Tag: Fiction

More Uncle Bob Stories (posted 8/11/25)

After the positive reaction to my column on Friday about our family reunion and Uncle Bob’s exploits, I decided that I’d tell a few more Uncle Bob stories today, and be back on Wednesday to celebrate some of the happy conservative wins and schadenfreude-drenched tales of Dem losses from the last 10 days.  

So after the tractor fire two Thursdays ago and before our family reunion that Saturday, my cousin Darryll and I went out to Uncle Bob’s on Friday afternoon.  When we got there we first saw the burned tractor and the burned Miata.  The tractor was totaled, and the Miata’s passenger-side taillight assembly looked to be fine…but the rest of it was burnt right down to the frame. 

Other than the two roasted front tires, the tractor Bob saved had no other damage.

We found Uncle Bob sitting on a lawn chair in the shade of a huge, old oak tree, with his daughter Lisa’s good dog Lola sitting in the grass beside him.  (Yes, I have a cousin named Lisa Simpson.  And I swear I’m not making this up: she married a guy named Bart.  Fortunately, we live in a patriarchal society where wives take their husbands’ last names, so they were spared the burden of going through life as Bart and Lisa Simpson.) 

After Darryll and I put some treats for the reunion in the fridge in Bob’s shelter, we sat down and talked with him for a while.

Bob had a .22 pistol on his lap.  Because of course a guy who just drove a burning tractor out of a burning barn would have a pistol close at hand.  Maybe the tractor fire had been arson.  You can’t be too careful.  (And better to have a gun and not need it…)

After he told us the story about Illinois Bob and the Burning Tractor of Doom – he made it sound more like a Three Stooges short, because he’s modest that way – we then went on to other subjects.

He’s a good storyteller in his old age, which is strange, because he was famously taciturn as a young man.  I mentioned before that he and my dad were “Irish twins” – dad having been born in January of 1938, and Bob that December – so they were in the same year in school.  I remember dad telling me that when one of their teachers read the class roster the first day of high school, her face went pale at the prospect of two more Simpson boys in her class at the same time.

Their two older brothers, Ray and Bill, had done some hell raising in town, so teachers were apparently braced for the worst.  (Ray ended up joining the Army and going to the Korean War, apparently as a result of some alcohol-involved incidents that resulted in a “go to jail or join the army” choice.  Afterwards he moved out to California, so I didn’t get to know him very well.  When I asked my grandma what Ray was like – I was around 9 or 10 at the time – she said that he was a pretty good boy, but “Ray like to tussle.”  Which I think is the most grandmotherly way to say that.) 

(Fortunately, when Ray did some tussling with some North Koreans and Chicoms, he lived to tell the tale…although he never did much talking about it, as I understand.)

But the teachers had nothing to fear from my dad and Bob, who were thick as thieves, but caused no real trouble.  They had polar opposite personalities.  Dad was an extreme extrovert, and Bob an introvert, and there was no better proof of that than their senior year school yearbook. 

Their pictures were right next to each other, of course.  Beside dad’s picture was so much writing it could barely fit: 4-year letterman in track, basketball and football; captain of the football and basketball teams; senior class president; homecoming king; voted “most popular.”    

Beside Uncle Bob’s picture?  “Bob Simpson.” 

Somehow the subject of high school came up when we were talking to Uncle Bob and petting Lola under his oak tree.  And he told the story of his final English class, during the spring of his senior year.  What follows is as close as I can remember to his exact words.

“I already had enough credits after December to graduate, so I didn’t want to be in school, let alone in that English class.  And our teacher told me that everybody in class was going to have to give an oral report on some story we’d read.  I told her I didn’t want to, and she said I had to.  I said I’ve barely talked in four years of school, and I wasn’t going to get up in front of class and talk about some story.”

Here he added, “Why would I want to talk about a weird story about some old sailor with a bird tied around his neck?”

Darryll looked at me, because I’m the English professor, and I said, “You mean, ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?’”  (It’s a once-widely-anthologized Coleridge poem, an archetypal Romantic piece filled with the kind of symbolism perfectly designed to be unappealing to a 17-year-old Uncle Bob.)

“That’s it,” he said, and shook his head.  “After I said I wouldn’t do it, she sent me to the principal’s office.  I asked him why I couldn’t just take shop again, and he said, ‘You can’t take four years of shop!’” 

(By then Bob was already a decent carpenter, and he ended up becoming a union carpenter, after stints as a barber – he built his own barber shop – and the proprietor of a small take-out restaurant.   When everybody “started growing long hair like a bunch of freaks in the ‘70s,” he quit cutting hair and converted his barber shop to “Fish ‘n’ Chicks,” and ran that for about 8 years.  All while he was also doing some carpentry on the side, too.)

A compromise was finally reached.  Bob would have to write a book report on any story he wanted, and he wouldn’t have to read it in class.  “So I saw a movie about a story where a young couple buy each other gifts that they can’t use, and I wrote about that, so I could graduate.” 

I said, “The O’Henry story, ‘The Gift of the Magi?’”  (The husband owns a pocket watch but no chain, and the wife has beautiful hair but no comb.  So he sells the watch to buy her some combs, and she sells her hair to buy him a watch chain.  When I got back to Florida, I looked it up, and found the movie Bob watched: “O’Henry’s Full House,” a 1952 anthology of five stories, which serendipitously offered him a path to graduation in the form of a way to write a book report without reading the book!)  

And Uncle Bob looked at me and said, “How many stupid stories do you know?”

And I said, “All of them.” 

Afterwards, when Darryll I were heading to a local golf course, I asked him why Bob had a pistol with him.  He said that there were some moles in his yard, and on days when the weather is good, he likes to sit in the yard and look for movement, and then fire controlled bursts of two or three shots into the ground.

It won’t surprise you to hear that Bob has worked on other handyman projects over the years.  When he was in his mid-60s, he built a duplex that he kept as a rental for about 10 years before selling it.  My dad and two other uncles on my grandma’s side pitched in during part of the framing; I was in Florida by then, but I remember hearing how 4 men in their 60s struggled to lift lam beams into place.   

Probably to the consternation of the same women who took a dim view of Uncle Bob driving a flaming tractor out of a smoking barn in his mid-80s! 

(By the way, if Bob had talked about building that duplex last week, I would have made a reference to J.D. Salinger’s novella “Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters.”  And Uncle Bob would have just shaken his head at me.) 

His latest projects have involved working on a series of mobile homes in Bradenton, Florida.  He started coming down for the winters about 15 years ago.  He bought a trailer that was okay, but needed some work done.  He worked on it for two winters, got it perfect, and then got itchy and sold it, buying another fixer-upper.

He’s now on his fourth trailer, and he had just finished working on it when Hurricane Debby came through last August, taking off the carport and damaging the roof.  My cousin Darryll has a trailer about two blocks away, and he and Bob’s son Bobby came down after the storm and tarped the roof and cleaned up the lot.   

(Darryll and Bobby are the two cousins I’ve taken the May trips with in recent years, starting with driving Route 66 from Chicago to Santa Monica in Darryll’s 1976 Caddy El Dorado in 2021.  New CO members can read my journal of that trip at Martinsimpsonwriting.com.  Just scroll down the right side until you see “Route 66 Road Trip.”)

When Darryll came down in November, Bob and Aunt Lilly were already in Florida.  Darryll called him the night he got in, and said that he’d be over to help Bob with the roof the next day.  Does anybody want to guess where Darryll found him when he got to Bob’s trailer?

That’s right.  On the roof. 

Fun fact: Uncle Bob is 4 years older than Joe Biden.  And Bob’s still climbing ladders, while Biden hasn’t climbed a staircase without falling since late last century. 

I miss my dad every day, but I’m glad that Uncle Bob is still here, and that he’s already dodged the two leading causes of death for octogenarians: falling off a roof you’re working on, and driving a flaming tractor out of a smoking barn.

Am I saying that America needs a lot more men like my dad and Uncle Bob, and a lot fewer Gavin Newsoms and Beta O’Rourkes?

That’s EXACTLY what I’m saying.

Hamas delenda est!

Throw-Back Friday (posted 8/1/25)

I’m up in Illinois with the cousins now, and looking forward to the reunion on Saturday.  I was overwhelmed with the warmth and number of your responses to my bittersweet column on Wednesday.  Thank you, one and all!

When I checked my computer last night before hitting the sack, one of my old columns came up in my feed.  I don’t know how that works, but it felt like a sign, since it was as goofy and lighthearted as my Wednesday column was somber. 

So I thought I’d re-post it here, for those of you who might have missed it the first time around.  I posted it 5 years ago in May (as you might be able to tell from the fact that I was still half-accepting the “covid came from Chinese bats” cover story).

I don’t know if it’s a “Best of,” but I hope it will be a little palate cleanser for you as you start your weekend!

New Entry in the “Stupidest Article of the Year” competition (posted 5/1/20)

Bill Weir has a newborn son, born during the quarantine.  That’s a cause for celebration, maybe even more than usual, against the backdrop of this time of disruption and social isolation.  After spending part of the lockdown watching hours of You Tube videos of surprise pregnancy and twins and even triplets announcements – with all of the accompanying shouts and cheers and tears and joyful shock – I’m even more attuned than usual to appreciation of new life.

But there are some red flags for the newborn Weir boy.

First, his dad named him “River.”  And no, it’s not a “Boy Named Sue” situation, in which you stick a kid with a name guaranteed to toughen him up via all of the expected abuse he’ll suffer because of it.  He’s just the kind of dad who names his kid “River.”  Strike one.

Second, Bill Weir works as the Chief Climate Correspondent for CNN.  Strike two.

Third, he wrote a ridiculous letter to his son, and published it for all the world to see.  And it is long, and tiresome, and packs more wrong-headed leftist tropes into one column than I would have thought possible.  (And I’m known for packing lots of tiresome and wrong-headed political tropes into over-long columns myself!) (By people who are wrong about everything, I mean.)  Strike three.

I won’t put you through the whole thing, but I think it’s worth sharing a few lowlights.

The letter starts,  “My dearest River,  Against all odds you were conceived in a lighthouse, born during a pandemic and will taste just enough of Life as We Knew It to resent us when it’s gone.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry we broke your sea and your sky and shortened the wings of the nightingale.  I’m sorry that the Great Barrier Reef is no longer great, that we value Amazon™ more than the Amazon and that the waterfront neighborhood where you burble in my arms could be condemned by rising seas before you’re old enough for a mortgage.”

Yikes!  There’s so much wrong with that, I don’t know where to start.

No, wait a minute: I do know where to start.

Don’t tell your kids where and how they were conceived!  The letter starts and ends with references to a vacation that he and his wife took to Croatia, and the Dubrovnik lighthouse they stayed in.  Where – he wants River and the world to know – they “did it.”

Ugh.  First, I can’t think of anything more gross for this young kid to read as he gets older than the details of his parent’s love life. 

Second, what an erotic narcissist: “You plebes probably conceived your normally-named kids in a bland 3 bedroom tract house, in the missionary position.  Yuck.  Meanwhile, my lover and I (and you know this is the kind of gag-inducing male who calls his wife his “lover,” just to stick you with  a mental image that you do NOT want) hiked up a wind-swept cliff-face in a romantic foreign land during a thunderstorm to break into a century-old lighthouse, where we alarmed the livestock with our creative lovemaking and exotic outfits.”

As you regular readers know, one of the best life strategies you can follow is to ask WWMD (What Would Martacus Do?), and then act accordingly.  So what have I told my children about their conception, I know you are wondering.

Did I tell them, for instance, that their mother and I – having grown bored after romping our way through a series of sexual escapades that made the Kama Sutra look like a spring 1956 edition of the Saturday Evening Post – decided to try something different, when the Ringling Brother’s Circus came to town?  So we broke into the big tent at 2 in the morning, and after spending a half hour getting the hang of the trapeze, managed an aerial encounter involving several flips, hanging onto a bar upside down with just my knees, and finishing in a fall into a giant net, and 9 months later our oldest was born?

Or that four years later, we came up with the idea for an assignation on the back of a 2-year old Palomino that incorporated the kind of horsemanship worthy of a young Crazy Horse at the height of his powers, in a little trick I like to call the ol’ “canter-canter-trot-TROT-GALLOP!”  And that 9 months later, our youngest was born?

Perhaps I’ve said too much.

The point is that of course I haven’t told them that!  All they know is that when a man and woman love each other very much, the man carries the woman through a bedroom doorway that is in black and white for some reason, and then the door shuts and the credits roll (“Gregory Peck as Martacus,” “Lauren Bacall as Mrs. Simpson.” “Nancy Pelosi as the Mummy,” “Elizabeth Warren as the Cigar Store Indian.”) (#wemustneverstopmockingher)  And nine months later, one of them is born.

And nobody is named “River.”

Weir moves from erotic narcissism to climate narcissism: “I’m so sorry that we broke your sea and your sky?”  I’m pretty sure that the sea is still there, and I was just looking at the sky this afternoon. Doesn’t seem broken.

And because he’s apparently learned all his science from Al Gore and Captain Planet, he thinks that his house is going to be underwater in 20 years or so.  And just like with my old lefty buddies who were sure that the oceans would be dead by now, and acid rain would have wiped out half of our population, and a new global ice age would have wiped out the other half, I’d like to call Weir and remind him of his hysteria and laugh at him, as he sits in his un-condemned and totally dry house.

Weir goes on:  “See, for decades, scientists told us that if we weren’t careful, humans would unleash an invisible enemy out of the jungle and into our lungs. But that was a story few wanted to believe.  So we kept cutting down jungles — and prairies and mangroves and the last few the places where the wild things are — to pave and plow, develop and devour everything inside.”

Does this guy think that the Flu Manchu came from humans cutting down jungles?  Has nobody told him about the Chinese boneheads eating the bats, or the Chicom boneheads and their fifth-rate lab safety procedures, or the progressive slave-state bureaucrats in Beijing who lied about everything (as commies are wont to do) until it was too late to stop a pandemic?  Apparently not.

“As you get older, this will be hard to understand. But we were under the spell of Genesis 1:28: to take dominion over every living thing.”

Good lord!  I love when non-Christians who wouldn’t know Saint Paul from Minneapolis-St.Paul expound on how the evil Bible teaches that we should destroy the environment.  “And God said, go forth and cut down the jungles, and pile up the wood and make a great fire, upon which thou must roasteth the bat, notwithstanding that it is the least delicious of all the fowl that flieth through the air. Then shalt thou cough on thy neighbors, who must thenceforth flee to the airports and disperse throughout the globe, spreading the pestilence while your vile and indolent government lieth about it all, and keepeth on with the intellectual property theft and the exporting of lead-based toys and contaminated drywall.”

I’m no theologian, but you don’t have to be Aquinas to understand that the Biblical mandate is for humanity to be stewards of the environment, not destroyers of it.

Weir isn’t done:  “We had the strange urge to carve straight lines out of nature’s curves and were under the spell of a uniquely human force called “profit motive.”

You mean like the profit motive that has allowed you to get a six-figure job writing terrible “journalism,” and allowed you to afford a house to take River home to?

The article goes on and on, but it’s too painful to spend any more time on.  I just find myself feeling sorry for his son, because he’s less than a month old and his dad is already filling his mind with alarmist doom and gloom.  “We’ve killed the planet, we’re all cursed, you’ll never know how things used to be so great, but now they’re terrible, and getting worse every day.  Sorry about that.  By the way, did I ever tell you the story about the time I absolutely wrecked your mother doing downward-facing dog on a faux bearskin rug on the flagstone floors of a Dubrovnik lighthouse?”

Not since the Cuyahoga was so filled with chemicals that it caught fire has any River been so badly treated.

To get the bad taste of this article out of my mouth, I’ve written a letter to my oldest daughter, to cosmically balance Weir’s toxic letter:

Dear Katie,

First, aren’t you glad to have a great name like “Katherine,” which is classic, timeless and versatile, and not something ridiculous like “Conifer” or “Aquifer” or “Saguaro Cactus Simpson?”  You’re welcome.

Second, never mind how your mom and I made you.  You’re here now, and you’ve been nurtured and educated and equipped to make your own way in the best nation ever.  You’re welcome again.

Third, we used to be much worse stewards of the environment that God has given us responsibility for, but because we have free markets, we have gotten wealthier, and our wealth has allowed us to innovate and improve our treatment of nature.  We’ve found ways to grow more food on less land, and our modes of building and transportation are becoming cleaner and less destructive with each passing year.  If we can just not watch CNN, elect less leftists, and get the Chicoms to stop eating the freaking bats, your future is going to be brighter than for any other generation in history.

Now get out there and be an Ameri-CAN!”

Avenatti/River Weir 2020!

Three Tales, About Three Stooges (posted 7/18/25)

I missed a WAPO op-ed last week. 

Actually, I think I’ve missed every WA-PO op-ed since late May of 1972.  Because that’s when I turned 10, and officially became too wise and world-weary to trust anything I read in the WAPO. 

But I saw this opinion piece, one week late, because it made its way into my news feed as a great example of MSM imbecility.  You may have seen it too.  It’s the one titled, “I’m a clown.  Donald Trump is not one of us.”

It appeared over the picture of a guy in a bowler hat and a red nose, and my first thoughts were: “I thought Ted Kennedy was dead,” and, “Where’d he get that bowler hat?”

But no, the piece wasn’t written by the late drunken weather balloon from Massachusetts.  Its author is an actual clown named Tim Cunningham, and the op-ed is one long, unfunny joke to the effect that we shouldn’t call Trump a clown, because being a clown is a noble profession, and should be taken way more seriously than a fascist like Trump. 

I’ll bet that Jeff Bezos is just thrilled with his management team’s efforts to restore the Washington Post’s credibility. 

But I’ve got news for Mr. Cunningham.  Trump is not a fascist, and clowns are mostly not funny. 

How un-funny are clowns?

Three of the most famous clowns in the world were John Wayne Gacy, Jerry Lewis in that Holocaust movie (look it up), and that super-creepy guy who lived in a sewer and had a disturbing affinity for frightening children.

No, not Joe Biden (RIP).  Although if you’ve seen any of those photos of him sniffing the hair of traumatized kids, that’s an image that will stay with you.  Also, he did that one trick where he pulled a bowel movement out of his hat.

The Pope was expecting a rabbit, and was not pleased.

Also, rumors that Biden once tried to make a very simple balloon animal, and the secret service had to intervene because he nearly strangled himself have not been confirmed.  

I’d love to have been a fly on the wall at the WAPO editorial meeting when they came up with the idea of asking a leftist clown – of all people! – what he thinks about politics.  Because who needs a Marxist Abbott and Costello when we already have the comic stylings of Crockett and the Booty in congress? 

(Yes, I know: that would be a great name for a wacky FM “Morning Zoo” DJ team.  And in a sane world, that would be the most prestigious job that Jasmine and AOC could aspire to.)  

Speaking of beclowning oneself, did you catch Grandma Squanto’s attempt to dunk on Trump on Wednesday?  She tried to play the corruption card against Trump.  (By the way, have you ever seen a Democrat pack of cards?  All four queens are scowling gender feminists, so naturally, all four kings are suicide kings.  And the Jacks can all turn into Jills, somehow.  And there are still four suits, but diamonds are “corruption,” hearts are “weird sex stuff,” clubs are “sexism,” and “racism” is….  I’m not saying.)    

You could say that Lizzie’s attempt at a card trick blew up in her own face, as if someone had rigged her peace pipe with an exploding charge, like a Dakota (Sioux) Daffy Duck.  (#wemustneverstopmockingher)

In an X post, she presented a chart listing six entities and how much they donated to the Trump library.  Above the chart she wrote, “Government should work for the people, not whichever giant company or foreign government can dump the most money into the president’s future library.”

Never mind that most of the billionaires who donated in 2020 gave to the Democrats, or that Cackling Que Mala was given $2 billion to blow (phrasing) in a few months. 

Just look at Lizzie’s six categories.

She doesn’t even bother to try in the last one; the “Who” is “other special interests” and the amount listed is “unknown millions.”  Which is brilliant!  “I accuse you of taking…some money, from…somebody.” 

But the other five are hilarious.  See if you can spot the pattern:

Paramount/CBS News gave $16 million.  Meta gave $22 million. Disney/ABC News gave $15 million. X gave $10 million.  And Qatar gave $400 million (Jet)

The Qatari jet was not given to Trump, but to the United States, and if the gift ever does happen, the jet will act as Air Force One, and then go to his library.  He will never have any private use of it at all. 

(I still don’t think that he should accept the jet, but it is not personally enriching corruption like – oh, I don’t know – [begin Kinison filter] HAVING YOUR HOOKER-BANGING ADDICT SON COLLECT BAGS OF CASH FROM THE CHI-COMS!  OHH!  OHHHHH!  [end Kinison filter])

The remaining four examples were not bribes, happily given by fat cats wanting to buy Trump’s favor.  They were ALL lawsuit settlements, grudgingly handed over to their hated nemesis by corrupt MSM power players who had slandered him so blatantly that they stood to lose many millions more if they had gone to court, where Trump would have beaten them like Cuddly Kilmar beat his wife. 

If I thought Elizabeth Warren was capable of feeling shame, I might say, “Boy, is her face red!”  (#wemustneverstop)  But I’ll just leave it at, “Nice forked tongue, Lizzie.  (#mockingher)

Finally, Scott Jennings continues to be the only reason to ever watch CNN, and as of Tuesday, he has run his record to 147-0 in his battles against hapless leftist panelists.  The latest contender was Democrat Strategerist Julie Roginsky, with an attempted assist from host Abby Phillip. 

The on-screen chyron defined the topic this way: “The Debate: US Inflation Rises as Trump’s Tariffs Push Up Prices.”  That subject should offer Ragin’ Roginsky a chance to score at least a few minor points.  I mean sure, when Biden took Trump’s 1.5% inflation rate up to 9% in 14 months, CNN probably called that “a barely noticeable bump,” whereas an increase of .2% from May to June under Trump gets WWIII-level headlines.

So how does Roginsky kick aside a chance for a tiny victory and grab hold of defeat with both bony hands?  When Jennings suggests that the current small increase is no reason for panic, she says, “When we were promised on August 15th last year that the price of eggs, the price of bacon, of apples—”

Obviously at this point she was going to say, “would be down.”  But once he heard “eggs,” Jennings jumped in, as one does when an opponent makes a mistake.  Because of all the things she could cite, she chose the one grocery item that was hyped in the news before the election and inauguration, and that everyone knows has dropped in price. 

So Jennings says, “The price of eggs are down.”

If that segment had been a fencing competition, a little buzzer would have sounded, and a ref would have announced a strike.  Or a stab.  Or whatever they call it when one fencer skewers the other’s thorax.  (Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the fencing analogy, since I obviously don’t know much about it.) 

But apparently Roginsky’s thorax is as numb as her skull, because she offered a meaningless rebuttal.  “Year over year, eggs are up 27%.” 

Jennings shook his head as if he didn’t think she’d really said that, and replied, “Since he took office, they’re down.”

And Roginsky insisted, “Year over year!” 

Think about that.  Roginsky thought that she could score a point by saying that since last July 15th, egg prices have gone up.  But since Joe Biden was still the president for six more months – during which egg prices nearly doubled – she surely couldn’t be dumb enough to claim that Trump was responsible for the increase in egg prices when he had no ability to influence egg prices, could she?

Don’t call her Shirley.  But you can certainly call her dumb.  Because that IS what she was claiming.  And Jennings’ response was the only sane one: since Trump took office and had the chance to influence egg prices, they’ve gone down.  

This is the kind of dispute that could be solved in 5 seconds by looking up egg prices, which reporter Joe Concha did (but CNN didn’t).  And it turns out that the national average price of eggs (according to TradingEconomics) when Trump took office was around $6.60 a dozen.  Because Biden needlessly killed 4 million chickens in his last days in office – and because dead chickens lay surprisingly few eggs, for you city slickers out there – the price climbed to a little over $8 in the first week of March.  Since then, it has plunged to $2.89 this week. 

So Jennings was right.  But Abby Phillip – noticing that Roginsky had suffered a serious thorax poke – put that weird fencing strainer thing on her face and rushed in to help her slow-witted friend.

To wit, “Let’s not fight over statistics here.”  Oh good, maybe Abby knows a chicken’s hind-end from a hole in the ground—  “She’s right, year over year, they’re up significantly.”

Good lord! 

Since a good thorax-piercing apparently cuts off blood flow to the brain, Roginsky stepped on the same rake again, in this quote which I could not make up, no matter how much bourbon I drank:

“Let’s be clear.  He promised three things: the price of eggs, bacon and apples were going to go down.  I can quote him, it was on August 15th of last year…. All of them are up.  They’re up year over year, and that’s a fact.” 

Yes it is.  An utterly irrelevant fact. 

As she pushed on and doubled down on the year-over-year thing, Jennings was finally exasperated enough to say, “You are literally lying—”

And then the tide of imbecility rose up all around the table, with several people saying, “Whoa!” and Abby jumped in again, unknowingly taking another skinny fencing sword in the soup-strainer mask: 

Abby:  Before you accuse her of lying, I literally just went over this.  She is correct that year over year—

Scott (speaking slowly and emphatically): Since Donald Trump took office, what’s happened to the eggs?

Abby: Oh my god, do you not understand—   

After more insane crosstalk that lasted for the longest minute of your life, Abby accused Jennings of derailing the conversation, and ended it this way: “I think people have the ability to understand the difference between the price of eggs today and the price of eggs a year ago today. Versus what you would prefer to talk about, which is the price of eggs when Donald Trump was inaugurated.  You’re just talking about two different time horizons.”

YES!  He “would prefer to talk about” the relevant time horizon, rather than one that holds Trump responsible for what Biden did as president.

Whatever else you can say about that segment, it’s clear that Jennings foiled them again.  (Boom!  Late, game-saving proper fencing reference.  Because I looked it up, and a fencing stick is called a “foil.”) 

Whatever CNN is paying Scott Jennings, it’s not enough.

And whatever they’re paying Julie Roginsky and Abby Phillip, it’s way too much.

So… 

Roginsky/Phillip, 2028!

Also,

Hamas delenda est!

AOC’s Troubles, and a Rapper Learns a Valuable Fireworks Lesson (posted 7/8/25)

Okay, there’s no time for small talk.  It’s July 8th, and I’m somehow already two weeks behind on July stories, and that’s not to mention the stories I didn’t get to in June.  So here we go. 

AOC has had a rough couple of weeks.  Besides the big things going wrong – the BBB passing despite the fact that she and the other Dems in congress fell on the floor and kicked their feet and held their breath; the Iranian leadership failing to start WWIII after Trump pulled out the MOP (not gay slang) – she’s made some missteps that have hurt her own personal brand. 

She’s tied herself to Mamdani in his bid to become NYC’s worst-ever mayor.  (And DuhBlasio and David Dinkins were NYC mayors, so the bar has been set high.  Or should that be low?)  Aligning herself with an extremist train-wreck like Mandami is playing well with the dead-end leftists in NYC, but it will become a big liability if she eventually wants to run for president, God help us all.

The bad news is that Mamdani is a phony.  He’s a trust fund baby pretending to be a poor Third Worlder; he’s used more phony accents than Cankles McPantsuit and Que Mala combined; he’s claimed to be black to get affirmative action preference when both of his parents are Indian.  (Dot, not Warren.) (#wemustneverstopmockingher)

The worse news is that the things he’s NOT phony about are his worst beliefs.  He’s an authentic Jew-hater, and an authentic communist.  So…great.

But AOC has also done more to expose her own phoniness, too.  Just like Mandami, she’s long pretended to have a much more hard-scrabble, blue-collar background than she actually does.   Her motive is obvious – being from an intact, financially successful family and earning good money yourself is a huge handicap for Democrats.  Which tells you a lot about the dysfunctionality of the Democrat party.

AOC has always tried to portray herself as a tough Latina “Rosa from the block,” and she’s leaned into her Bronx roots nearly as hard as she’s leaned into the rolling “r” and “s” sounds of her exaggeratedly Spanish pronunciation of “Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.”   Unfortunately for her, the people who knew her in grade school and high school are only in their mid-30s, and were not all killed by either global warming, net neutrality, or Covid.  Also, high school yearbooks from 17 years ago exist.

So the truth is out there.  AOC lived in the Bronx until she was 5, after which her family moved to tony Yorktown, in suburban Westchester County.  And though records are murky, she apparently caught a case of “WASP nickname syndrome” that may have resulted in a subsequent “Ocasio-ectomy.”  Because in high school she was not a chola from the Bronx, but sweet little Sandy Cortez from the ‘burbs. 

Not that she didn’t have some hardships in her life.  Her dad was an architect who started his own firm, but he died from lung cancer when she was only 19, and her mom did work some blue-collar jobs.  So there are some sympathetic aspects to her life story, if only she didn’t exaggerate to give her some non-existent street cred.

For example, in 2018 she said, “My mom scrubbed toilets so I could live here and I grew up seeing how the zip code one is born in determines much of their opportunity.”  Except that her own story demonstrates the opposite, since her birth on the mean streets of the Bronx didn’t stop her family from moving to the suburbs before she started school.

Also, “the scrubbing toilets” reference is a nice rhetorical flourish, and sounds much more downtrodden and noble than “cleaning houses.”  I don’t want to be a one-upper, but as a landlord for the last 29 years, I’ve unclogged and snaked out more than my fair share of tenants’ toilets, and I know how to remove and re-set one with a new wax ring, too.    

And don’t get me started on that time I had to crawl underneath a house to extract a decomposing possum.  (Did only part of his body come with me when I pulled on his creepy tail?  Do I still re-live that PTSD-inducing experience – including hearing the sounds and smelling the smells – on nights when I can’t sleep?  I don’t want to talk about it.)

So I guess I could steer into that skid, and call myself Martino from the barrio, and whine about how Bruce Springsteen hasn’t written a working-class anthem about my heroic rise from flannel-shirt-wearing hillbilly to Dr. Hilarious Genius who wears a full tuxedo around the house most weekdays. 

But I have too much stoic dignity for that.

Anyway, AOC has been catching more heat for her fabulist tales of her rough teen years lately, as many Yorktown residents are posting messages saying, “You’re from here!” 

One such guy – who I am sure I would love to hang out with – is a retired FDNY firefighter from the Bronx who now lives near Yorktown.  He told a reporter, “You can tell right out of the gate that she isn’t from the Bronx.  Listen to her!  [Then] listen to us!  We’ve been out of the Bronx for years but we still sound like idiots!  It doesn’t just go away.” 

But so far, AOC has not been dissuaded.  She recently made things worse for herself when she tried to engage Trump in an insult battle.  To be fair, Trump started it, by referring to her as “one of the dumbest people in Congress,” which as a president he shouldn’t do. 

On the other hand…Fact Check: true. 

(In fact, the quote I’m about to share with you isn’t even the dumbest part of her tweet.  That was her accusation that his taking out the Iranian nukes was “betray[ing] the American people… by illegally bombing Iran and dragging us into war.”  Annnndddd…the “war” was over before she could spell-check and post her tweet.)

But AOC had to take a closing shot at Trump’s roots in Queens: “Also, I’m a Bronx girl.  You should know that we can eat Queens boys for breakfast.”

Now you may remember that Que Mala kept using the line, “I eat ‘No’ for breakfast!” until she was mocked out of it, on account of how stupid it sounds.  But you’ve got to give the Cackler this: at least it didn’t sound uncomfortably sexual.

Regular readers will know that I’m not up on gay slang.  And at my age, and after nearly four decades out of the dating game since I conned a Norwegian smoke-show goddess into becoming my smoke-show wife, I don’t even know much straight slang anymore.

But I know enough to recognize that a female boasting that she can eat Queens boys for breakfast is not coming across like she wants it to come across.  (Phrasing!)  Because here’s the bottom line (phrasing!):  If a guy from Queens is about to go on a date with a young lady from Yorktown, and he hears that she recently bragged about Yorktown gals being able to eat Queens boys for breakfast, he’s going to be…how can I put this?… NOT offended.

Perhaps I’ve said too much.  So let’s move on.

If you’re like me, you’ve been following rapper 4XTRA for years now.

What’s that?  You’ve never heard of him?  Really?  So you’ve never seen his “No Jumper” podcast, or heard any of his hit “songs,” such as “Gang Slide,” “Off the Bacc,” or “Who Imma Call?”  (I think that last one is a Sinatra cover.)       

Okay, let me fill you in.  He’s a large African-American fellow (unexpectedly) who is a rapper and “influencer” in LA.  He’s had a few run-ins with the law, but who hasn’t?  (I first met CO, Alan Paterson, and Jamie Galioto when we were all in the same cell block, and had to jump in and help Mark Teufel and Christopher Silber out of a jam.  My “thug life” knuckles didn’t tattoo themselves, people.) His last arrest came in April, only a few days after he’d gotten out after a previous arrest.

But he’s a patriotic guy, so naturally, he was excited about the Fourth last weekend.  He even recorded a short video for his fans, during which he was showing off a couple of impressive-looking M1000 fireworks.  In what I’m sure was just some light-hearted joking, he said he was going to use those against some of his rivals, in a 20-second video which featured around a hundred uses of the “N” word.  And I don’t mean “narwhal.” 

But let’s pretend for a minute that I do.

Saith 4X: “Imma ‘bout ta blow a narwhal up.  Friend all the narwhals…. I’m blowin’ a narwhal up!  See these, narwhal?  I’m throwin’ em in yo house.  I’m throwin’ em atchya, narwhal!” 

Annnndddd… a few hours later he blew two of his fingers off.  Unexpectedly!

Reports that his last words before the premature detonation were, “I AM bein’ careful!  Narwhal, please!  Hold my blunt and watch this, narwh—YOWCH!”  have not been confirmed.      

On the bright side, he can now use his influencer experience in a campaign to influence youngsters to not blow their fingers off with powerful fireworks.

On the downside, he is allegedly a member of the Rollin 40s Crips street gang.  I know even less about gang signs than I do about gay or straight slang, but I’m hoping for his sake that the gang signs for the Rollin 40s don’t involve the use of the two fingers he no longer has. 

Great.  I used over 1600 words, and I only got to two stories.  Just between you and me, I thought I’d knock AOC around (phrasing!) for 3-4 paragraphs – I’m way too immature to pass up that “eating Queens boys for breakfast” line – and then I’d be on to more stories. 

But I got on a roll, and Ocasio-ectomy popped into my head, and what’s a fella to do?  When God sends you a big wave and you’re on a verbal surfboard up on the crest, you ride that baby all the way into shore.

In other words, this looks like it might have to be a five-column week.   

Stay frosty, my narwhals.

Hamas delenda est!

Tennessee Trip, Israel Takes Iran Apart, + Book & Video Recommendations (posted 6/18/25)

I’m back from Tennessee, and still processing the trip. 

Heartbreakingly, mom didn’t recognize me three different times over the week, but only for about 10 minutes at a time, and the good moments outnumbered the bad.  I had to remind her literally a few hundred times that she lives there, and that I was visiting from Florida while my sis and her husband were in Memphis for a week.  “So you’re my babysitter,” she said, but without rancor.

She wears glasses on a cord around her neck, and has hearing aids.  When I took her to church on Sunday morning we were cutting it close on time, so I didn’t notice that she had neither her glasses nor hearing aids until she couldn’t hear the sermon very well, and also couldn’t follow along in her Bible.

“You’re not much of a babysitter, are you?” she said in the middle of the service.  And because her hearing aids were at home in the charger, she said it loudly.  We got a few looks.     

I’ve always been able to make mom laugh, and she’s never so much herself as when she’s laughing.  She’s always loved running jokes (I come by it naturally), and I got her with a stupid one dozens of times.  I’d ask, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” and she remembers that cliched old set-up well enough to roll her eyes and start to make some dumb reply, which I’d interrupt with, “Be-CAWS!” in my eerily accurate chicken voice.

Each time she’d get startled, then remember that I’d got her with that one many times before, and she’d laugh at the stupidity of the joke and my shamelessness in repeating it.  If being startled and then belly laughing could cure Alzheimer’s, I’d be up for a Nobel prize in medicine. 

We took day trips to small towns in the area each day. On Saturday we went to the small town of Pulaski, but arrived to find the downtown cordoned off and the place jammed with people celebrating Flag Day.  (Because: Tennessee!) 

But because it’s 2025, there was also a small group of protestors doing their “No Kings” thing.  There were maybe 30 of them, and you could tell that we weren’t in Seattle or LA: they skewed older and well-behaved, and their signs weren’t obscene, and they had American flags.  That could be because they know their audience in Tennessee – folks don’t take kindly to violent rioting by Mexican-flag-waving d-bags there – but I prefer to think it’s because they are well-meaning people who are exercising their free speech rights and protesting for a cause they believe in. 

Of course, I think it’s silly to believe that Trump is a fascist or would-be king on the verge of establishing his monarchy.  One subtle clue that that’s not the case: over a thousand groups protested in 50 states, and nobody was beheaded or pierced by crossbow bolts, and there was no drawing or quartering.  No one was even arrested or hassled, unless they were violent.   (In which case I would have rooted for a healthy bout of crossbowing.)   

Of course my sweet mom didn’t know what was going on, but when she saw all of those people holding flags and signs and waving, she waved back happily.  Which is one more poignant memory for me.  Mom was happy to encourage people waving American flags, and the protestors now feel like they’ve reached at least one supportive old lady – not knowing that she’s got Alzheimer’s and has no idea what ideas they are supporting. 

So God bless us, everyone, I guess.

Meanwhile in the larger world, Israel was making me very happy by dropping a whole series of kosher kabooms all over the Iranian nuke program and the top people involved in it! 

People didn’t think Israel could top the exploding pagers, then the exploding walkie-talkies, then the killing of various Sinwars and Nasrallahs (plus assorted Achmeds waiting for their chance to move up from triple A – and yes, the “A”s all stand for “a-hole”) with drones and missiles.

And Israel said, “Hold my Manischewitz and watch this.” 

I love every detail.  The Israelis built a drone base inside Iran, from which they launched drones to destroy a bunch of Iranian missiles and launchers.  They devised a ruse to keep a bunch of top Iranian generals in one place so that they could wipe them out with one missile.  (Sure, those guys buy their missiles wholesale and not retail, but there’s no sense in wasting them!) 

It’s a sign of the mullahs’ dysfunction that they steer young Iranian science nerds away from fields that would improve the world and the lives of the Iranian people, and toward developing Jew-killing nukes instead.  And since Friday night, Iran has become a much less nerdy place, inshallah. (That’s Islam talk for, “I regret all of my decisions.”)

I enjoyed the hilarious clip that CO (peace be upon him) posted of the Iranian Rachel Maddow, aka the gal reading the news when a “Hebrew Hello” hit very near the newsroom.  (She’s got more burka and sex appeal than Rachel, but less America-hatred.)  And though my Farsi is a little rusty, I think I’ve come up with a pretty accurate translation of what was said in that short video.

She starts out with the usual, “Death to America!  Death to Israel!  Trump is a fascist!  We like the cut of Gavin Newsom’s jib.  We will wipe out the evil pig-dogs with our swords of justice and—”  BAM!  WHAMMO! KAPOW!  (Yes, I did watch a little Batman when I was a kid, thanks for asking.)

The lights went out and came back on, and everything on camera shook for a few seconds.    

“Aaaiiiiieeeee!” she continued. “I’ve soiled my beekeeper outfit. Forget that pig-dog comment.  MAGA!  And also MIGA! (Make Israel [and Iran] Great Again)  I for one welcome our new Hebraic overlords!”

And, scene.

One other highlight was the pic of where an Israeli missile hit one specific apartment’s bedroom, killing a top Iranian general and the leaving the rest of the building remarkably undamaged.  Reports that his three mistresses staying in the apartment at the time – two of them goats – were also unharmed have not been confirmed.

Finally, I’ve got a quick book and a song recommendation.  The book is “The Promise,” by Robert Crais.  Crais has written over 20 detective novels featuring main characters Elvis Cole and Joe Pike, and I thought I’d read them all.  But I had somehow missed The Promise (2015).  I especially liked a great sub-plot involving a military K-9 with a second career as a police dog in this one.  (As always, they had me at “K-9.”)

The video is for Oliver Anthony’s new country/blues song, “Scornful Woman.”  He released it two weeks ago, and I heard about it on Joe Rogan’s show right before I headed up to TN.  Anthony went from unknown to a famous singer/songwriter with his anti-politician song “Rich Men North of Richmond” less than two years ago.  His songs are always raw and personal, and now that his wife has filed for divorce, this one is 3 minutes of pain from a talented musician.

The video and song were recorded in a small house in West Virginia during a snowstorm in January, and the visuals are great: an old barn and three big dogs in the snow and in the house, and Anthony and two other musicians recording in make-shift conditions inside.  Interspersed video clips of firefighters battling a burning house echo the lyrics perfectly.

Anthony sings and plays a Dobro resonating guitar and drums, and he’s joined by two virtuosos, one on the violin – although in this context, it’s really a fiddle – and one on the electric guitar.  (“Hey Martin,” you might be asking, if you don’t have my vast musical expertise, “What’s the difference between a violin and a fiddle?”  A violin has “strings,” whereas a fiddle has “strangs.”  You’re welcome.)

The song slides back and forth between grieving and furious, and Anthony’s delivery elevates his plain but evocative lyrics.  (When he rhymes “nightmare” with “right there,” both simple lines cut deep.)  And the two instrumental solos tear through the small house like the fire imagery does. 

The fiddle player goes first, somehow ripping a guitar solo out of a violin.  And when the guitarist closes things out, he wails on his instrument like it owes him money, and possibly slept with his best friend, too.  The final effect suggests three talented musicians who just went through horrific divorces and are dealing with it the way men do: by howling and breaking things.

The pivotal lines are a cri de coeur: “And the court said fifty-fifty, but the math don’t seem right, with a scornful woman.”

Whoo.  The song is great, and painful, and it makes me very grateful that I miraculously closed on my smoke show wife 36 years ago, and have never had to feel her scorn.

Hamas delenda est!

While I Spend Time in TN, LA Goes Crazy and Israel Goes Roman on Iran (posted 6/14/25)

So I drove up to Tennessee on Tuesday to spend a week with my mom while the sis and her husband take a vacation, and it’s been a little rough.  Mom’s still putting up a game fight, but her Alzheimer’s is breaking our hearts as it continues on its cruel path. 

The ratio of lucid moments to foggy ones is diminishing, but she’s at her best in the daytime, and we’ve had some laughs and some good food.  I’m storing up more good memories, and trying to appreciate every moment with her before I head back to Florida on Monday.

The nature of this kind of visit has imparted a little fogginess to my own thoughts, and put me into the kind of weird, suspended animation that I always feel while traveling.  The world is still going on around me, but I’m disconnected from it in a way I’m not when I’m at home and in my own element.  I catch a few snippets of news during the day, and then a bit more before bed, with insufficient time to digest most of it.

Of course, I managed to be here during a slow news week, right?

Holy cats!  Before leaving home I barely had a chance to consider Greta’s Grifter Flotilla being stopped by the Israelis before they could deliver to the starving Gazans their desperately needed bounty of… four cheese sandwiches and a bag of chocolate chip cookies that someone had already half finished.

I sensed fodder for a solid column out of the Doom Pixie’s prevails, but that story was quickly pushed to the back-burner by the developing story of the LA riot, during which the leftists have beclowned themselves six ways to Sunday. 

And that was just by last Sunday.  Since then, they’ve beclowned themselves twenty-two ways to Thursday, with much more beclownation to come. 

Melting-face Maxine Waters – a fright wig atop a fright face – got a door slammed in her face by a no-nonsense employee when she tried to awe him with her congressional privilege.  Later she confronted some armed National Guardsmen and challenged them to gun her down, warning them that, “If you’re gonna shoot me, you’d better shoot straight.”  (“Whew!” said Mayor Pete.  “I’m safe.”)  

Tragically for the nation, no one took Waters up on her offer.  So she was still un-shot when she later gave a press conference in which she categorically denied that there had been any violence during the violent riots.

Unlike most of the lying leftists, who were smart enough to downplay or excuse the violence of their mobs (“It wasn’t a problem until Trump called out the guard, 99% of LA is totally peaceful,” etc.), Mad Maxine swung for the fences, denying what PWFE (People With Functioning Eyes) had actually seen. “Don’t think that somehow, because they called out the National Guard, there was violence.  There was no violence! I was on the street!  I know!” 

Some were tempted to believe her, because she did look like she had been on the street.  More specifically, like she’d been tossed onto the street and landed face-first.  And then bounced several times, still face-first.

But even those who tried to be cagier, and just downplay the violence, were humiliated by a combination of inept staffers and a loving God with a great sense of humor.  Two Dem congresswomen – the one whose name I remember is Judy Chu – appeared on a CNN interview, with their heads in a small box on the screen, while most of the screen was showing live coverage from LA.  

So as Judy prattled on about how the protestors were really remarkably restrained and peaceful, right beside her stupid head was a giant video of clouds of black smoke roiling up from burning cars, and clips of rioters throwing rocks and chunks of concrete at cop cars.  Many commenters observed the parallels to the infamous video from a blue city in 2020, in which a “journalist” insisted that the protests were “mostly peaceful,” as he was framed against the hellish conflagration of an entire city block behind him.  

Two of the most iconic images of the latest unveiling of the left’s true nature have been the moron on a motorcycle riding around a burning car while waving a Mexican flag, and the Waymo cars being devoured in roaring fires.

The fact that they were Waymo cars brings extra layers of irony to the rioters’ behavior.  If they had attacked vehicles that are logically associated with what they are ostensibly outraged by – an ICE van, cop cars – that would still be evil, but at least comprehensible as the kind of political gesture that narcissistic social justice warriors would make. 

But Waymo has never done anything to these troglodytes, other than offer an innovative way to get across town that is much cheaper than the car they can’t afford.  (Because living in mommy’s basement and whining on Bluesky has no monetary value whatsoever.) 

And the technological sophistication it took to develop and deploy driverless vehicles poignantly contrasts with the mindless urge to destroy that motivates the thugs who can barely make a Molotov cocktail work.  (And that involves fire, one of mankind’s first discoveries!)

That technology also highlights the petty cruelty of the rioters.  They call a vehicle made by a company that has done nothing wrong, and it faithfully shows up, and welcomes them with open doors.  And the mouth-breathing scavengers set it on fire, and dance around its flaming corpse.  

But then the horrific story of the first-ever Boeing Dreamliner crash in India…battled for news time with a handful of super-satisfying arrests of some of the worst of the bad bunch of leftist nihilists who are being quickly caught during riots. 

But that was bumped by Senator (guess which party?) Alex Padilla’s painful theater-kid turn when he interrupted Kristi Noem’s press conference by trying to bum-rush her while hollering dishonest non-sequiturs with all the persuasive power of a bag lady disrupting a city council meeting with a shrill screed about the Bilderbergers and the Trilateral Commission. 

Then last night, the news starts coming in from Israel:  Netanyahu has gone full Michael Corleone at the Christening, and today he’s settling all family business.  Initial reports are that Israel killed a bunch of top iranian generals and nuclear scientists, and blasted the most prominent nuclear enrichment sites, along with some missile batteries that Iran might use to retaliate against Israel.  And new waves of strikes are on the way as we speak.

Reading about that made me wish that we’d consulted with the IDF months ago.  Because if they could pull off that pager masterpiece, I’m sure they could have equipped some Waymo vehicles with ball-bearing-laden plastic explosives, or exotic poisonous snakes in tiny catapults, or a noxious gas that causes explosive diarrhea and temporary blindness when the doors open.  Then our guys could just wait at a parking lot full of Waymos, until one-by-one, the vehicles get called by some anarchist creep, and pull out and hum away, carrying their surprise for the malevolent revolutionaries.

Am I saying that we should set up violent nihilists to become diced, blind, envenomed and beshitten because of their own evil schemes?

I’m saying we should have that conversation.

Okay, I might not be able to write another column until after I get back home on Monday night.  But in the meantime, pray for our law enforcement, root for the Israeli badasses bringing the karma to Iran, and as always…

Hamas delenda est!

Another Self-Detonating Hero, and You’ll Never Guess Why the Dems Are Worried about Fetterman (posted 5/9/25)

After two over-long columns on the serious subjects of lawfare and the courts, today I’m returning to the kind of material that is right in my usual wheelhouse: a quick rundown of recent stories requiring juvenile mockery. 

But I appreciate the many thoughtful comments that you all posted on my last two columns.  I’m going to share a little more next week to answer your questions about how my buddy responded to my emails, and also about my conversion from being a liberal in my callow youth, to the wise old conservative you know and love today.  

First up, we have a new candidate for the leftists’ “Self-Detonating Hero” designation, so get ready for a fusillade of “unexpectedly”s:

He is a pro-Hamas, anti-Semite Columbia student (unexpectedly!) from “Palestine” (unexpectedly!), here on a green card (unexpectedly!) named Mohsen Mahdawi. 

Mahdawi was taken into custody by ICE, but has been temporarily released on bond on the order of a US District court judge in Vermont.  (Unexpectedly!)  Of course that judge was appointed by Ronald Reagan.

HA! I kid because I love.  He’s an Obama appointee.

Unexpectedly!  

And the Dems are already beginning to transfer their schoolgirl crushes from Kilmar to Mohsen, like a 13-year-old girl replacing her Donnie Osmond poster with a Shaun Cassidy one.  (I’ll take “Timely late 1970s pop culture references” for $100, Alex.)

Mohsen looks like an Arab Luigi Mangione, and he’s got the soft-spoken peace-loving protestor routine down pat.  CBS and the NY Times have already given him tongue-bath interviews. (Unexpectedly!)  So start your countdown clocks, because you know he’s going to blow up in their faces soon.

I just came across a group called Canary Mission, who documents and publicizes people and organizations who promote hatred of the US, Israel and Jews, and they’ve put together a great two-minute video of Mohsen spouting some soothing talking points about how his activism “is centered in the energy of love.” 

Hilariously, the video intersperses Mohsen’s assertions with video clips and pics that belie his words.  He says, “Antisemitism has no place in our movement.”  Cut to him holding a microphone wearing a keffiyeh, in the middle of three other people, under the chyron, “Mohsen surrounded by anti-Semites.”

He says, “My compassion is also for the Jewish people.”  Cut to him standing on campus, using a bullhorn to drown out a small group of students calling on Hamas to release the red-headed Bibas babies, whom they eventually murdered, along with their mother.  (In that clip, Mohsen has a hateful smirk on his face that made me wish the IDF had placed one of their pager charges in his bullhorn.)     

My favorite part of the video is when Mohsen mournfully accuses the IDF of killing six of his cousins and his uncle.  Cut to a photo lineup of scowling “Palestinian” terrorists, one of them holding an AK-47, identifying them as his cousins and uncle. 

It reminded me of a mafia movie scene in which an old gangster looks through wedding pictures.  “There’s Sammy the Bull, Fat Tony Salerno, Frankie the Blade Lucchese,  Big Paulie and Little Paulie Genovese.  All of them upstanding Italian Americans, unjustly harassed by the police!” 

I hope the Dems go all-in on dreamy peacenik Mohsen as their newest poster boy.  Then, pics of him in a suicide vest, proudly holding up a copy of Mein Kampf can show up in 3… 2… 1…

While the Dems are hot and bothered over Mohsen, they’re very worried about another one of their own, Lurch Fetterman.  Last week New York Magazine ran an alarmist story about his health, with the tagline, “John Fetterman’s Struggle:  The senator insists he is in good health.  But staffers past and present say they no longer recognize the man they once knew.” 

If you didn’t know what a left-wing rag NY Mag is, you might think that Fetterman has had another stroke, or a heart attack, or is possibly collapsing on a regular basis and bleeding from the eyes.

But if you were a certain hilarious genius with a fully functional wizard hat, you might guess that Fetterman is continuing to make more sense, which his leftist handlers regard with alarm.  And you’d be 100% right.

Expectedly!

The story actually has various members of his staff hysterically getting their dresses – or in some cases their gender non-binary onesies – over their heads because Fetterman has demonstrated such ominous signs of dementia as… wait for it… disbelieving that the IDF is bombing “Palestinian” “refugee” camps full of “innocent civilians,” and… wait for it again… considering not voting against Pete Hegseth’s nomination for SecDef! 

One of his key advisors who quit last year captures the tone of the article: “I hope Senator Fetterman gets the help he needs.”

The story is unintentionally funny, and it perfectly sums up the elite left in a nutshell: When Fetterman shuffled around like a stuttering, lobotomized mental patient who would vote for whatever they put in front of him, they praised him to the skies!  But now that he’s occasionally making sense, they think he’s lost his mind.  Perfect!  

Speaking of losing one’s mind, did you catch the CNN interview with a Sinaloa cartel member?  They put him in a disguise and altered his voice, and the interviewer talked to him as if he was an aggrieved victim of unfair accusations.  She said, “According to the Trump administration, you are a terrorist.  What do you make of that?”

The guy answered, “Well, the situation is ugly, but we have to eat.” 

Of course you do.  And of course the CNN dope didn’t push back at all.  Because who among us hasn’t been in that poor criminal’s situation?

I remember my junior year in high school, when I’d smuggled some fentanyl into study hall, shot two of my rivals execution-style, and sex trafficked several of my female classmates for cash, and I got caught.  Boy, was my dad mad when he got called down to the principal’s office with me!

But I said, “Dad, if I didn’t sell drugs, pimp out my girlfriends and assassinate my competitors, what would I do for lunch money?” 

And everyone agreed that I’d made a compelling case.  So I spent a year in juvie and missed my graduation, but four short years later I got a job as a reporter at CNN.  True story.

Anyway, I can’t believe that even CNN can be this stupid.  They hate Trump and would do anything to discredit him, but do they really believe that a violent cartel thug giving him a thumb’s down is going to help the Dems and hurt Trump?!

You keep doing you, CNN!

Hamas delenda est!

Third Round of Moron of the Month Candidates (posted 4/28/25)

As the end of the month nears, it’s time for the next elimination round in our April Madness “Moron of the Month” competition, featuring the Northern Division.    

We begin with Michelle Obama, nominated for the newest narcissistic dumpster fire episode of her struggling podcast.  She opens strong, by simultaneously playing the race and victim cards:

“We don’t articulate, as black women, our pain.  Because it’s almost like nobody ever gave us permission to do that.” 

Now I’m not going to pull a Lizzie Warren, and claim that though I appear to be a white guy, I actually identify as a Cherokee warrior, or a black woman.  (#wemustneverstopmockingher) Because that would be stupid. 

And I can’t claim an extensive and far-reaching knowledge of black women in general.  But from what I’ve seen and experienced, I know that if somebody asked me to identify an ethnic and gender cohort who are known for being shrinking-violet, passive types, I would not instinctively say, “Black women!”

In fact, if you asked me to name which gender generally tends toward a stoic, not-wear-their-pain-on-their-sleeves behavior, I’d say males. 

If you pushed me to choose the most stoic ethnic group among women, I’d say Russian women, though I’m not sure why.  I just picture them sitting in a crumbling, freezing apartment, wearing clunky shoes and an itchy, heavy dress the texture of a horse blanket for people, at a wobbly wooden table with legs that are different heights, sipping from a bowl of ice-cold beet soup, and not complaining. 

But even if I could be convinced that women in general, and black women in particular are loathe to complain or share their pain, I would still never believe that Michelle 0-freaking-bama ever displayed that tendency.  Because she has been complaining non-stop since the day she walked onto the national stage.

There’s a reason that her secret service code name was “Scowling Wookie.”  True story.  (By the way, Barack’s code name?  “Pete Buttigieg.”  You know why.)

If you still doubt me – and how dare you? – listen to this excerpt from a few minutes later: “As black women, we are so easily labeled as angry and bitter!” 

She said, angrily.

Holy cats.  If I never hear someone preface a statement with their race and gender again, it will be too soon. But if you insist on doing the tired old, “As a [insert defining modifier here] [insert second modifier here]…” at least bring some variety to the table!  For every 100 “As a Hispanic woman…” toss in an occasional “As a third-degree Mason with an extra finger on my right hand…” or “As a philatelist with eyes that are slightly different colors…” 

Have some consideration for the listener, you boring, identity-politics hack!

Also, gosh Michelle, I wonder how YOU ever got stereotyped as angry and bitter?  I’m sure it was unrelated to you saying that until your annoying husband got elected, you’d never been proud of your country.  And I’m sure it had nothing to do with the bone-jarring hits you used to dish out when you roamed the middle as a blitzing linebacker for TCU. 

I’m almost convinced that she acts like this because she believes that Americans like their first ladies the way they like their coffee: bitter and black.

Let’s skip ahead in the transcript a few minutes, and see what new topic she’s onto now:  “…that the first label they put on us, as black women, is that we ARE angry…” 

Ugh.  Really?  Okay, let me skip forward say, 20 more minutes.  (By the way, I just looked at the red bar on the bottom of the screen, and this episode goes on for an hour and 9 minutes!  Good lord!  To anyone who’s ever complained that my columns are too long, hang your head in shame!) 

Okay, dropping the cursor on the red bar again…now: “…and going to therapy, just to work all that out.  Like, what happened that 8 years that we were in the White House?  What did that do to me, internally, my soul.  We made it through.  We got out alive!  I hope we made the country proud.  My girls, thank God, are whole.  But what happened to ME?”

Man-oh-manischevitz!  “What did it do to me internally?!”  That’s something people who survive a mine collapse ask!  “We made it through? We got out alive?!”  That’s what guys said after the Bataan Death March.

I’ve had enough.  I’ve heard that her podcast is doing very poorly, and I can see why.  But I checked, and this insufferable woman has got 149,000 subscribers.  For a new podcast featuring someone as famous as she is, that’s lousy.

But if I can borrow a phrase from Michelle, how do you think that makes ME feel?  Even though I’m not a celebrity, I’ve been producing top-notch columns for you people for 8 years, and my WordPress site (Martinsimpsonwriting.com) has only 276 subscribers!

And before you remind me that if I’d only give in to the constant stream of requests to post some tasteful nudes of myself, I’d quickly have way more than 149K subscribers, I will tell you all for the LAST time: I want people to subscribe to my site for my mind, not because I’m a tantalizing bit of eye candy!

What I’m trying to say is that, as a white, male, hilarious genius with a firm jawline and a dusting of mild, adult-onset asthma, I think…

Oh, forget it. 

On to the second MOM candidate: Ben and Jerry.

Regular readers will remember that I wrote about the lefty ice cream company in late March, when their TDS-suffering CEO Dave Stever was fired by Unilever, the giant corporation that bought B&Js 25 years ago. 

Now they’re back in the news, because Ben and Jerry (or Mao and Jerry, or Ben and Lenin) are mad, and they want to buy the company back from Unilever.  They’ve been trying to gather investors, but it seems like the old commies are having difficulty finding capitalists to join forces with them. 

Unexpectedly!

The stories I’ve seen about the attempted buy-back point to a very odd arrangement, in which Unilever has owned the company for decades, but still had a relationship with B&J that involved tolerating their customer-alienating politics, and contributing $5 million a year to the Ben and Jerry Foundation, which advocates for causes like defunding the police, keeping men in women’s locker rooms and white people out of “positions of power in society,” cheerleading for abortion, and returning the US to the Indians who had stolen it from other Indians just before whitey got here.   

After years of increasing tension, Unilever has finally lost patience.  They told B&J that the business is not for sale, announced a July name-change to The Magnum Ice Cream Company, and issued an ultimatum that before they would continue to contribute to the B&J Foundation, they’d require an audit of it.

Ben and Jerry seem strangely unenthusiastic about that idea, perhaps because they’ve handled their foundation with all the competence and honesty with which the Clintons handled their foundation, or Jeffrey Epstein handled his Epstein Foundation for the Support of Wayward Under-Age Girls.

The WSJ summary of the story says that, “After tolerating decades of radioactive politics, Unilever appears keen to decontaminate Ben and Jerry’s.” 

That sounds about right.  Let’s give the final word – the final laughably clueless and self-indicting word – to Ben Cohen: “Ben and Jerry’s is a company with a soul.”

Yes it is.  And you literally sold that soul to a ginormous corporation for a king’s ransom 25 years ago, you capitalist pig in a Stalinist sheep’s clothing. 

I hope the new flavors from your brand are “Reagan Rocky Road,” “Elon Musk Mint,” and “Ayn Rand-berry,” and that you choke on them.   

Our last nominee is Mother Jones, for their April 12th story entitled, “Bad News for Man’s Best Friend: Dogs are Environmental Villains.”

I’m as shocked as you are by this.  Because I can’t believe that moldy old Mother Jones is still around, either! 

But it is, and apparently it hasn’t lost a step since its halcyon days of 57 years ago, when it was advocating for Timothy Leary, Ho Chi Minh, and hairy armpits on women.   And now that Nixon is dead, those lefty fossils have turned their ire on the real existential threat: dogs!

I probably don’t even have to tell you what they hate about God’s greatest gift to mankind, because you can already guess.  They claim that “the environmental impact” of dogs is “more insidious than is generally recognized.”

I’ll bet.  Since considering anything about dogs “insidious” is ridiculous.

You should reserve the word “insidious” for only the worst of the worst things in life.  Like communism, pedophilia, or the increasing popularity of soccer.

Not dogs, you idiots! 

They say that dogs “pollute waterways.”  But do you know what else pollutes waterways?  Skinny dipping with your super-gross white-guy dreads, Mother Jones writers!

They say that dogs disturb and kill shore birds.  But consider this, shore birds: Dogs don’t have wings, and you do!  So either flap your freaking wings and fly, or else be a lazy but tasty snack, Jonathan Livingston Seagull!

They don’t like the carbon dioxide that dogs produce…but I can’t help but notice how all the lefties at Mother Jones continue to obnoxiously inhale and exhale, while ignoring the agonal breathing of Mother Earth.   

They object to the environmental damage caused by dog feces, and yet they don’t have anything to say about either the human feces that covers their Mecca, San Francisco, or the fact that their president pooped on the Pope.  Which is probably why he died recently. 

I mean the Pope, not Biden. 

Or do I?

The article does mention a few benefits of dogs, including their contribution to the physical and mental health of their owners, and also their “vital roles in conservation work, such as in wildlife detection.”  Leave it to Mother Jones to make even a compliment to dogs sound pointless. 

“Wildlife detection?”  What does that even mean?  And I thought you just said that dogs are often detecting the hell out of shorebirds, and that that was a very bad thing?

I don’t need to defend dogs, but I will touch on a few benefits anyway.  They’re beautiful, loyal, and in the case of Aussie Shepherds, majestic and brilliant.  They can chase down and maul criminals and terrorists.  They can detect drugs, but then refrain from snorting all of those drugs and getting addicted and end up picking up bags of cash from corrupt foreigners to give to their awful politician fathers, like some laptop-losing degenerates I could mention.

They’re also great for the health of your children.  Because by carrying gross stuff into your house and then romping with your kids, they strengthen the kids’ immune systems, and prevent them from turning into frail bubble-boys raised on participation trophies and trigger warnings, and then either dying young because they touched a peanut, or – worse – turning into an obnoxious soy-boy DNC Vice Chair. 

Dogs are better than many people, and all of the staff at Mother Jones, and if there’s not a feasible way to release some of the first newly non-extinct dire wolves into their offices, I have a Plan B.

We tell them that we have a new breed of dog that is carbon-neutral, non-feces-producing, non-polluting, and gluten-free.  And then we introduce them to…wait for it…

Robot Flamethrowing Dogs! 

Please register your choice of the Northern Division options in the comments.

Hamas delenda est!

Three More Candidates for Moron of the Month (posted 4/14/25)

By now you’ve all seen that CO has temporarily stepped back from the page for a few days, which I feel like puts a little more pressure on me to make you laugh on a Monday morning.  But much like Walter Clayton Jr. (from the national champion Florida Gators – have I mentioned that?), I’m a clutch player. 

So it’s Martacus’ time to shine! 

In my Friday column I introduced three candidates for “Moron of the Month,” and by popular acclaim, Jasmine “Fake Lashes” Crockett beat out the too aptly named Chase Strangio and drama queen Spartacus Booker to move on to represent the Eastern division in the next round.

Today we’ve got three more worthy competitors, this time from the Western division.  (Just like in the NCAA tournament, geographical names for the divisions are meaningless.)

First up we’ve got Elie Mystal, a public “intellectual” (and yes, those scare quotes are mandatory) with degrees from Harvard (because of course he has) who would be best known for his rabid America- and whitey-hatred, except for the fact that every African-American appearing on MSNBC is an unpatriotic, rabid whitey hater.

So he’s best known for his truly ridiculous, giant gray puff-ball of an Afro.  Which makes him look like he’s closing in on 70, when he’s actually only 46.  I have two theories about that:

1. He got so sick of all of the Fat Albert jokes that he dyed his hair gray to stop them.  (Though I’m not sure that, “Hey, hey, hey… it’s Old dumb Albert!” is a whole lot better.)

2. Just like soldiers who live through horrifying combat sometimes go prematurely gray, I think maybe morons who think too many horrifyingly stupid thoughts go through the same thing.   

Though he’s little known to the general public (because he writes for The Nation, and often appears on MSNBC), Mystal has been making a name for himself in moron circles for quite a while. 

He wrote an execrable book in 2022 called, “Allow me to Retort: A Black Guy’s Guide to the Constitution.”  I planned to write a review of it called, “Allow me to Vomit: A White Guy’s Review of F.A. Mystal’s “A Black Guy’s Guide to the Constitution.”  But I couldn’t make it through the first several pages. 

Earlier this month, he came out with his second book, “Bad Law: Ten Popular Laws That are Ruining America.”  And it has single-handedly made a liar out of me, because I spent many years telling my students that there is no such thing as a stupid question.

Then I read the table of contents of Bad Law.  Consider the following chapter titles, along with the obvious answers to each:

Chapter 2: How Did Immigrants Become “Illegal?”  [By breaking our laws, you moron.]

Chapter 4: Why Do We Incarcerate So Many People? [Because they break our laws, you moron.]

Chapter 7: “Why Do We Give White Guys a License to Kill Black People?” [We don’t, you moron.]     

Chapter 9: “Why Can’t We Say Gay?” [We can, you moron.]

As you can already tell, Mystal has an IQ low enough to scare those nightmarish albino fish in the lightless depths of the Mariana Trench. (Latin name: “pescatorus LizWarrenus”) (#wemustneverstopmockingher)  

But he’s also got the second element of the one-two punch that so many elite leftists have: a narcissism as large as the great outdoors.

In an interview to promote Bad Law, he talked about how he is such a significant critic of the Trump administration that he’s had to hire security during his book tour, because he’s worried that Trump is going to have someone “snatch him up off the street.” 

(Make your own, “Watch out for a forklift with a presidential seal on it, Elie!” joke here.)

My favorite idiotic statement of his came on his appearance on The View.  I know.  And he might have been the dumbest one on the set that day.  Which…yikes!

When explaining why we shouldn’t abide by our immigration laws, he referred to how racist and awful America is (duh!), and said, “Every law passed before the 1965 Voting Rights Act should be presumptively unconstitutional.”

Let that sink in for a minute.  The only way to declare any law unconstitutional is to examine it in the light of our founding legal document: the constitution.  Which Elie apparently thinks was written after 1965? 

To which I can only say: “Hey, hey, hey… it’s innumerate Albert!”    

Our second contestant is named Greisa Martinez Rosas, a leftist activist and executive director of United We Dream.  Her group participated in one of the high-profile “Hands Off” rallies on April 5th, protesting against Trump and Elon.  In fact, her rally was in Washington, DC.

She spoke on stage at the protest, and was brazen enough to give her full name and shout, “I am an immigrant.  I am undocumented, unafraid, queer and unashamed.”

I don’t know what “queer” has to do with it.  Or, for that matter, what “queer” means.  Is it just a synonym for “gay?”  But if so, why list the “Q” and the “G” in your alphabet list of identities?  And if not—

Never mind.  I don’t care.  I like women, and I don’t understand the rest of you, but good luck with all of that.  Or congratulations, or my condolences, or good for you, or get well soon, or whatever.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.  For some reason, Griesa really needs for all of us to know that she’s illegal and unafraid. 

If she had admitted that when the late Joe Biden was still the president, or when Obama was, she would have had good reason for being unafraid.  Because those guys were busy circumventing the law (and making up new laws) to go after conservatives, and had no appetite for following our immigration laws.  

But there’s a new sheriff in town, and his sidekick is Hulk Homan™, and Griesa has made a big target of herself.  (That’s not a joke about her appearance.  Though if you put her in a line-up with the drug dealer/bowling ball illegal from a few weeks ago…)

So Griesa could have tried to fly under the radar, or maybe even gone underground.  But she decided the best thing to do was to go to the nation’s capital, clomp up onto a stage, and lean into a microphone to confess to being a criminal, in front of an audience of wildly cheering morons. 

Making her eligible for Moron of the Month.  And hopefully, a visit from ICE.

Rounding out the Western division nominees is Tania Fernandes Anderson.  Her campaign might be hurt by the fact that she’s unknown outside of the Boston area – she’s on the City Council there.  But don’t count her out, because she’s a five-tool player.  Or, to be more accurate, a five-tool tool.

Because she’s a BLM activist, a Democrat, a Muslim-American, a sanctuary city supporter, and a “former undocumented immigrant.” 

Okay, maybe the Muslim thing isn’t necessarily a problem.  And there are some decent Democrats.  But that still leaves the other three strikes, which are enough to call her out.  She’s the kind of sweetheart who recently slammed her fist on the podium and said, “What the f**k do I have to do in this council in order to get respect as a black woman?”

Not beating up city property and dropping F bombs would be a good start, Sweetie.

Anyway, Tania has just pled guilty in a federal corruption case, and won’t be bringing her special brand of wisdom to the Boston City Council anymore. 

It turns out that Tania couldn’t be expected to get by on her measly, taxpayer-provided salary of only $115K a year.  So she hired her sister and a son to staff positions before she’d even been sworn in – which is illegal – and then gave the sister a good salary and a $13K “bonus” from the taxpayers, and then took $7,000 of that back as a kickback.  When she was initially questioned about that, she denied that her sister was her sister.  She was also cited for failing to report almost $33K in campaign contributions, and exceeding legal state donation limits. 

By the way, two years ago she was demanding stronger protections for illegal immigrants and telling Boston to defy ICE.  Who could have guessed that a woman like that would turn out to be a criminal herself? 

Thus proving the old adage: It’s always the ones you most suspect.

When I read her story – in between fits of bitter laughter – I learned that she came here illegally, but that in 2019 “she became an American citizen.”  I’m not sure how that worked, but the good news is that her conviction may “threaten her immigration status.” 

Well let’s hope so!

In tough times like these, she would normally be able to turn to her husband, Tanzerious Anderson, for comfort.

I’m serious.  I’m not delirious.  Or trying to be mysterious.  His name’s “Tanzerious.”  (Don’t tell me that I couldn’t write poetry, if I put my mind to it.)

But Tanzerious won’t be able to help his criminal wife, because he’s currently in prison for murder.

Unexpectedly! 

So there are your choices, CO nation, and they are all worthy of your consideration.  Griesa and Tania both get points for brazenness, while Elie wisely kept a much lower profile, by only appearing on the little-watched MSNBC and the View.  And he has to get some points for that preposterous Afro.

But Griesa went to the shadow of the White House to confess her criminality. 

Then again, Tania gave me the chance to write “Tanzerious.”   

Happy Monday, and I await your verdict.

Hamas delenda est!   

Moron of the Month – Eastern Division Nominees (posted 4/11/25)

Even though we’re only one-third of the way through April, I’ve noticed that enough morons have already popped up in our politics this month to provide a roster of worthy competitors for a  “Moron of the Month” contest.

In fact, I’ve already got 6 potential nominees.  Maybe we can do this in rounds, like the March Madness basketball tournament.  (Which I may have previously mentioned that my fightin’ Gators won on Monday night.)

So here are my first three nominees, from the Eastern division:

1. My first choice technically didn’t make her nominated performance in April, but on March 31st.  But since she doesn’t recognize boundaries like those between male and female, I’m going to disregard the boundaries between calendar months to move her into the April competition.

The special gal I’m talking about calls herself “Chase Strangio.” And ze oh ze, is that name spot-on!  (See what I did there?)  She’s the “trans man” – “trans” being Greek for “not,” as far as you know – who argued at SCOTUS in December against the Tennessee law banning “trans” surgery for minors.

You’ll recognize her if you see her, on account of her sad little beard and mustache combination, which you normally only see on barely pubescent boys who are trying too hard, or confused girls who take testosterone shots.  (I call it “the David Hogg.”) 

Strangio appeared on CNN on the last day of March, where literally dozens of viewers saw her say the following, in her obviously female voice, “The president is lying when he says that there are men impersonating women and participating in women’s sports. There are no men impersonating women that I’m aware of.”

Said the woman who is impersonating a man.

2. My second choice needs no introduction, since he is the infamous senator Cory Booker, whom we should never stop mocking because of that time he called himself “Spartacus” with a straight face, and non-ironically. 

Regular readers might object that I occasionally call myself Martacus, but that’s ALWAYS with my tongue in cheek. Except for when my wife asks me to put on the Roman outfit and recite some famous Latin lines.  (And if you think that’s weird, how about you explain what strange things you and your spouse are into, Mr. “Plank-in-Your-Own-Eye?”) 

So once I’ve got the breastplate strapped on and the helmet in place – and no, I never forget the gladius – I’ll stride in and say, “Vini, vidi, vici.  But not in that order.”  And then my wife and I will laugh and laugh, because we both appreciate a sneakily off-color Latin joke. 

Perhaps I’ve said too much.

(By the way, one could make the argument that the fact that I know the Latin name for the Roman short sword is one more data point suggesting that one of my secret identities is in fact Martacus.)

Where was I?  Oh yeah.  “Spartacus” Booker.

That guy is a well-known moron already.  But when he started speaking in March and finished on April 1st, he took stupid to a whole new level.  Not just because it’s hard to speak for 25 hours straight, but because it’s really hard to speak for that long and say absolutely nothing of any substance at all!

Dim-bulb Dems praised Booker for his stirring “filibuster.”  But a filibuster is a purposefully long political speech made to forestall or prevent a legislative action.  Ted Cruz and Ron Paul have filibustered in recent years to stop a couple of terrible leftist bills from being brought up and voted on, and Strom Thurmond – in 1957, when he still belonged to the party of slavery, the KKK and Jim Crow – filibustered a Civil Rights Act. 

But Booker had no such purpose.  He just got up and rambled on like the worst drama-queen theatre kid in the worst Junior High production of Streetcar Named Desire you’ve ever seen in your life.  Except that instead of hollering, “Stella!” he yelled, “Donald!” 

It was the perfect encapsulation of the Democrat party in its current, rudderless state: A speech given by an idiot, full of sound and histrionics, signifying nothing.

3. The third candidate has not been on the political scene for long, but she’s already building up a body of work that might one day qualify for first-ballot entry into the Moron Hall of Fame.  This is Jasmine Crockett, the phony congresswoman who went to an expensive private high school and college, but who pretends that their curricula never covered “how to correctly conjugate the verb ‘to be’.”

Previous low-lights of hers include calling wheelchair-bound Greg Abbott “Governor Hot Wheels,” and calling black GOP congressman Byron Donald a race traitor because he married a white woman.  (Of course, she doesn’t mention that her favorite presidential candidate last time around – part black, part Indian, and all inarticulate – also married a white woman, Doug Emhoff.  But never mind that.)

She started the month strong, when – in a talk on the House floor on April Crockett’s Day (i.e. the first) – she expressed outrage that the Trump administration has been saying that we should “ignore the orders” of the far-left district court judges who have been found dozens of “legal” reasons why the President can’t go around carrying out the role of President.

Saith the Eyelashes, “Law and order [means] that you follow the order and go through the appeals process, even if you dislike what the judge did.”

Darrell Issa, (R)ational, then immediately pointed out that less than a year ago, Crockett co-sponsored articles of impeachment against Clarence Thomas and Alito because she disliked what they did, i.e. ruled correctly.

D’oh!   

The very next day, Crockett was dumb enough to admit on camera that she was a DEI hire.  (Sidebar: Sweet pea, everyone knew that the moment you opened your mouth.)  She said, “When I first became a public defender I had no criminal defense experience.  And I walked in and I told my boss Charlie and said, ‘You should hire me.”  And he said, ‘Why?’  And I said, ‘Because I’m black.’” 

And when Charlie (rumors that his last name was either “Brown” or “Manson” have not been confirmed) didn’t immediately say, “Get your no-experience-having black behind out of my office, you racist beeyotch!” he proved that he shouldn’t have his job either.

But as dumb as those examples are, she topped them on April 6th, when she tried to defend illegal immigrants, but staggered into a hilarious self-own.  Because she’s a moron.

In a speech that desecrated the Grace Baptist Church in Waterbury, Connecticut, she said that she “had to go around the country and educate people” (HA!) about how we need illegals, because no Americans will farm anymore.

Or, as the expensively “educated” imbecile put it, “The fact is ain’t none a y’all tryin’ to go and farm right now….We done pickin’ cotton.” 

In addition to making anyone within earshot dumber after hearing that, Crockett said the quiet part – the incredibly evil, quiet part – out loud, arguing that we need illegal immigrants, so that… wait for it… they can be our slaves!

Now THAT’s an old-school Democrat for you!

In your comments, please choose which moron should move on to the next round.

Hamas delenda est!