpse – his strong suit! — and not do anything to prevent the nascent rebound that was sure to happen.

But he could not pull that off.  In the immortal words of Obama, saying the only wise thing he ever said, “Never underestimate Joe’s ability to f*** things up.”

I’m a big enough man to admit that I did underestimate that, and I now stand corrected. 

Not only did Joey Gaffes screw all of that up: he found new things to screw up.  The loons on the far left of his party have given him one chance after another to have his own Sister Soulja moment – an opportunity to stand against their loopiest desires, and therefore put himself on the side of the vast majority of Americans. 

They want to defund cops and release career criminals without bail while their own cities are being destroyed by those criminals.  They want to support a dude swimming as a woman and crushing all of the actual women swimmers, which regular people (and a lot of his feminist base) reject.  Even though these would be easy wins for a competent politician, Biden can’t take the W.

And even when he does something that most Americans would support – pulling out of Afghanistan – he finds the stupidest way possible to do it: he pulls out the soldiers while leaving the baggage train and civilians behind, and then begging our caveman enemies to allow them to get out.

And now, the call from the 1980s that Obama let go to voice mail has finally come through: Reagan’s warning about being firm with the Russians arrived.  But Joe was weekending in Delaware, and when he got back to the White House, he mistook the phone for the remote control again, and during an attempt to put on Matlock, he erased all of his calls.

A day later, he told Putin that he’d be facing some super serious sanctions if he invaded Ukraine.  I mean, if it was a big invasion.  Obviously, if it was a minor incursion, there would be a strongly worded letter to follow. 

So imagine his surprise when he woke up from a nap to see a scene on tv with a bunch of bombs falling and civilians running around screaming, “Давайте підемо Брендон.”

Which, as you Ukranian speakers know, means, “Let’s go Brandon!” in Ukranian

Continuing a trend that will not surprise anyone who has been paying attention to our European betters in the UN, the EU, the WHO, etc.  the European elites have fared no better in preparing for Putin’s latest gambit than they did in preparing for covid, or an influx of third world immigrants, or panzers coming down through the Ardennes.   

How can that be, you ask?  After being outsmarted by Xi and rolled over by Hitler and driven into a fetal ball by the USSR, how could they not be ready for Putin’s old-school KGB tactics?

I think I may have found a clue, when I happened to catch a little top-shelf bloviating by a guy named Klaus Schwab. 

Though he has the name of a Bond villain, Schwab is also the top dog at the World Economic Forum in Davos – which, I feel compelled to note, could probably stand in for a bunch of central-casting Bond villains sitting around a long table in high-backed chairs, scheming nefariously.

Schwab was doing a Zoom call interview – reports that he was stroking a creepy white cat the whole time are unconfirmed — while sitting in what looked like either his office or home office or library.  I had to look twice at what was on one of the bookshelves behind him.

But, and I am not making this up, just over his left shoulder was a bust of mass-murdering commie sociopath V.I. Lenin!

How does that happen?!  Schwab has to know that even if – deep in the hidden recesses of his shriveled little soul — he idolizes leftist, slave state dictators, you CAN’T let people know that.  How does he even buy and display a bust of Lenin in his own private home, let alone leave it there for all the world to see when he’s about to be on camera?   

I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to display his moral shortcomings to the world during a Zoom call any more egregiously than Jeffrey Toobin (D, CNN) did.  But almost inconceivably, Schwab found a way! 

I’d rather be caught on camera pulling a Toobin, with a bust of a busty woman’s bust on my bookcase, than to be posing in front of a bust of that bloodthirsty ghoul!

Finally, in this time of world-wide threats and stress and invasions and incursions, it’s sometimes nice to be reminded of the small, human-scale stories that really bring home the nature of the big political brains that we are going to be facing off against in November. 

Which brings me to 32-year-old Oklahoma Democrat House candidate Abby Broyles.  Ms. Broyles took time off from campaigning to attend a Valentine’s Day weekend sleepover for a bunch of middle-school girls.

I don’t know why.

While there, she became intoxicated – as I’m sure I would, were I forced to spend a Valentine’s Day sleepover with a bunch of middle-school girls – and allegedly “berated several of the children and vomited in a hamper.”

When the story first came out, Broyles denied it.  But then video was released that showed her… you guessed it… berating several children and vomiting in a hamper.

In her defense, she also insulted one girl’s acne, disparaged another’s Hispanic ethnicity, and also vomited in one of the girls’ shoes. 

Wait – that’s not a defense of her at all.  In fact, those details only make things worse.

Nevermind.

I’ve heard the euphemistic saying, “vomiting on your shoes” before, usually connected to the idea of someone screwing up some task in an unbelievably bad way. 

As in, “AOC tried to explain supply side economics, but that was a real ‘vomiting on your shoes’ situation.”

Or, “Joe Biden tried to answer a reasonable question in a press conference, and by the time he stuttered to a close, there was much vomit on many shoes.”

Or, “I was at LAX departures when I rounded a corner and bumped into Maxine Waters just as she was taking her mask off.  Naturally, I vomited on my shoes.”

But this lady brought the cliché to life.  And for that, I think she is a perfect choice to represent the Dems on the big ticket next time around.  So…

Avenatti/Vomiting-into-Middle-Schoolers’-Shoes Lady 2024

Amidst the grim news this week – Trudeau demonstrates a taste for excessive force against peaceful protestors; Putin may or may not invade Ukraine, but our prez sent Que Mala to Europe, so… take that, Vlad! – I enjoyed the lighter side of a couple of Dems floundering.

Let’s start with everyone’s favorite ex-bartender, AOC, who decided that she’d like to go a couple of rounds on Twitter with Ted Cruz, and got royally spanked.  (Which, if that had happened more often when she was 4 or 5, she may not have turned into the entitled ignoramus she has so obviously become.)

First she posted a video of herself dancing with some other activist, and tweeted that “Ted Cruz could never.”  In light of her previous idiotic tweet to the effect that GOP pols only snipe at her because they want to date her, several posters quickly made the obvious and funny response: it looks like AOC has a crush on Ted Cruz.

But Cruz proved once again that he’s a metaphorical Triple Crown winner compared to the none-too-bright little filly that is AOC.

And that’s not a horse joke about her teeth.  Because I’m too classy for that.

(Also, because if I were to make a horse joke about AOC , it would involve the idea that every time conservatives propose a policy to stop the damage that far left Dems are doing, she votes, “Neigh.”)

Anyway, Cruz’s response was only two words, but they were well-chosen.  Because in her video, the three nobodies around her were masked up, while AOC was bare-faced.

Cruz ignored the jab, and went for the jugular: “Nice mask.”

In round 2, Cruz used her words against her.  He posted a series of tweets from a year ago, in which he had claimed that the Dems wanted to give some covid relief funds, along with other taxpayer money, to illegal aliens, along with an avalanche of tweets from Dems and their MSM water-carriers calling him a liar and a racist, and saying that his claims were baseless slander.

And then he posted AOC’s clueless short video from this week, in which she proudly bragged that she had “fought hoof and mouth” to help “huge amounts” of illegals in her district get federal Covid stimulus checks.

Sorry, that’s “tooth and nail,” not “hoof and mouth.”  Honest mistake.

On the one hand, if the twitter battle between AOC and Cruz were a fight, the refs would have stopped it in the first round. Because that contest is about as lopsided as the one between Brandon and Putin.  Or between Brandon and the voter in Iowa whom he called “fat.” 

Or between Brandon and the mop and bucket he mistook for Corn Pop, the last time he wondered into a White House broom closet. 

On the other hand, to paraphrase my anonymous Canadian hero’s comment about Fidel Trudeau, “Let her keep tweeting – she’s not good at it!”

My second-favorite read this week came from an NBC article that featured many panicked Dems giving advice to Biden on how to fix his administration’s myriad problems.   And it was just the kind of farcical, Keystone Commies cluster-schtup that you’d expect. 

According to the article, “Suggestions range from picking a handful of high-stakes fights with Republicans to elevating Cabinet secretaries to altering his inner circle by addition, subtraction or both.”

Brilliant!  Let’s pick an issue that is killing us in the polls and “pick a high-stakes fight with the GOP” about it.  Maybe we can call them out because they don’t want to let millions of illegals into the country, or defund the police, or teach our kids to hate our horrible, racist country.  That should turn things around!

I especially love the idea that the solution is for Biden to fire a few underlings.  One anonymous progressive said that canning a top aide like Ron Klain, “would send a signal to the public that Biden understands something has to change.” 

Then, in an actual quote that I can only attribute to what must be a crippling meth addiction, the goofy dope said, “Biden’s the star quarterback, and you can’t fire the star quarterback, so you start looking at the head coach and the offensive coordinator and the defensive coordinator.”

This genius obviously doesn’t know how analogies work.  Because if you have an actual star quarterback, why would you want to fire him?!

Can anyone hear, “Joe Biden” and “star quarterback” in the same sentence without doing a spit take, vomiting on their shoes, or face-palming themselves into a mild concussion? 

If Biden were a quarterback, he’d make Blaine Gabbert look like Tom Brady.  He’d walk down a line of cheerleaders, rubbing their shoulders, sniffing their hair, and creeping them out.

Then he’d walk onto the field… and straight into the other team’s defensive huddle.  When his own players pulled him to their side of the line, he’d gather them around, saying, “Okay, humble up.  I mean, Hubble Telescope.  You know… you know the thing!”

Ron Klain would say, “Do you mean “huddle up’?”

“That’s what I said, cuddle up. C’mon, man!”

Then he’d look at the laminated sheet of plays on his right forearm for an uncomfortably long time.  When someone finally cleared his throat, Biden would jump in surprise, then say, “Okay, I’ll have the Denver omelette with hash browns.”

“Sir, that’s not a play.”

“What?  Oh, okay.  Let’s go with Death of a Salesman.”

“That’s not a football play.”

“You’re being a wise guy with me, aren’t you?”

And, scene.

I hope the Dems keep this up.  Because half of the problem is Biden, and the other half is that their policies are a steaming pile of class envy and racial hatred, braised with hubris and served on a bed of economic illiteracy. 

And no amount of tossing minions under the bus is going to change that. 

On the other hand, to quote the immortal Curly Howard, “It can’t hoit.”

I’d suggest starting with Fauci.

It’s been a long four years, and it’s only been 55 weeks.