Cold Fury

Harshing your mellow since 9/01

On safari

It’s about damned time somebody did this.

My editors had given me this assignment as something of a lark. The idea: Just as reporters from New York and D.C. trek into Trump Country to visit greasy spoons and other corners of Real America™ to measure support for the candidate, I’d venture from Trump Country to the most stereotypical bastions of coastal liberal elitism, and ask the people I met whether they still support Hillary Clinton. An innocent abroad, I would leave Hamilton County, Indiana, a deep-red suburb north of Indianapolis that Trump won by nearly 20 points, the kind of place where the Koch brothers are presently carpet-bombing Democrat Senator Joe Donnelly with $2 million in television and digital ads for his vote against the Tax Cuts and Jobs Act. Once on the decadent East Coast, I would luxuriate in its undiluted upscale liberal consensus at bookstores, wine bars, cafes and other Blue State institutions peopled by NPR tote-bagging sophisticates. Perhaps I’d drop in on something activist-y, a meeting of Resistance types. It was a trip that would take me across three states, from a food co-op in Brooklyn to an unabashedly liberal bookstore in Bethesda, all in counties Clinton won by at least 60 percent or more of the vote.

You know going in that there’s no way that such an intrepid trek across a bizarre alien landscape could result in anything less than sidesplitting hilarity. And so it is. But the most important point comes early on; it’s one you CF long-timers will be quite familiar with.

Continue reading “On safari”

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Damn dirty apes hippies

Shithole.

Years ago, Tom Wolfe published a funny piece dealing with the reappearance during the Summer of Love of diseases never seen in the modern epoch. Wolfe’s overall term for these disorders was, if I recall correctly, “The Crud.” Doctors were unfamiliar with these conditions and in some cases uncertain as to how to treat them. Some of those children of nature ended up with chronic disorders.

This served as a life lesson for the counterculture, most of whom resumed bathing. But now, fifty years later, we – at least those of us in California – are about to receive another such lesson, this one more drastic and widespread.

Over the past year or so, AT readers have derived quite a few laughs over what has come to be called the “s‑‑‑ map,” a map of the neighborhoods of San Francisco in which the streets are inundated with human waste left by the homeless. (Some commentators assumed that the map was intended as a warning to tourists. But in fact, its creator has recently added a comment asserting that it is intended to “bring attention to the issue of homelessness.” Thanks very much.)

Currently unknown in the industrialized West (most doctors have never seen a case), cholera was a filth-based disease caused by human and animal waste and nothing else. Originating in the Ganges delta, cholera spread across the planet until, in the 19th century, it was a standard feature of urban life. Cholera epidemics were chronic, breaking out wherever sewage mixed with drinking water. Cholera was an oddity among diseases in that it often progressed with no visible symptoms. An individual showing no symptoms at all could suddenly collapse at noon and be dead by sundown.

Cholera still exists in the Third World. According to the WHO, the most recent pandemic broke out of South Asia in 1961 and reached the Americas by the 1990s. “Cholera is now endemic in many countries.”

We will also point out that the city of San Francisco is a sanctuary city, or, in the words of the ordinance itself, “a City and County of Refuge.” That is, San Francisco has put out the welcome mat for tens of thousands of third-world illegals. The city has made itself a magnet for refugees from countries with no modern sewage systems and no tradition of personal hygiene – the same countries in which the WHO asserts that cholera has become “endemic.”

So put these two factors together – streets engulfed in human s‑‑‑ and immigrants from countries overrun with infectious diseases – and what do we get?

No more than we—they, rather—deserve. In the Left’s case, for being idiots. In our case, for putting up so long with their…ummm, shit.

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Make it stop!

My God, but the EGO on this douchebag.

Former President Barack Obama and first lady Michelle Obama are negotiating a major production deal with Netflix, The New York Times reported on Thursday night.

The pending deal would bring exclusive content from the Obamas to the streaming site’s 118 million subscribers. It was not immediately clear what types of content they would deliver to the site, but Eric Schultz, a former adviser to the president told the Times: “President and Mrs. Obama have always believed in the power of storytelling to inspire.”

One possible show idea, the newspaper said, could involve Obama discussing topics that were germane to his policies as president — including health care, voting rights, and immigration, The Times said.

Those topics comprise portions of the legislative agenda he exercised during his time in the White House — many of which President Donald Trump has sought to roll back since he took office last year.

May I suggest a title? “Vital Social Issues ‘N’ Stuff, with Barky.” Sure, it’s lifted from Kelly Bundy’s short-lived show on Married With Children. But I’m confident His Majesty’s show will be of comparable quality and worth, if nowhere near as enjoyable to watch.

Despite my expectation that watching the abominable thing will be capable of inflicting actual, physical pain on saner sorts, I’m equally confident that Oshitstain will have a dismaying number of palpitating, worshipful droolcases eager to tune in and lap up his every lecture—his maddening drone falling on their ears like the sweet singing of angels, stimulating them into quivering, weeping near-catatonia. Like, say, this idiot.

It’s easy to look at what’s happening in Washington DC and despair. That’s why I carry a little plastic Obama doll in my purse. I pull him out every now and then to remind myself that the United States had a progressive, African American president until very recently. Some people find this strange, but you have to take comfort where you can find it in Donald Trump’s America.

That was belched forth by some dizzy bint in the course of touting the anticipated (by her) Blue Wave, wherein soothing memories of the earthly rein of her Lord and Savior Obama will inspire millions of normal Americans to vote in favor of re-impoverishing themselves, re-unemploying themselves, re-taxing themselves into penury, and re-subjecting themselves to endless hectoring, harassment, and random violent assault by freaks, illegal aliens, perverts, street bums, criminal thugs, gun-grabbers, Marxists, Antifa fascists, Al Franken, Mexican gangbangers, crooked career politicians, Harvey Weinstein, Muslim rapefugees, duly-deputized shadow minions of the Deep State, and assorted other dysfunctional malcontents, psychopaths, and creepazoids. IE, the Democrat-Socialist constituency en bloc.

And then, when the victims of these reprobates are desirous of the healing balm of diverting entertainment to ease the pain of their financial, spiritual, and physical wounds, they can sit back on the couch, tune in Netflix, and subject themselves to a pantload of sniffy condescension from His Majesty himself reminding them that it’s all their fault because America Sucks That’s Why, and that he’s very disappointed in the way they’ve let him down. Again.

Whatever Obama-licking liberal butt-boy conceived this devil’s deal with the Clown Prince Of Darkness to turn Netflix into O-TV ought to have his ass beat like a drum seven days a week, and twice on Sunday. Hopefully the ratings will handle that chore for us, if only in the figurative sense.

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Toxic liberalism

Can’t believe I didn’t come up with that term myself already.

What kind of man does society value?

Appropriately docile, neutered, feminized ones. Which is to say: none.

Well, for starters, men are not really valued by society the way they used to be. The loss of manufacturing and the shift to service-sector jobs has played a role in that. Also, the rise of school curricula that favors girls over boys has contributed to not only the diminishment of men, but likely also to the disproportionate numbers of women opting to go to college (and graduating) compared to their male counterparts. So, too, has the diminishment of community, thanks to the internet and the insane schedules in peoples’ lives today that very often leaves them isolated and alone.
We mustn’t forget that Pop Culture very often portrays men as sex-crazed maniacs, to be hated and feared. Or, in the case of popular family situation comedies, the fathers are portrayed as dunderheads to be pitied and constantly one-upped by their chirping children and nagging wives. Of course, there is always rap culture, excessively violent video games, and films, to further warp a young man’s mind.

For America to survive, it needs an accountable and responsible citizenry (and government). We cannot be free under any other circumstance. Free societies tend to be the most prosperous. The more erosion of responsibility we endure as citizens, the more powerful the state will become, and the less free we will all be (and therefore, we’ll be less prosperous and less safe). Unlike modern Liberals, the Founding Fathers firmly believed that the American people were responsible enough to possess firearms, which is why they enshrined that belief in the Second Amendment of the Constitution. The Left blames guns and wants to take them from ordinary citizens because the Left wants to diminish personal responsibility, knowing full well that the act will erode your liberty. Since responsibility has historically been associated with masculinity, classic masculinity itself has been deemed “toxic,” and our young men are told to abandon those virtues in favor of… something… anything else. This is not tenable.

Until we rid the country of toxic Liberalism, our society will continue churning out more young men like Nikolas Cruz, and America’s inexorable decline will become terminal.

You said a mouthful there, buddy. As for the wilting hothouse flowers some are pleased to refer to as “men” nowadays, how ’bout them Broward Cowards, eh?

Not one but four sheriff’s deputies hid behind cars instead of storming Marjory Stoneman Douglas HS in Parkland, Fla., during Wednesday’s school shooting, police claimed Friday — as newly released records revealed the Broward County Sheriff’s Office had received at least 18 calls about the troubled teen over the past decade.

Sources from Coral Springs, Fla., Police Department tell CNN that when its officers arrived on the scene Wednesday, they were shocked to find three Broward County Sheriff’s deputies behind their cars with weapons drawn.

Well, y’know, the main thing is that they all made it home at the end of their shift, right?

Loath as I am to offer it, there is an argument to be made in defense of the perfidy of these sniveling wretches. No really, there is. I only wish I was joking.

The Broward County Sheriff’s Office (BSO) didn’t “miss warning signs” or make “mistakes” in not writing up reports. The Sheriff’s office did exactly what their internal policies, procedures and official training required them to do, they intentionally ignored the signs, and intentionally didn’t generate documents.

It is important to understand the policy here. Broward County law enforcement (Sheriff Israel), in conjunction with Broward County School Officials (Superintendent Runcie and School Board), have a standing policy to ignore any criminal engagement with High School students.

Secondly, the 27 minute tape-delay in the CCTV system is not an “accident”, “flaw” or “mistake”. It is entirely by design.

As a standard Broward and Miami-Dade practice, when school law enforcement need to cover-up or hide behavior, they need time (when that behavior happens) to delete the evidence trail. As such the school policy -as carried out in practice- is more efficient with a 30 minute tape delay affording the school officer enough time to deal with the situation, then erase the possibility of a recording of the unlawful activity surfacing.

Building in a 30 minute delay on the CCTV system was one of those pesky add-on items that happened a few years ago when the School and Law Enforcement officials established the policy of intentionally not arresting students.

With modern technology it’s tough to hide criminal behavior, especially the violent stuff, when it is being recorded. Duh. Ergo the tape-delay was the best-practice workaround.

Lastly, when the county education policy is intentionally constructed to ignore criminal behavior in schools, the Sheriff and School superintendent cannot rely on “law-and-order-minded” school police officers to carry out the heavily nuanced policy. The county officials need the people closest to the work, the officers, to be able to think quickly on their feet to safeguard their prized district-wide statistics.

A Broward County SRO must carry a political hat and be able to intercept behavior, modify his/her action based on a specific policy need, falsify documents, hide evidence, manipulate records and engage inside the system with an understanding of the unwritten goals.

Broward County school law enforcement are given political instructions, and carrying out political objectives. They are not given law-enforcement instructions.

It shouldn’t be too hard to read between the lines and figure out what this policy is really all about. Violence, disruptive behavior, and many other disciplinary problems are inevitably going to be the near-exclusive province of a handful of unruly and unmanageable black students in most any school of a certain size. The sad reality is that such is the case in way more schools than just this one, and everybody knows it. But nobody dares say a word about it, much less take action to either get the troublemakers under some sort of control or get them the hell out for good should they prove to be beyond disciplining. That would cause way more problems than anybody really wants to deal with if they can avoid it; as Sundance points out, the goal here is not security or even order, but keeping those stats looking good and that paperwork tidy.

So school authorities, to include the cops and/or other security personnel on the grounds, have tacitly agreed to tie their own hands and avert their eyes in the hope that all the ugliness will just go away somehow. The can gets kicked on down the road into somebody else’s bailiwick: no responsibility, no reckoning, no career-imperiling fuss or muss. No sand to clog the gears and disrupt the thrumming of the Pointless Machine—a machine whose sole purpose has devolved into perpetuating its own existence, and nothing more. It all adds up to just another case of sweeping the problems caused ultimately by Toxic Liberalism under the rug, along with all the other mouldering old bones.

Really, when you give it some thought, it’s pretty much the way government at every level above, say, a well-run small-town mayor’s office operates. Which in turn is a big part of the reason why the Founders insisted via the Constitution that government be kept as close to the governed as possible: to keep it accessible to them, to ensure its accountability to them, to facilitate corrective action when (not if) it went astray. It’s plain to see where our having wandered so far from that ideal has gotten us, for anyone with eyes to see and the stomach for looking.

Lame bureaucratic justifications aside, however, in a case like this—a murderous lunatic in the act of slaughtering innocent kids and teachers inside the building—I find it difficult to get my head around the notion of cops so despicable, so craven, as to cower and cringe from cover in response…rules or no rules, policy or no policy. As with the military, a willingness to put themselves in the way of physical harm—to lay their lives on the line to protect the public—is part and parcel of the oath they swear, if it isn’t explicitly stated in specific versions of it here and there. It is the bones and sinew of the very concept of “duty.” In many places, “To protect and serve” is painted right on the friggin’ doors of their patrol cars, for crying out loud.

Looks like the South Park version (“To harass and annoy”) is WAY nearer the mark in Broward County, it turns out.

I’ve mentioned many times here that I have friends and family both who are or were cops, and I can tell you with absolute confidence that not a one of them would have reacted in such a contemptible fashion. They would have gone in there and done whatever they could to end it, ass-covering, weasel-worded policies and rules be damned. As it happens, I had a brief conversation earlier today with one of them about all this, an old regular at the Harley shop I used to work at, now a retired homicide detective. The shame and grief—the horror—he felt was an almost palpable thing, although it was in no way his burden to bear. It was unjustly spattered over him by much lesser men than he: betrayers of public trust and confidence, grotesque parodies of real police officers, entirely unworthy of the badges they besmirched.

We all have to pray that their numbers are small, that they’re exceptions that prove a worthier rule. Maybe they should have all just joined the FBI instead.

Update! Apparently, the fish really DOES rot from the head.

Broward County Sheriff Scott Israel—the man whose agency failed to prevent the Parkland massacre despite having received a tip last November that Nikolas Cruz was plotting a mass shooting—has been accused of public corruption.

Asked about the allegations, Israel responded, “What have I done differently than Don Shula or Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther King, Gandhi?”

He also said, “Lions don’t care about the opinions of sheep.” That’s a paraphrase of a quote from the Game of Thrones character Tywin Lannister, a villainous public administrator known for promoting his family’s interests ahead of the government’s or the people’s.

The man is vile. There’s just no other word for it. God only knows what he and his loathsome fellows have gotten up to and gotten away with over the years. It’s a cinch that this is only the tip of a very big, very dirty iceberg.

Hey, wait a minute here: did this crooked cop—whose underlings refused to do their duty and allowed kids under their dubious “protection” to be slaughtered, shirking all a-tremble in their hidey-holes while cops from a neighboring cop-shop stepped around them to righteously fulfill their oaths—just compare himself to Lincoln, Ghandi, and MLK?

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?!?

Suddenly, a lot of incomprehensible things begin to make sense. Clearly this department needs a thorough scrubbing down, starting with the slime on top. If I was a taxpaying citizen of Broward County, I’d be highly pissed at seeing what my tax dollars had been supporting all this time. Like, torches, pitchforks, tar, and feathers pissed. But maybe that’s just me.

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History and patterns

Daniel digs deep to unearth some riveting ones, yielding insight into the ugly way the Clinton Crime Syndicate does business, and always has.

Cody Shearer is also the author of another Russia-Trump dossier used by the FBI, a memo that Steele, the author of the better known dossier, passed along. How did Steele come to possess Shearer’s memo? Shearer was one of Bill’s plumbers, notorious for spreading and circulating scandals aimed at Republicans. He’s also been accused of targeting and intimidating Bill Clinton’s victims. 

Is it more likely that a British agent happened to independently come across a memo by a Clinton political operative that echoed his own material or that his dossier was based on the memo? Was the Steele dossier an original piece of work by a former British intel agent doing his own research or had he been hired to put some meat on a conspiracy theory created by a Dem political operative? 

We don’t know the answer. Yet. But it’s quite possible that Steele, Russian intel operatives and all the other elements of the vast campaign were never more than window dressing on a smear from the same guy who had peddled the Dan Quayle cocaine story the last time the Clintons needed help. 

The Steele dossier, with its sloppy fact-checking and lurid tales of prostitutes urinating in a Moscow hotel, is far too unprofessional to be the work of a British ex-intel agent, but it reads like a Cody Shearer smear. Nasty and vicious has always been Shearer’s stock in trade as a variety of Republicans can testify.

Before Fusion GPS, there was Investigative Group International (IGI). Like Fusion GPS, IGI was a shadowy organization that specialized in digging up dirt for insiders. IGI’s boss was a longtime Clinton pal and the organization was turned loose on Bill Clinton’s political enemies. Shearer was accused of working as a subcontractor for IGI to go after George H.W. Bush and Dan Quayle.

There are still many questions to be answered about the Steele dossier. But the most important question is how a piece of opposition research was transformed into a law enforcement matter. 

And what is most troubling is that it may not even be the first time that the Clintons have pulled that off. 

The campaign against Trump is unprecedented because of the scale of the abuses. The collusion between Obama government officials and Clinton campaign personnel transformed opposition research into a license for surveillance on the political opposition. A conspiracy theory from the Clinton campaign became leverage for delegitimizing and trying to reverse the results of an election. And the conspiracy theory that elements of the FBI loyal to the Democrats relied upon to attack Trump originated from the deepest sewer in Clintonworld that had been covertly smearing political enemies for decades.

The Clintons are done. But their legacy lives on after them. The Russia conspiracies and the Mueller investigation continue to divide this nation even though Hillary’s political career is deader than Julius Caesar. Fusion GPS is still around. So is IGI. And there are other organizations like them out there. 

There will always be political operatives like Cody Shearer out there. But if we don’t insulate law enforcement from them, elections won’t be determined by voters, they’ll be decided by political coups disguised as scandals. The establishment and its private police state will decide who runs the country.

The damage wantonly done to America and its institutions by the Clintons, Obama, and the amoral lust for naked power that drives the sorry lot of them is damned nigh beyond calculation. It is no exaggeration to say that these are ugly, indecent, treacherous, and dangerous people, being entirely unburdened by scruple, conscience, or virtue. Years ago it was my considered practice to regularly dump on Bill Clinton by calling him a near-sociopath; this, after all, is a man known to relentlessly pursue his every desire and ambition without the slightest pang of either shame or remorse over the harm—real harm, serious and lasting harm—done to those he victimized along the way.

Seems to me that at this stage of the game, after having watched him at his grubby pursuit of self-aggrandizement for decades now, we can comfortably dispense with the “near-” qualifier. It stupefies me to know that the dirty wretch can still dupe anybody at all with the thin scrim of humanity he tosses over his maleficence and depravity like a tattered, threadbare old shawl. Yet somehow, he does. Far more than just a handful of those dupes, too. One can only stand back and marvel over it in…well, whatever it is, admiration probably isn’t quite the word for it.

But bad as Bill is, Hillary is probably worse, lacking as she does the soulless caricature of empathy that enhances The Creep’s manipulations by allowing him to fraudulently present himself as a caring, ordinary guy drawn to politics by a simple desire to be of assistance in alleviating the travails of his fellow citizens. Compared to the pair of them, the narcissistic, thimble-deep Obama is but a callow amateur, a real greenhorn, despite the fact that he’s actually a pretty nasty piece of work in his own right. The universally-reviled Nixon—held over Republican heads since the 70s by liberals as Satan, Charles Manson, Ed Gein, and Hitler all rolled into one appalling lump—doesn’t even rank on the same scale as these toads. Next to the Clintons, poor old Tricky Dick begins to look more like Santa Claus or Mother Teresa instead. They leave him in the shade by a considerable margin.

Looking at the bigger picture, it is to this country’s undying shame and detriment both that we ever allowed without protest the rise of a professional-politician class at all, in feckless disregard of our Founders’ passionately-expressed warnings against that very thing. The Clintons are of course extraordinary, highest-order examples of that repellent breed, the pinnacle of its evolution to date. But the basic traits developed to such an extreme in the Clintons are no more than typical of very nearly all of that class: absolute and insatiable megalomania; the ability to tell any lie, either trifling or egregious, without so much as batting an eyelash if it’s useful to them in the moment; facility for convincingly feigning emotions one does not feel to even the most infinitesimal degree, such as contrition, compassion, concern, regret, gratitude, or humility; falsely evincing respect for the opinions, ambitions, or concerns of one’s constituents; ability to conceal contempt for those constituents with fawning, near-groveling obsequiousness, and to pretend to enjoy being in their midst when occasionally necessary for campaign purposes; shamelessness astounding in its depth and breadth, even when caught in the very act of the most humiliating transgressions one could imagine; a self-confident, ever-ready glibness, supporting a talent for quickly assessing on the fly the response most likely to be deemed appropriate after being caught in such a transgression; a con artist’s eye for the gullible, credulous, and easily-led; a boundless egotism, inspiring an unshakeable belief in one’s own irreplaceability as the only real hope of meaningful progress for the benighted dimwits who vote for you; a bone-deep conviction that you deserve all the power you so viscerally crave, and that you are not only qualified but duty-bound to order the lives of those you rule rather than govern according to your innate superiority.

These traits among others…and Bill Clinton is the uncontested Lord and Master of them all, doubtless the envy of every lesser pretender to his mighty throne: Crazy Bernie Sanders, who never did a day’s honest work in his life, a thoroughly inadequate man who nonetheless feels himself adequate to rule the rest of us under a socialist tyranny; Lieawatha the Injun Maid, whiter-than-white appropriator of indigenous Native American culture, hypocrite nonpareil; creepy boob Joe “Feel Em Up Feel Em Up Grope Grope Grope” Biden, standing ready to heed the call of exactly no one and offer his unwanted service to the nation in yet another of his serial bumbling runs for the Oval Office; the execrable, befuddled, and increasingly pathetic empty suit John Kasich; eminently bribable serial molester John “No Reasonable Offer Refused” Conyers; even Slick Willie’s own “wife” too—who, after her last stinging repudiation, must find even brief proximity to her husband-in-name-only so grating as to be damned near intolerable by now, an excruciating reminder of the contrast between his success and her failure.

They all envy him, and quietly hate him for attaining a summit of professional-politician greasiness and smarm too lofty for them to so much as credibly aspire to. Or they would, that is, were they capable of a moment’s honest self-reflection and awareness. Which they aren’t, fortunately for them; if they were, they’d be spontaneously combusting in the streets from burning shame.

Yep, even as The Creep fades into obscurity and Constitutionally-mandated electoral irrelevance, he haunts their thoughts still. That’s got to just frost their nuts but good. Especially Hillary’s big brass ones. You want a Clinton legacy? Right there it is, bub: Bill’s ghostly presence darkening the Progressivist mind like a lingering shadow. That dubious legacy will endure a good long time, too, until the last backcountry dog-catcher to defraud his way into office under the ragged Democrat-Socialist rubric gives it up at last and decides to call himself something else next time out, just for appearance’s sake.

This nation indubitably owes Trump a mighty debt, one difficult to calculate and impossible to repay, for thwarting the Clintons’ re-infestation of the White House if for nothing else. It’s a measure of the NeverTrumpTards’ insane, myopic folly that they remain disgruntled by it—those dwindling few of them still aquiver with bitter indignation over an upstart electorate’s daring to ignore Conservative Inc’s predictions of calamity should DC business as usual be disrupted by such a vulgar, unserious buffoon, at any rate. The 2016 election was a pivotal, watershed moment in American politics: an election that truly did matter, to an extent that precious few of them have for decades now. There are plenty of others, of course, but looming largest among the reasons why is the unanticipated reprieve from a descent into the depths of a rerun nightmare, another dunking in the Clintonian cesspool.

So thank you, Mr President. From the bottom of my own heart, anyway, if not Ewan McMuffin’s, David French’s, or any other Vichy GOPe sad sack who prefers the comforting familiarity of defeat at the hands of a true blackguard to the risky uncertainty of meaningful victory.

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Can’t parody them anymore

You truly, truly can’t. On the other hand, why go to the trouble? They’re doing such a bang-up job of it themselves.

Pink pussyhats are being dropped from Women’s March because they ‘exclude trans women and women whose private parts are not pink’

No really, you guys. It would appear, incredible as it may seem to sane people, that these barking moonbats are in fact serious as hell about this. And that they expect to be taken seriously, by actually serious non-lunatics. Steyn, as you would no doubt expect, is having himself one hell of a good old time with it:

Three years ago I wrote:

I can’t recall ever describing The Vagina Monologues as ‘edgy’. But I did tell Joseph Brean that I was amused to see that its annual ‘V Day’ production at Mount Holyoke College has been canceled because of its ‘extremely narrow perspective on what it means to be a woman’. Hence, this Guardian headline: ‘Vagina Monologues playwright: “I never said a woman is someone with a vagina”.’ As I said to Mr Brean, the revolution devours its own: Less than 20 years after Eve Ensler ’empowered’ women by ‘reclaiming’ their vaginas, it seems a woman doesn’t need a vagina at all, and it’s totally cisgenderism to suggest you’re not a woman if you’re hung like a horse.

As is my wont, I was playing it for laughs – but, as I always say, none of the people who matter in our society are laughing. Hence, the Bathroom Wars of the subsequent years, in which the position of what used to be known to Common Law as the Reasonable Man (now presumably the Reasonable Cisman) is apparently (as I put it on Rush): What sort of woman would be offended by the sight of another woman’s penis?

Henry Ford said you could get a Model T in any color as long as it’s black, but you really can get a Volvo in any color. Whoops, sorry, I mean a vulva. In the Civil Rights era, millions marched so that Americans might be judged not by the color of their faces but by the color of their vulvas. If only the apartheid regime in South Africa had thought to issue their citizenry with vulva-colored hats. Hallelujah!

Unfortunately, the Women’s March in Pensacola is having no truck with celebrating divulvaversity, as they explained in a post helpfully labeled…

Trigger Warning and Content Warning for comments: Transphobia, Cissexism, Racism, mention of Sexual Assault, Genital Mutilation, Misogyny and Trans-Misogyny.

They’re not kidding:

The Pink P*ssy Hat reinforces the notion that woman = vagina and vagina = woman, and both of these are incorrect.

Exactly. These days it’s entirely random. You never know what you’re getting into. As I noted a couple of years back, since the two sexes became multiple genders, and “transsexuals” became “transgenders”, and “sex change” became “gender fluidity,” some 60 per cent of transgender persons now retain their original genitalia. For example, my compatriot Gabrielle Tremblay won a Canadian Screen Award for Best Supporting Actress for a film in which she showed her penis.

“Her penis”: See how easy it is to get with the program?

Steyn goes on to posit a darker side to this hilarity: namely, that the fact we’re even lending an ear to such lunatic-fringe nonsense at all signals a tremendous victory for the cultural Marxists. To wit:

The cult-Marxists have remade almost everything in society, and detaching the sex organs from the sexes is the final decisive victory: Once “the notion that woman = vagina and vagina = woman” is up for grabs, there really isn’t anything left to demolish.

A fair enough assertion, I guess, in and of itself. I suppose Steyn’s serious reflection here calls for some at least slightly serious analysis from me too, much as I do hate to interrupt the pointing and laughing to do it. So here goes.

I can’t see this “decisive victory” as anything but Pyrrhic in the long run; it can’t help but rebound against the shriekers severely, and that right soon too. Normal, ordinary Americans not in dire need of psychiatric help will go along with demented thrashing about of the “pussyhat” sort only so far. Especially when it’s accompanied by rabid denunciations of their own more traditional values and standards, coming eventually to be seen as part of an attempt to destroy them.

Which, y’know, it is. Normals have proven themselves by now to be happy enough to leave people on society’s fringes alone to sort out their own issues, as bizarre as some of those issues might be. Much as “liberal” blacks, gay men, lesbians, LGBTXQ39whatthefuckevers, “feminists,” and other melodrama queens like to posture and whine as if there had been no loosening whatsoever of various late-19th-century cultural restrictions, modern American reality is something entirely different.

Ordinary Americans, despite pockets of resistance here and there over the years, are in the main possessed of a forbearance, flexibility, and open-mindedness that speaks quite well of them indeed—especially when compared with, say, the virulent prejudice against blacks still rampant in parts of Asia, or the inflexible hostility to homosexuals or women’s rights in the Muslim world.

But our homegrown nutjobs very scrupulously avoid taking notice of any of that. They are no longer content with mere forbearance, either, having moved on instead to hurling their sundry pathologies in everybody else’s teeth and haranguing Normals with accusations of a “bigotry” and “oppression” that simply do not exist. That mulish, dull-witted, juvenile lack of perspective will only serve to curtail said forbearance with a quickness, likely to be replaced with something that will suit the freaks one whole hell of a lot less.

Amusing Irony Alert: people who lament Trump’s “boorishness” and lack of “decorum” marching around DC in broad daylight…wearing “pussyhats.”

And an aside: Call me an old-fashioned old stick-in-the-mud of an old grouchy old codger if you will. Call me unworldly, call me unsophisticated, call me a hick from the sticks, a rube. Call me delicate, or fussy, or overly fastidious and prim. Call me naive, even, although I assure you you’d be wrong on that one. I’ve been a lot of places, and I’ve seen a lot of things. I’ve skirted danger-close to being what some might consider a libertine myself, at various times and in various ways. I have, in fact, been there and done that. To a much greater extent than most, if I do say so myself.

But one thing I never once imagined seeing, not in a million years I didn’t, was a pussyhat. A hat. Shaped to resemble a pussy—explicitly, no sly subtlety or coyness in design or construction at all, leaving absolutely no room for misinterpretation. Nary a wink, nary a nudge in sight. Worn in full public view, not at a porn industry convention or a NYC Gay Pride parade, not as a tasteless joke of an off-color costume at an adult Halloween party, but in the streets of the nation’s capital. As a political statement, a petition for the redress of grievances as our hallowed Founders put it. By people who expected to be taken seriously rather than made sport of as would be due and proper, or chased off into the night by someone possessed of too much politesse to endure such a breach of etiquette without taking direct action.

Pussyhats. I mean, seriously, you guys.

I still hold that, when you think about it, this endlessly escalating tomfoolery all comes back to the same thing: the hysteric desperation these headcases feel over Trump’s election and his solid progress in keeping his bargain with the American people since he took office. The resultant anguish has driven almost the entirety of the American Left right past the edge of eccentricity or neurosis into genuine madness. The rejection of their disastrous program was a spark that ignited a shrieking, frothing overreaction which I doubt very much they can control or even moderate, no matter how destructive to their ambitions—and to themselves, personally—it will turn out to be.

It’s almost frightening to think about what the response to their coming 2018 shellacking will be. But if things continue along more or less as they have been, it’s almost certain we’re going to find out. And then we’re going to see what that gets them.

My bet? I predicted before he was even elected that there would be more assassination attempts against Trump than any president in history. After the midterms, if the shellacking I anticipate comes to pass and Left whackadoodles find themselves soundly thumped once again (UNEXPECTED!™), look for those to start in earnest, as an even more penetrating despair and hopelessness settles in deep at the ol’ Ha Ha Hotel and the more, umm, proactive inmates figure they have nothing left to lose.

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Happy New Year piss-soaked nightmare!

Yeah, yeah, I know I’m probably going to Hell for finding this story so gut-bustingly hilarious.

But still.

Standing on your feet for hours during the freezing cold, not having a single sip of water because there’s no restroom to relieve yourself, and being crushed on all sides by strangers sounds hellish — but some 2 million people do it willingly every year.

Indeed, there are no port-a-potties, and local businesses turn away revelers in need, as Jeryl Lippe learned the hard way.

When the 22-year-old from Mahwah, NJ, hit Times Square with her boyfriend, Gabriel, four years ago, she smuggled in vodka in a water bottle. (Alcohol, along with large bags and umbrellas, is forbidden; plus, Lippe was underage.) She didn’t eat anything other than a breakfast bagel, and didn’t have her illicit drink until the end of the day. But, “by the time it was turning midnight, I had drunk a lot and was desperate to go to the bathroom,” said the junior social-media editor. “I tried to find someplace to go — hotels, restaurants,” she said, but she was denied.

One of the more unpleasant realities of life in NYC is that there are just about NO public toilets, male, female, or 37 Flavors Of Diverse Undecided. Other than the ones in the subway, that is, most of which aren’t exactly…welllll, let’s just say you’re way better off just pissing in the street. Which, late in the night after the bars have closed, is exactly what a lot of desperate folks, filled to the ears with booze and their back teeth afloat, end up doing.

Yes, me too. Plenty of times, in fact.

A telling aside: in Little Richard’s autobiography, he waxes rhapsodic about his days hanging out in the Times Square subway stop men’s room trolling for prospective blowjob recipients. It’s a testament to his encompassing kinkiness (legendary among older rock and rollers, by the way; Richard, bless his perverted little heart, was way beyond either gay or straight, long before anybody even thought of the term “omnisexual”) that it comes off as one of the tamer stories in the book.

It’s also as good a reason as anyone not within reach of Richard’s exalted level of buck-wild should ever need for resolving to stay out of the place at all costs. Perhaps even worse yet, that was back in the tamer, politer, and supposedly sexually-repressed (yeah, right) 50s. I very much doubt environmental conditions have improved in there since.

Alvarado recalled how one of his friends gave up and urinated in the street, adding, “I’ve heard stories of people who wear [adult] diapers.”

Yeah uh huh, no. I assure you most sincerely: NOT. It ain’t worth it. I have no intention of putting on adult diapers until I absolutely must, thank you very much. And once I do, I’ll be in them for good. I damned sure ain’t gonna make that depressing capitulation in order to see a ball drop after long, long hours of being squeezed in cheek by jowl amongst a bunch of yahoos freely pissing themselves and each other the whole while. The smell alone would be disincentive enough for me.

In all the time I’ve spent over the years in NYC, both as resident and visitor, I was never once even tempted to do the Times Square NYE thing. Part of the reason for that is probably the time I went to Herald Square for the Thanksgiving Day parade back in the 80’s. It wasn’t as hellish as the Post story makes NYE sound—barely—but it was certainly bad enough: packed in like sardines, freezing-ass cold, and hardly even able to catch more than a glimpse of the parade over the heads of my fellow victims. Afterwards, as the great mass of humanity started to try to edge out of the mob any way they could, it took about an hour to get to the subway station a half a block away.

It was bad enough, in fact, that when I was living there years later my girlfriend’s older sister, who was a Macy’s exec with a bit of clout, offered us much-coveted seats in the grandstand for the parade one year. We turned her down politely, firmly, and without a moment’s hesitation.

I have never once rued that decision.

I was much younger and more adventurous back then, too. Nowadays, I don’t usually stay up til midnight on New Years’ at all, and can’t even be bothered to watch any of the New Years’ Eve TV specials when I do. For years, the band would be playing every New Years’ Eve, since on that night even a half-assed, lower-tier outfit can expect to make three or four times as much as they would any other day of the year. On the rare occasions we weren’t playing that night, a quiet evening at home seemed like just the thing—something of a vacation, almost. It’s a tradition I’m happy to go on upholding, for as long as I last.

Happy New Years? Bah. Humbug.

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The Kwanzaa con

Fake news holiday.

BLACKS IN AMERICA have suffered an endless series of insults and degradations, the latest of which goes by the name of Kwanzaa.

Ron Karenga (aka Dr. Maulana Ron Karenga) invented the seven-day feast (Dec. 26-Jan. 1) in 1966, branding it a black alternative to Christmas. The idea was to celebrate the end of what he considered the Christmas-season exploitation of African Americans.

Now, the point: There is no part of Kwanzaa that is not fraudulent. Begin with the name. The celebration comes from the Swahili term “matunda yakwanza,” or “first fruit,” and the festival’s trappings have Swahili names — such as “ujima” for “collective work and responsibility” or “muhindi,” which are ears of corn celebrants set aside for each child in a family.

Unfortunately, Swahili has little relevance for American blacks. Most slaves were ripped from the shores of West Africa. Swahili is an East African tongue.

To put that in perspective, the cultural gap between Senegal and Kenya is as dramatic as the chasm that separates, say, London and Tehran. Imagine singing “G-d Save the Queen” in Farsi, and you grasp the enormity of the gaffe.

Worse, Kwanzaa ceremonies have no discernible African roots. No culture on earth celebrates a harvesting ritual in December, for instance, and the implicit pledges about human dignity don’t necessarily jibe with such still-common practices as female circumcision and polygamy. The inventors of Kwanzaa weren’t promoting a return to roots; they were shilling for Marxism. They even appropriated the term “ujima,” which Julius Nyrere cited when he uprooted tens of thousands of Tanzanians and shipped them forcibly to collective farms, where they proved more adept at cultivating misery than banishing hunger.

Even the rituals using corn don’t fit. Corn isn’t indigenous to Africa. Mexican Indians developed it, and the crop was carried worldwide by white colonialists.

That’s from a classic old column by the late great Tony Snow, laying bare the whole disgraceful swindle. I don’t give enough of a shit about the worthless tool to bother looking it up, but I’d be willing to bet almost anything that the “Dr” in Ron Malingerer’s asserted nom de fraud is as big a shuck-and-jive as everything else associated with him is.

Oh, and need I even mention the Kwanzaa Kreep himself is a woman-torturing psycho, too? In sum:

It is hard to understand why anybody would want to follow a violent felon, in a made-up holiday that mistakes racism and segregation-ism for spirituality, and fiction for history.

Because they’re fucking chumps, that’s why. With a capital C-H-U-M-P, in big bold letters so nobody makes any mistakes about it.

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Off with her head!

Sheila Jackson Lee is an asshole.

The Democrat has developed a reputation for making life hell for any clerk, stewardess, or pilot unwilling or unable to make her three-and-a-half-hour flight anything less than glamorous. She takes advantage of federal travel perks to book multiple flights (only to cancel at the last minute and at no charge). She demands an upgrade to premier seats. She expects, in her words, “to be treated like a queen.”

Never a Henry the Eighth around when you really need one.

Sometimes it gets ugly. For instance, when one peasant of a flight attendant failed to serve the food Jackson Lee requested, the congresswoman went wild. “Don’t you know who I am?” she reportedly shrieked. “I’m Congresswoman Sheila Jackson Lee. Where is my seafood meal? I know it was ordered!”

That inflight incident was in 1998, and Jackson Lee has only increased in seniority since. She sits on the Committee on Homeland Security and she serves as the ranking member of the subcommittee on transportation security, no doubt, giving her even more sway over the airlines and even more of a reason to feel entitled.

She has no reason whatsoever to feel entitled except for her status as a pig-ignorant, arrogant minion of an overgrown and too-powerful government. Without that insidious prop, as I always say, she’d be cleaning hotel rooms or manning a drive-thru window somewhere, which would be a much better fit for her level of intelligence and ability (ahem). Although her foul temperament means she’d be incompetent at that too.

Read the rest, and be cheered by the fact that at long last we have a President attempting to do something about the Deep State that empowers and emboldens nasty little excrescences like Lee.

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Unmanned

Call it cowardice, call it passivity, call it the New Normal, call it whatever you like.

When another Canadian director, James Cameron, filmed Titanic, what most titillated him were the alleged betrayals of convention. It’s supposed to be “women and children first”, but he was obsessed with toffs cutting in line, cowardly men elbowing the womenfolk out of the way and scrambling for the lifeboats, etc. In fact, all the historical evidence is that the evacuation was very orderly. In reality, First Officer William Murdoch threw deckchairs to passengers drowning in the water to give them something to cling to, and then he went down with the ship – the dull, decent thing, all very British, with no fuss. In Cameron’s movie, Murdoch is seen to take a bribe and murder a third-class passenger. (The director subsequently apologized to the First Officer’s home town in Scotland and offered £5,000 toward a memorial. Gee, thanks.) Pace Cameron, the male passengers gave their lives for the women, and would never have considered doing otherwise. “An alien landed” on the deck of a luxury liner – and men had barely an hour to kiss their wives goodbye, watch them clamber into the lifeboats and sail off without them. The social norm of “women and children first” held up under pressure.

And then there’s Ben Guggenheim:

Millionaire ‘wouldn’t leave mixed-race valet who would have been denied place on lifeboat’

It was one of the most haunting tales to emerge from the Titanic disaster.

While others rushed to the lifeboats as the ship sank, millionaire Benjamin Guggenheim stoically sat sipping brandy with his personal secretary Victor Giglio, declaring they were ‘prepared to go down like gentlemen’.

‘No woman shall be left aboard this ship because Ben Guggenheim was a coward,’ he told a survivor.

Now THERE was a man worth admiring, behavior worth emulating, and a standard worth aspiring to. Today’s mewling, slope-shouldered, steer-cotted Pajama Boys…eh, not so much. Back to Steyn.

At the École Polytechnique, there was no social norm. And in practical terms it’s easier for a Hollywood opportunist like Cameron to trash the memory of William Murdoch than for a Quebec filmmaker to impose redeeming qualities on a plot where none exist. In Polytechnique, all but one of the “men” walk out of that classroom and out of the story. Only Jean-François acts, after a fashion. He hears the shots…

…and rushes back to save the girl he’s sweet on?

No, he does the responsible Canadian thing: He runs down nine miles of windowless corridor to the security man on duty and tells him all hell’s broken loose.

So the security guard rushes back to tackle the nut?

No, he too does the responsible Canadian thing: He calls the police. More passivity. Polytechnique’s aesthetic is strangely oppressive – not just a “male lead” who can’t lead, but a short film with huge amounts of gunfire yet no adrenaline.

Whenever I write about this issue, I get a lot of emails from guys scoffing, “Oh, right, Steyn. Like you’d be taking a bullet. You’d be pissing your little girlie panties,” etc. Well, maybe I would. But as my compatriot Kathy Shaidle put it:

When we say ‘we don’t know what we’d do under the same circumstances’, we make cowardice the default position.

I prefer the word passivity – a terrible, corrosive, enervating passivity. Even if I’m wetting my panties, it’s better to have the social norm of the Titanic and fail to live up to it than to have the social norm of the Polytechnique and sink with it.

The New Progressivist Man ain’t much of one, if you ask me. I shudder at the very thought of my daughter ever ending up with one of these twee, degenerate little pantywaists.

But the devolution of men, real men, into feeble, whimpering little milksops is yet another one of those things that was neither accident nor coincidence. It was done to us on purpose, with malice aforethought: the howling denigration of all things manly, the shrieks of “toxic masculinity” we hear so much of nowadays, didn’t begin yesterday. It all started as a quiet but steady drumbeat, just background noise at first, and built to the current crescendo over decades.

Pajama Boy, after all, makes a much more malleable and complacent little Ward O’ The Almighty State, you know, and is unlikely in the extreme to ever offer the slightest resistance to its encroachment. In fact, he’s way more likely to demand it instead; to him, the prospect of the Big Nanny superstate isn’t disturbing but comforting.

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Small man, big mouth

No class, no integrity, no intellect, no clue.

American democracy is fragile, and unless care is taken it could follow the path of Nazi Germany in the 1930s.

Mixed in with many softer comments, that was the somewhat jaw-dropping bottom line of Barack Obama last night as, in a Q&A session before the Economic Club of Chicago, the Chicagoan who used to be president dropped a bit of red meat to a hometown crowd that likely is a lot closer to him than the man whose name never was mentioned: President Donald Trump.

The danger is “grow(ing) complacent,” Obama said. “We have to tend to this garden of democracy or else things could fall apart quickly.”

That’s what happened in Germany in the 1930s, which despite the democracy of the Weimar Republic and centuries of high-level cultural and scientific achievements, Adolph Hitler rose to dominate, Obama noted. “Sixty million people died…So, you’ve got to pay attention. And vote.”

Hey, if Trump is Literally Hitler™ as the empty suit is implying, then can we say that Obama is Literally Stalin™ now? ‘Cause it’s a damned sight closer to objective truth than pResident Shitstain’s cheap little smear is.

Why, oh why won’t the miserable little ball of nothing just dry up and blow away already?

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Drop dead

Democrat Socialist abuser of women John Conyers runs for a hidey-hole.



Guess the Democrat Socialist Men Behind The Curtain decided it would be better to give this reprobate the bum’s rush off Stage Left right quick, before he does any more damage. Al “Fish Lips” Franken, too, is reportedly considering seeking “help” as a useful deflection, as are Weinstein and Spacey.

Problem is, though, these serial shitheads don’t NEED therapy. They knew perfectly well that what they were doing was wrong; they suffered no confusion whatever about that, as is evidenced by their trying to keep their grubby indecencies under wraps and well-hidden all along. No, the real problem is that they fully expected to get away with it.

And considering the usual protective circling of the liberal wagons around at least the politicians among ’em that we’re seeing, one can only conclude that their assumption of invulnerability is correct. For now, anyway. We’ll see if their brazen strategy works out as they expect it to in the long term. One thing is certain: any self-respecting woman who would even dream of voting for a member of this filthy party after these revelations is a damned fool.

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Is EVERY “liberal” a sick, weenie-wagging, perverted abuser of women?

Apparently so, yeah.

As the co-host of NBC’s “Today,” Matt Lauer once gave a colleague a sex toy as a present. It included an explicit note about how he wanted to use it on her, which left her mortified.

On another day, he summoned a different female employee to his office, and then dropped his pants, showing her his penis. After the employee declined to do anything, visibly shaken, he reprimanded her for not engaging in a sexual act.

He would sometimes quiz female producers about who they’d slept with, offering to trade names. And he loved to engage in a crass quiz game with men and women in the office: “f—, marry, or kill,” in which he would identify the female co-hosts that he’d most like to sleep with.

These accounts of Lauer’s behavior at NBC are the result of a two-month investigation by Variety, with dozens of interviews with current and former staffers. Variety has talked to three women who identified themselves as victims of sexual harassment by Lauer, and their stories have been corroborated by friends or colleagues that they told at the time. They have asked for now to remain unnamed, fearing professional repercussions.

On Wednesday, NBC announced that Lauer was fired from “Today.”

Couldn’t happen to a nicer asshole. Except, perhaps, this one:



I nurture an especial loathing for Keillor, who has to be pretty much the pluperfect example of the smug, sanctimonious, self-righteous, arrogant Progressivist. The greasy unctuousness that drips like hot bacon fat from his every spoken syllable has always grated on me something awful, and I look forward to seeing the fatuous pig twisting in the wind for days to come yet, as more and more accusers find their courage and crawl out from under the rock he crushed them under.

Better put some Powdermilk Biscuit flour on that, fat boy.

Update! Creep confessional.

In 1994, Keillor addressed the National Press Club and defended Bill Clinton against a battery of accusations, calling him a “soulful man” who “got himself elected without scaring people.” Keillor warned that society should try “not to make the world so fine and good that you and I can’t enjoy living in it.”

He added in his hangdog baritone: “A world in which there is no sexual harassment at all, is a world in which there will not be any flirtation. A world without thieves at all will not have entrepreneurs.” Twenty-three years later — amid a reckoning of workplace behavior that has felled politicians, TV anchors and Hollywood heavies — a viewer is left to wonder: Was Keillor being straight, or satirical?

In 1998 Keillor wrote “Wobegon Boy,” a novel about a radio host who is wrongly accused of sexual harassment and fired by his station.

On Tuesday, the day before his firing, The Washington Post published his opinion piece ridiculing the idea that Sen. Al Franken (D-Minn.) should resign over allegations of sexual harassment.

Calls for Franken’s head are “pure absurdity,” Keillor wrote, “and the atrocity it leads to is a code of public deadliness.”

Keillor, an avowed Democrat, last year became a weekly columnist for The Washington Post News Service and Syndicate — meaning he was a contract writer, not an employee with a desk in the newsroom. Many of his columns took mournful aim at President Trump, who “would have enjoyed the 17th century,” when “the idea of privileged sexual aggression was common in high places.”

Man, irony just doesn’t come much richer or more toothsome than that. Twist, twist, and writhe, you double-dealing blowhard. You readers can rest assured I’m going over the above-mentioned WaPo piece on Franken right now, and will be back for another savory bite of greasy long-pig soon as I’m done with it.

(Via David Bernstein)

Meh update! Surprisingly, it’s a very brief and almost perfunctory piece, although in light of what we know now it DOES have a distinct flavor of self-serving desperation lurking under the crust of overcooked wordplay. Keillor starts off with a so-so riff on the potential risks and rewards of renaming—one Francois-Marie Arouet (who went on to renown under the pen-name Voltaire) in particular—which pointless perambulation brings him staggering round at last to the meat of it, such as it is:

That name worked out well for Francois-Marie — it lent an electricity to his work. For example, his statement: “Any one who has the power to make you believe absurdities has the power to make you commit injustices.” We might not believe that coming from a Francois-Marie. And how considerate of him to say it in English rather than French.

The greatest absurdity of our time is You Know Whom, which goes without saying but I will anyway. What his election showed is that a considerable number of people, in order to demonstrate their frustration with the world as it is, are willing to drive their car, with their children in the back seat, over a cliff, smash the radiator, bust an axle and walk away feeling good about themselves. No other president in modern times has been held in contempt by a preponderance of people from the moment he said, “So help me, God.” The playboy blather, the smirk of privilege, the stunning contempt for factual truth — how can the country come together when the president has nothing in common with 98 percent of the rest of us?

And then there is Sen. Al Franken. He did USO tours overseas when he was in the comedy biz. He did it from deep in his heart, out of patriotism, and the show he did was broad comedy of a sort that goes back to the Middle Ages. Shakespeare used those jokes now and then, and so did Bob Hope and Joey Heatherton when they entertained the troops. If you thought that Al stood outdoors at bases in Iraq and Afghanistan and told stories about small-town life in the Midwest, you were wrong. On the flight home, in a spirit of low comedy, Al ogled Miss Tweeden and pretended to grab her and a picture was taken. Eleven years later, a talk show host in LA, she goes public, and there is talk of resignation. This is pure absurdity, and the atrocity it leads to is a code of public deadliness. No kidding.

Franken should change his name to Newman and put the USO debacle behind him and then we’ll change frankincense to Febreze. Remove the slaveholder Washington from our maps, replacing him with Wampanoag, and replace Jefferson, who slept with Sally Hemings — consensual? I doubt it — with Powhatan, and what about the FDR Drive in New York, named for a man who was unfaithful to his wife? Let’s call it RFD and let it go at that.

Man, the “everybody does it” self-justification rises off that like a bad, bad odor.

“Playboy blather” indeed, you son of a bitch; “nothing in common with 98 percent of the rest of us”—except of course YOU. You, and all of Hollywood, and your precious Democrat-Socialist swamp-dwellers, too.

And all Trump did was TALK about it, stating something everybody knows is the simple truth: that wealth and fame allow a man to get away with a lot that he wouldn’t otherwise. You and your fellow power-abusing pustules didn’t talk about it. You DID it.

You want Trump crucified for merely talking about the very things you and your precious “icons” HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN DOING ALL ALONG—and even have the big, brass balls to say so in the course of defending one of your own for doing it in this article. Worse, you all have actually been doing it while claiming to be “feminists”—priggishly lecturing us “toxic masculinity” troglodytes on our supposed “misogyny” while you have your unseen hand up some poor girl’s skirt against her will, without her consent, and to her outrage and horror.

Yeah, well, FUCK YOU, gasbag. Every last stinking, insufferable one of you. Period fucking dot. As the great Larry Brown once hilariously fantasized saying to a publisher who had rejected him: I wish I had you down here. I’d whip your ass. I’d stomp a mudhole in your ass and walk it dry.

Despicable, certainly. One can only stand in awe of their boundless gall, even as one chokes back the rising gorge over their deplorable lack of shame or decency.

Well, that, and enjoy their public humiliation while we eagerly await the next round, I mean.

Of course, the most delicious part of all remains unchanged: for all their high sanctimony before, now that all of Hollywood, most of Democrat Socialist DC, and even the world of “journalism” stands exposed, they still have, what?

Judge Roy Moore. One guy—ONE—against entire INDUSTRIES of Progressivist gropers, weenie-waggers, pervs, and pud-pullers. Let’s just run a list, which I won’t even pretend is comprehensive: Weinstein. Clinton, of course. Gore. Conyers. Franken. NPR chief editor David Sweeney. Takei. Louis CK. Keillor. Weiner. Spacey. Charlie Rose. Glenn Thrush. Halperin. James Toback. Brett Ratner. John Lasseter. Go back further than this recent tsunami, if you like, to Ted Kennedy: the Lion of the Senate, inspiration and role model, grandfather to them all.

All proud liberals—ALL. Against…what?

Judge Roy Moore. That’s it. He’s the only one. And the already-questionable allegations against him are holding less and less water by the day.

Enjoy this? Oh, you just bet your sweet ass I am. And if you’re a liberal female and are all butthurt now, perceiving my turning of that last phrase as some kind of microaggression against you, well, call a fucking cop, sweetcheeks.

Seriously, though, I must admit that I mostly agree with Keillor’s premise in his article above: I do think the stultified, juiceless world foisted on us by Progressivist political correctness—the lunatic boundaries their idea of what constitutes “sexual harassment” have drawn around us all—is neither a pleasant nor a desirable one. Would I prefer that we were all less uptight, more tolerant, more hardy and unflappable, less quick to take offense, more forgiving, more able to act like big boys and girls when it comes to such things? Sure I would.

Which doesn’t imply that I think there ain’t real, true harassment going on out there, mind. It also doesn’t mean I think it shouldn’t be swatted down vigorously and punished righteously when it’s exposed, each and every time, no matter who does it. It’s abuse of power; it’s preying on women, plain and simple, and it shouldn’t be tolerated. As a man and not a Pajama Boy pusscake, I believe protecting the women in my life from true predatory animals is one of my noblest and most compelling duties, and I have no qualms whatever about doing it. I owe my precious daughter that much, if no one else, and I swore to myself a long time ago that I would NOT fail her.

As has been said about other things, though: in a world where everything is sexual harassment, nothing is. All of the egregious behavior by the Progtard “icons” listed above rises (or sinks) to a reasonable, credible standard of harassment and abuse, and may God have mercy on the Franken or Lauer who dares do such to my little girl, because I surely won’t. On the other hand, innocent flirtation, say (unless it’s unwanted or excessive, or persists after a clear and calmly-stated request to knock it off); asking a co-worker out for drinks after work; an awkward, perhaps even drunken declaration of infatuation after a few of those drinks—ehhh, not so much, I’m thinking.

These are all things that those of us with a functioning moral compass can recognize as minor irritations at worst, certainly not just causes for hysteria, law-enforcement intervention, or psychotherapy. The critical flaw in the Progressivist approach is their usual lack of any sense of proportion, their complete inability to apply common sense to any problem or situation. That, combined with their bone-deep, reflexive penchant for seeking legislative, big-government solutions to anything and everything is why they find themselves in such deep doo-doo now. Which is no more than they deserve, the dopes.

But maybe the real long-term harm in what Progressivists have done is to make it probable that at least some bona-fide allegations of harassment or abuse won’t be taken seriously— that they end up numbing us to all such things so thoroughly as to render us uninterested in reacting appropriately to cases of real abuse. As with their shrieks of “Nazi!” at anyone who disagrees with them slightly, they may end up removing all force and impact from the term. Only time will tell on that, I guess.

For the moment, though, it’s time to enjoy another self-inflicted sucking chest wound, and to help ensure it’s as grievously and permanently injurious to them as possible. As with everything else, they’ve politicized sexual abuse, and are now being amusingly hoist once again on their own petard. This is the world they wanted; this is the world they made, and we all have to live in it. To fail to rigorously enforce their own rules against them, especially when it will do such great harm to them, is a mug’s game. It’s exactly what they expect of us right now, in truth—they’re counting on it; you can see that from the excuses they’re already so audaciously making for Franken, Lauer, and Conyers.

Hell with that. They’re your juices, libtards. Stew in ’em, till you’re fucking well done.

We’re gonna need more popcorn, looks like.

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Welcome back!

To the Senate, that is, for the Democrat Socialist Party’s new Lion Of The Senate, diligently following in the soiled footsteps of the old one. One can only imagine how thrilled the victims of his unwanted attentions are to see that this noble servant is back to Doing The People’s Business all over any helpless female in arm’s reach without suffering any real punishment for his perverted assaults whatsoever. Call it justice, liberal-fascist style.

Clearly, though, the New Lion Of The Senate has learned much from national exposure of his warped proclivities:

If you had asked me two weeks ago, would any woman come forward with an allegation like this, I would have said no. So I cannot speculate. This has been a shock and it has been extremely humbling. I am embarrassed. I feel ashamed. What I’m going to do is I’m going to start my job and go back to work. I am going to work as hard as I can for the people of Minnesota and start that right now. Thank you all. Thank you.

And with that terse slap in the face for his victims, the oozing pustule walked off in the sure knowledge that this scandal will now be buried and forgotten by his friends in the liberal media establishment. They, too, are just doing their jobs: protecting Democrat Socialists by any means they can contrive.

As another invulnerable liberal icon once so hubristically scoffed: guilty as hell. Free as a bird.

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War on women

There’s a phrase for it: hoist on their own petard.

Mike Pence has been derided by liberals for his “open door” rule, refusing ever to meet alone with a woman other than his wife, but the wisdom of his policy is revealed every time we see a new headline about the wicked behavior of men like Harvey Weinstein, Brett Rattner, Al Franken, Glenn Thrush, Louis C.K., James Toback, Kevin Spacey, Charlie Rose, Michael Oreskes, John Lasseter, Mark Halperin, on and on and on.

There is no doubt that the Sexual Harassment Apocalypse will also destroy some Republicans — new allegations against Roy Moore seem to emerge every day — but on balance, these exposures mainly involve liberal men in politics, journalism and Hollywood. This is deeply ironic, of course, because Democrats campaigned in 2012 on the claim that there was a Republican “War on Women,” Hillary Clinton made feminist “empowerment” a major theme of her campaign in 2016, and it was only because Hillary lost that we have now entered this climate where feminists are willing to pour gasoline all over the machinery of male Democrat power, strike a match and burn it to the ground.

You can thank the 63 million Trump voters for this “empowerment.”

True. You can be damned sure that we’d never have heard a peep about any of this if they had somehow contrived to drag Sick Hillary!™ over the finish line. And that’s by far the least of many bullets we dodged because of their humiliating failure. Just one more thing to give thanks for today.

Bad people do bad things, and it is not really surprising that Harvey Weinstein is a monster.

Now these monsters are being hunted down by their former feminist “allies,” and all the power and money in the world cannot save them.

Karma is a bitch, they say. And what a deeply ironic bitch she is.

Indeed she is. Ruthless, too, and no respecter of either persons or their power status.

(Via Insty)

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Sexual assault/harrassment/groping accusations officially jump the shark

Annnnd I think we’re just about all done with this now.

Several women have accused porn legend Ron Jeremy of sexual assault.

This would seem to be a serious story, not a parody or spoof. No, really, I mean it.

The allegations against Jeremy, which date back more than 30 years, gained traction when adult star Ginger Banks released a video in June 2017 detailing several allegations of sexual misconduct against Jeremy from other adult stars, as well as fans.

Jeremy didn’t take Banks’ campaign against him lightly.

“For over 40 years fans and fellow performers pay money and wait in long lines to meet me. They want autographs, pictures, to flirt with me, physically grab me in different areas (usually my clothed penis), they ask me to touch them and many ask to have me sign their boobs,” he told Rolling Stone in a statement. “When I take photos with fans and other performers at these conventions, signings or events, I do sometimes kiss people on the lips or the cheek, sign boobs or whatever they want. There is ‘put on’ flirting and touching for the photos. This is exactly what people pay me for at conventions.

Emphasis mine here and throughout the rest of the excerpt. And, y’know, kind of, umm, important.

However, Jeremy was accused of more than groping.

Former adult star Jennifer Steele accused Jeremy, 64, of raping her twice in 1997.

“He started off being really handsy,” Steele told Rolling Stone in a feature released Wednesday. “That was one of the things I looked back at being like, ‘I should’ve known.’”

Jeremy reportedly told Steele that he booked a photoshoot for her in which she would simulate sex. Steele alleged that during the photoshoot, Jeremy told her he needed to look at her to prepare for the shoot and he allegedly assaulted her for the first time.

“It turned into him basically sticking it in without me knowing it was happening,” Steele alleged.

Uh huh. Ron Jeremy is famous for having around a 14-inch cock; in fact, it’s how he became a well-known porn star in the first place. I most assuredly do NOT have any such thing—despite which shortcoming, I never once “stuck it in” anybody “without their knowing it was happening,” if the responses from my, uhh, co-conspirators is any indication. Unless this woman has a vagina so worn and abused that it gapes and audibly flaps in the slightest breeze, amounting to a crevasse of Grand Canyon-esque proportions, the idea that she was even partially penetrated by an appendage physically comparable to a fireplug or a toddler’s arm “without her knowing” is preposterous.

“I said flat-out no…He doesn’t hear no. He just kinda keeps going and pretends like you didn’t say anything.”

“During the whole photo shoot I was thinking, ‘Was I just raped?”

No. No, you most definitely were not. If you were, then the word no longer has any meaning at all.

As a result, Steele says she agreed to stay at Jeremy’s apartment that night, but claims she told him she had a boyfriend and wouldn’t consent to any sexual activity with Jeremy and that he raped her again that night.

You weren’t raped that time either; see bold portion above for a useful clue as to why not. Jeremy’s response to this horseshit on stilts is pithy, blunt, and perfectly correct:

Jeremy denied the allegations, telling the magazine, “Why would she decide to go to her rapist’s home? Give me a f—king break.

Indeed. That anybody would take such crap seriously for even a moment demonstrates just how extreme our Progressivist-inspired torment of the language has become…which, as I always insist, is another thing that didn’t happen by accident, coincidence, or happenstance. Another good Jeremy response:

Another adult film star, Julia Ann, accused Jeremy of forcefully trying to give her a leg massage without her consent in 2011 at a Hedonism II convention in Jamaica. A colleague confirmed Ann had confided in him about the incident.

“I don’t fear him costing me work. He’s not in a position of power,” Ann explained. “What is more fearful to me and more upsetting to me is me saying something and everyone looking at me and going, ‘But that’s Ron.’”

Jeremy dismissed Ann’s claim, telling Rolling Stone, “Someone claimed that in Hedonism in Jamaica, which is a nudist swingers resort, I tried to massage their leg years ago? Why is this even in an article?

“As for the charges of Groping, I say yes, I AM A GROPER,” he wrote in an email to Rolling Stone. “And by groper, I mean I get paid to show up to these shows, events, and photo shoots and touch the people and they touch me. I’m not the young stud I was, but I still draw a crowd.

By which action—showing up at a Jeremy event, I mean—these supposed “innocent victims” disqualify themselves from making any accusations of misbehavior on his part. Any CREDIBLE accusations, that is, any accusations to which the response of right ought to be anything more than a scornful bellylaugh.

All of this—repeat, ALL OF IT, from Judge Moore on down—began as nothing more than the latest gambit in the Deep State establishment’s attempt to remove Trump from office, or at least make it impossible for him to govern. Happily, as with all their recent stratagems, it’s all blown up in their faces, with the ludicrous Jeremy farce putting the finishing touch on the scattering of the rubble. They’re little more than clowns at this point, capering and cavorting for our amusement while demanding our serious regard—full of sound and fury, signifying…nothing.

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DANGEROUS SEXUAL PREDATOR MUST BE REMOVED FROM THE SENATE IMMEDIATELY!

Who are you gonna believe, a helpless victim or Al Franken’s hypocritical, lying ass?

US Senator Al Franken has responded to a woman’s allegations that he groped her as she slept and “forcibly” kissed her in a rehearsal for a comedy skit.

Leeann Tweeden says the two incidents happened in December 2006 on a tour to entertain US troops overseas, before Mr Franken entered politics.

The radio host wrote that the former comic “aggressively” kissed her while saying they had to rehearse a scene.

Mr Franken, a former Saturday Night Live writer, apologised for the grope.

I blame the climate of sexual predation and violence against women created by Donald Trump, myself.

But the Minnesota Democrat said he has a different recollection of the kiss.

“I certainly don’t remember the rehearsal for the skit in the same way, but I send my sincerest apologies to Leeann,” he said.

“As to the photo, it was clearly intended to be funny but wasn’t. I shouldn’t have done it.”

If it had been funny, it would have been a first coming from this perverted douchebag.

Update! In fairness to the asshole Franken, it must be admitted that Tweeden sports one hell of a nice rack, and one can easily see how a self-indulgent liberal libertine like him would be powerless to resist the temptation to cop himself a cheap feel while she was safely asnooze.

Hilarious update! Oh, that’s gonna leave a mark: Tweeden says ever since the assault, she’s referred to the odious pig Franken as “Fish Lips.” I hereby pledge to do my humble utmost to see to it that that perfect nickname sticks to him like Gorilla Glue, and that he will forevermore be known around these parts as “Fish Lips Franken,” which you and I both know will do more damage to his bloated ego than just about any other thing imaginable. Better put some ice on that, Al.

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One-way freakery

Well, THIS could sure explain a lot.

During last Tuesday’s minor off-year elections, a glorious total of “eight openly transgender candidates” swept to victory, squashing the hopes and stomping on the necks of transphobic bigots nationwide, who really need to either repent or curl up and die already.

While this is all undoubtedly cause for celebration, for joyously sniffing amyl nitrite and having unprotected felching parties far beneath manholes in urban sewers across this nation, are you noticing a pattern here? Yes, I am, too—all six of these winners were born men—or, if you prefer to sound like a crazy person, had the male gender assigned to them at birth—and decided one day through magical thinking and varying degrees of medical intervention that they were women.

Eight trannies elected to office in one night? That’s good. Only two of them now identify as men? That’s bad—especially if one wants to pretend that gender is fluid. If one even dares to notice a firm statistical pattern that the roaring majority of trannies are men who claim they’re women, one risks subverting the entire Tranny Gospel. If, as the case seems to be nearly everywhere worldwide, the overwhelming majority of people who desire to change their sex are men who seek refuge in womanhood, this might suggest that our current cultural climate offers very few perks for men and plenty for women.

Unfortunately for the egalitarian-minded and those who wish to believe that the current transgender craze is anything more than a reaction to a culture that demonizes maleness, Japan stands as a sole exception to the global one-way tranny stampede, which overwhelmingly involves men proclaiming that they’re women.

Studies in Europe from the 1980s and 1990s found that when it comes to declaring you’re not the “gender you were assigned at birth,” men chose to become women at anywhere from 2.3 to 4 times the clip that women chose to become men. A study in England from the 1970s found that men chose to be women three times as often as women decided to be men.

Even more overwhelmingly lopsided is this Wikipedia page on “Transgender and transsexual politicians.” Of 45 international tranny pols listed, only two were born women. The rest were born men.

I strongly suspect that the current tranny mania which infects and clogs up so much of our popular discussion does not represent some new, bold, post-gender frontier in human development. If it did, the genders would be swapping genitals at an almost equal rate. But since it’s almost entirely male-to-female, I sense it’s nothing more than a cultural reaction to the fact that in the current climate, there’s almost nothing good about being a man.

Y’know, bizarre as it might seem at first blush, I think he just might be onto something here. Makes one wonder a bit what those comparative numbers might have looked like back when the manly virtues were admired, and men were treated with respect rather than revulsion—before the word “masculinity” was always paired with “toxic” or some other epithet.

(Via Steyn)

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Well, there’s no unseeing THIS

Um. Uhh. Errr, uhh…

Ugh.

Ever since the tiny elites who cluster together in tiny swaths of America’s coasts appointed themselves the moral arbiters of an entire nation that they deem to be teeming with inbred Christofascist moral lepers who deserve to be tortured and mocked into extinction, it has been our sincerest wish to see these sheltered pervs unmasked as the corrupt and predatory hypocrites we always knew they were.

For generations now we’ve been forced to endure endlessly pious chest-thumping and relentlessly condescending lectures from HIV-positive waste cases who, if they had a scrap of decency, would have publicly immolated themselves on a glowing funeral pyre made of melted crack pipes.

At the moment the entertainment industry is cannibalizing itself as a result of the sort of entitled arrogance that comes from not realizing that the endless witch hunts whose flames they’ve fanned for decades would eventually burn them at the stake, too.

For this week at least, our greatest pleasure comes in seeing comedian Louis C.K.—the lumpy and physically appalling “conscience of the comedy scene”—unmasked as a fat bald twerp who gets his jollies from masturbating to completion in front of horrified female coworkers.

I repeat: ugh. Also, ick.

Rumors of C.K.’s masturbatory proclivities have circulated for years but were mostly swept under the rug, because the entertainment industry loves few things more than a comedian who can sell out Madison Square Garden while getting everyone to laugh about white degradation and displacement.

However, that pimple finally popped last week when The New York Times ran an article in which five women—only one of them anonymous—accused the physiognomically disadvantaged comic of whipping it out and jerking it while they either watched in stunned horror or listened on the phone with extreme discomfort. During one encounter in a motel room, two accusers say his penis spat forth a quarter-billion ugly little Louis C.K. tadpoles all over his ample belly as they watched in horror.

I always liked Louis C.K. I mean, sure, he’s a garden-variety showbiz liberal and all, but he’s funny, and he seemed like a sincerely committed father who loved his kids—not that this means he doesn’t, of course. He never came off like someone I would have instantly assumed to be afflicted with the same diseased proclivities as the usual round of Hollywood pervs, freaks, and creeps, I’ll say that much. Oh well, so much for all that. By way of (very) minor mitigation, though, there IS this:

Rather than deflecting and denying like so many others, Louis admitted that the accusations were accurate.

Three groans and a half-hearted hat tip to him for owning up right away, I guess. It has the advantage of being both the right thing to do and the smart thing to do; giving the media scandal-vampires the chance to keep the squalid circus staggering along as they bay for blood in proportion to the increasing flaccidity of each successive denial and retraction only prolongs the agony—for all of us, most especially those of us who would just as soon these twisted horndogs keep their kinks to themselves.

And with this latest roll in the Hollywood hogwallow, let’s all hope that the recent spate of distasteful TMI will soon be drawing to a most welcome close. I for one have heard more than I really needed to about all of these people by now; as I said the other day, I don’t find any of it surprising in the least, and I fervently hope that there aren’t going to be any stomach-churning public “scandals” involving, say, Roseanne Barr or Ernest Borgnine forthcoming.

Or, may merciful God forbid, Sandra Bernhard (shudder).

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The Weinstein-Progressivist axis

So I mentioned in one of last night’s posts that I was having a discussion with CF lifer Sam that I’d be bringing up and expanding on in a later post, at his request. His proposition is basically that L’Affaire Weinstein is nothing more nor less than, in his words, “Progressivism writ large.” To wit:

I have been thinking lately about the parallels between progressivism as a whole and the Harvey Weinstein saga. For example most normal thinking people know that the core elements of progressivism are nonsense, yet they go along with it to save jobs, relationships, etc, etc. People are so afraid of the twin howler monkeys of political correctness and leftist dogma. Much the same as the Weinstein stuff was an open secret in Hollywood but the people in the business shielded him to protect themselves from his ability to destroy their jobs and relationships. The Harvey Weinstein saga is progressivism writ large.

On a personal note, I having been greatly enjoying watching all of the sanctimonious bastards in Hollywood be forced to live by their own rules.

I was wondering what your eloquently profane take is on this.

His point is well-taken and damned nigh inarguable on even cursory reflection, but it puts me in mind of another one I’ve been considering ever since the story broke. Actually, for longer than that—ever since every Lefty luminary feigned shock and horror over the Bill Cosby Sleazapalooza “revelations.”

I mentioned at the start of the Weinstein cesspool-dunk that the Hollywood casting couch is hardly some new and startling revelation; it’s been my contention for years that rattling in the closets of any and every successful actor or (especially) actress blessed with even slight physical attractiveness are tawdry skeletons consisting of everything from cheesy nude photos right up to full-on homemade porn flicks, shot right in the offices of producers, directors, and other wielders of Tinseltown power as something of an introductory job interview.

I’ve known quite a few actors over the years, even dated a couple or three—no names you would recognize, other than Marisa Tomei, with whom I had a wee bit more than a nodding acquaintance for a minute there; call it a very casual, occasional, and superficial friendship, and that will be close enough. I have had tiny speaking parts in a couple of movies myself, and even floundered my way through an embarrassingly disastrous reading for the lead-bad-guy role in an indie horror production done by a friend of mine when I was living in NYC which was later picked up for distribution by Troma. With even that limited experience, I can tell you that the ongoing existence and importance of the casting couch to establishing a career in film or TV doesn’t even rise to the level of an open secret among those in the business or associated with it in some more peripheral way.

Here’s the thing, though: it’s not the fact of its existence but the acceptance of that fact that matters here. And despite the current handwringing, it IS accepted—not just by those who control it and enjoy its depraved privileges, but also by those lying back and thinking of England after being forced onto it. Continue reading “The Weinstein-Progressivist axis”

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Treason doth prosper

Aesop ain’t too happy about the Berghdal fiasco.

Six GOOD soldiers died looking for Bergdouche.

The US Army just shit on their graves.

In public. On purpose. Officially.

That should be grounds for Article 134 proceedings against the military judge in this case.

Works for me—especially seeing as how this putz of a judge openly stated that his ruling would be influenced by Trump’s statements about Bergdahl.

While the president already tweeted his displeasure with the sentence, that isn’t nearly enough.

Retire the Army Chief of Staff immediately. He’s lost all control of the organization, clearly.
Ditto for every general officer promoted to that grade between 2009 and 2017.
That military judge and World-Class Puss of All Time front-runner, Col. Jeffrey Nance, needs to be retired immediately today, if not court-martialed himself under Article 134.
If there is some statute under which he might be shot in lieu of Bergdouche, by all means, put him against a wall and open fire. Start at his toes, and work upwards. It might take several magazines to get the job done, but there’s no sense quitting after the first 50 or 100 rounds. Make every other military judge in the JAG Corps watch. 
In person.

And if Sec Army and SecDef can’t manager that level of official displeasure at the rot in the military, just cut to the chase:

Appoint the still-unpunished-five-weeks-later(!) open communist 2LT Spencer Rapone the new Chief of Staff, make the Army’s berets pink, take away their rifles, replace male combat boots with much-deserved red stiletto fuck-me-pumps, issue them crotchless boxer shorts, and put a trapdoor in the back of their issue BDU trousers so that when they surrender from here on out, they can get buttfucked by the enemy without having to unbuckle.

Again: works for me. In fact, given the current politicized state of the military’s more exalted command ranks in particular, why not just give Bergdahl a Medal Of Honor for his “heroism” and be done with it?

I’ve said it before here, and unfortunately I’m sure I’ll say it again: as long as the Left and their GOPe helper-ants are in charge of things, why anybody would consider serving in the American military is well beyond my poor ability to grasp. Who the hell even knows what it is they’re supposed to be laying their lives on the line for at this point.

“A third-rate civilian liberal arts college” update! Rotting from the head—and you better damned well believe it’s related to the rest of this post.

Before you read any further, please understand that the following paragraphs come from a place of intense devotion and loyalty to West Point. My experience as a cadet had a profound impact upon who I am and upon the course of my life, and I remain forever grateful that I have the opportunity to be a part of the Long Gray Line. I firmly believe West Point is a national treasure and that it can and should remain a vitally important source of well trained, disciplined, highly educated Army officers and civilian leaders. However, during my time on the West Point faculty (2006-2009 and again from 2013-2017), I personally witnessed a series of fundamental changes at West Point that have eroded it to the point where I question whether the institution should even remain open. The recent coverage of 2LT Spenser Rapone – an avowed Communist and sworn enemy of the United States – dramatically highlighted this disturbing trend. Given my recent tenure on the West Point faculty and my direct interactions with Rapone, his “mentors,” and with the Academy’s leadership, I believe I can shed light on how someone like Rapone could possibly graduate.

Read the rest of it. It’s…well, it’s just truly, shockingly horrible, is what it is. Vox says:

It was simply silly to believe that the military would magically survive the societal decline that has affected the rest of US society. One could hardly expect that a military that wears high heels, has no standards for its officers, and permits women to serve was going (to) shoot deserters, or even hold them accountable.

The USA is a multi-ethnic empire in rapid decline. It will fall in due course, and almost certainly before most people will believe possible. The God-Emperor is engaged in a heroic endeavor, but unfortunately, his role is almost certainly that of the tragic hero whose brave and inspiring struggle proves insufficient in the end.

Well, we have to hope not. But the overall trends are, shall we say, not encouraging. In fact, if even half of what this West Pointer says is true, “not encouraging” might qualify as the understatement of the millennium.

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No class

Just another despicable “liberal” ghoul, climbing over corpses to make political bank for herself.

Sgt. La David T. Johnson died fighting for his country and our freedoms. Sadly, there is nothing anyone can say to his widow, Myeshia Johnson, to take away her pain.  Even a president who could movingly express the American people’s sense of loss—think President Ronald Reagan’s speech after the Challenger space shuttle disaster—couldn’t restore family members’ personal loss.

President Donald Trump tried and didn’t succeed with Ms. Johnson.  Neither is to blame. She had just received the worst news imaginable.  He wasn’t trained for such a difficult task.

But why is Big Hat Wilson involved?  She said she was “horrified” by what the president said.  Of course, she’s a liberal activist.  Anything he said would have horrified her.  It’s hardly news when she trashes the president.

In fact, she is an experienced practitioner in the politics of demagoguery. The Rhinestone Cowgirl took advantage of an earlier tragedy—the shooting of Trayvon Martin—to score political points.  No one benefited from her attempt to exploit his unfortunate death.

Now, she’s using the same tactic again, only this time taking advantage of the death of American soldiers confronting terrorists in the nation of Niger.

An eminently sane and reasonable piece, this is. Just wait till you see where it’s published. As for the self-proclaimed “rock star” Wilson, fuck her in the liver with a rusty railroad spike. Only someone suffused to the very ears with a truly toxic combination of mindless hatred for her opposition and the grubbiest, most deep-seated personal ambition would ever even dream of exploiting something like this. For all their faults, ain’t it funny how you never see a Republican doing it.

Update! Diplomad on Democrat “patriotism”:

I see that some whacky Congresswoman from Florida, who dresses up like Howdy-Doody for some reason, has gotten all patriotic and is blasting President Trump for being insensitive in his call to the widow of a slain SF soldier, one who died on an operation in Niger. In the course of his condolence call, he apparently used a phrase something like, “He knew what he signed up for.” This phrase has been jumped upon by the Honorable Ms Howdy Doody and the prog media as some sort of insult or insensitivity. It, of course, is a fairly standard phrase when discussing the deaths of heroes, to wit, people who knew the danger but went ahead and did their duty, regardless. The whole thing is obscene, and shows that nothing is off limits for the Progs. I can’t stand when Progs play patriot. The fake just stinks way too much.

Don’t it just. It’s always amazed me how eagerly these pustules will climb up on the coffins of people they’re usually spitting on and reviling as “babykillers” to gain some sort of political advantage. There isn’t a man Jack of them fit to lick the boots of the soldiers they’re using for their own gain. As I said before: despicable.

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Sad!

Just…sad. And THESE are the pathetic slime-molds we let take over and destroy our civilization?

At breakfast, in the glass-towered city of Vancouver, five-year-old Abigail looks glumly at her half-eaten bowl of cereal.

“What is it, honey?” I brush the bangs back from her face.

She lets out a big sigh. “I wish I wasn’t white.”

I start. Nothing in the parenting manuals has prepared me for that.

“All we’ve ever done is hurt people,” she continues. “I wish my skin was dark and that I had a culture.”

We live in a part of the city where immigrant families abound. Our neighbours are homesick, first-generation Mexicans, which means that salsas and pinatas and Aztec legends feature prominently at shared social gatherings. Our family regularly eats in Little India where we gush over the flavours of curry and dhal, and every February, we attend the Chinese New Year parade in the slanting rain. Plus, my husband and I are children of missionaries and harbour an acute guilt for the cultural imperialism of our forebears. To compensate, we’ve raised our children with a deep appreciation of non-Western cultures.

So when Abigail laments the colour of her white skin, part of me is programmed to protest. Is it not my moral obligation to tell her that her feelings of poor self-worth are nothing compared with the psychological ruin of real racism? Girl, everything about Canadian culture weighs in your advantage and you have no right to snivel!

The very fact that such dimwitted twaddle would be the first thing to spring to this useless bint’s mind—putting her insipid liberal politics above her own fucking child, to that child’s obvious detriment—tells you just how despicable she is. Her kind deserves absolutely everything they’re going to get, from Moslem rape gangs to their violent demise at the hands of whatever roving bloodthirsty mob their weak-kneed political-correctness inspires to ultimately come for them. The sight of their charred corpses piled in heaps or their heads on pikes scattered throughout the urban shitholes they infest will inspire nothing more than scornful laughter and a hearty “good riddance” from saner sorts.

Instead, I feel a sadness settle over me. We thought we were raising the enlightened child of the 21st century. We thought we were doing our part in setting the history record straight.

You weren’t setting a damned thing straight, you were leaving out the bits that offended your vapid Progressivism to assuage your own crippled conscience and bolster your overweening smugness. You weren’t teaching history, nor were you “correcting” it. You were corrupting it.

Yet, in doing so, it seems we have robbed our oldest child of something primal to psychological health, something elemental to her well-being as a human being: cultural roots.

I don’t know what to say.

After decades of hectoring, nonstop lectures aimed at your actual moral betters, that would have to be a very welcome first.

Via Vox, who says:

The word “fundamentalist” stems from those who go back to the basics of the religion, back to the fundamentals. It is time for us to become cultural fundamentalists, and our roots are Christianity, the Greco-Roman legacy, and the European nations.

The alternative is this societal suicide in the name of not being called racist. Of all the reasons for a society to die off, this simply must be the most utterly stupid ever witnessed on this planet.

Ain’t THAT the miserable truth.

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(Non)Sense and (In)Sensibility

Our self-styled “elite” emperors aren’t wearing any clothes. In some cases, literally.

Amid the condescension, there are contradictions. So a century-old statue of someone dead a hundred and fifty years who does not conform to the identity-group pieties of 2017 must be torn down – whereas an actual flesh-and-blood human being who does not conform to the identity-group pieties of 2017 can stagger around Hollywood and New York and London and Rome treating women like garbage.

And, more specifically, I see from this week’s Multiplex releases that Hollywood is so exquisitely sensitive that, when it options a novel called The Chinaman, it feels obliged to change it to the far more insipid The Foreigner, lest any, er, man from China take offense at the word “Chinaman”. Is that a Weinstein movie? Did he modify the title? “Geez, we can’t call it The Chinaman, are you crazy? Gimme a minute, I’ll think of something – I’m just finishing up with a Chinabroad from the Shanghai accounts department…”

Once upon a time, the elites chafed under middle-class morality, and found sly workarounds for their darker appetites. Then came liberation. And in the ruins of bourgeois society a new moral hierarchy arose: Dreamers trump citizens, sexual identity trumps religious faith, female empowerment trumps the manly virtues…

And yet, as the case of Harvey Weinstein suggests, in the end nothing much has changed: As the old elite declined to be constrained by middle-class morality, the new elite decline to be constrained by their own purported morality. In the end, it’s still about who has power, and who is disposable. As Lee Smith points out, the truth about Weinstein is only in the papers because Hillary lost. Were President Rodham in the Oval Office, this story could not run – because the First Gentleman has done everything and more that their longtime donor has done.

But then Hillary’s very candidacy makes the same point as Harvey’s drenched pot plant – for, if Democrats believed their own pap about “glass ceilings”, they would have found an Angela Merkel or Helle Thorning-Schmidt or Theresa May or Julia Gillard or Helen Clark or Portia Simpson-Miller, rather than nominating not merely the wife of a former president (which is pure banana republic) but the creepy enabler of the most sociopathic exerciser of droit du seigneur in the modern era (which is even more pathetic). And, as the cherry on top, they saddled her with a slogan that sounds like a pledge of solidarity with sexual-assault victims – “I’m With Her” – but is, in fact, the precise opposite: I’m with Hillary, and Hillary’s with Meryl, and Meryl’s with Harvey, and Harvey’s with that gal from the TV station in the corridor to the kitchen, but once he’s zipped up and returned to the fundraiser, he’ll be with Hillary, too.

Oog. I just threw up in my mouth a little at the very thought of it. Note to all the liberal rapists, molesters, pederasts, gropers, abusers, and general perverts, all of whom tend to be physically as well as morally repulsive: put the damned clothes back on, please.

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Where’s your Pussyhats NOW, Leftards?

Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.

Today is the one-year anniversary of the infamous “Access Hollywood” tape. (I know. It feels more like 10 years ago.)

For days, Americans were subjected to an ongoing audio loop of a private conversation in 2005 between Donald Trump and the show’s co-host, Billy Bush. I don’t need to remind you what Trump said because anyone with a pulse can probably recite it verbatim. Some gals even have hats to commemorate Trump’s secretly recorded, indecent remarks.

The ensuing outrage should have been a clue of how intense, consuming, and exhausting the daily political climate would be under a Trump presidency.

Now, here we are, one year later, and the New York Times just published a bombshell expose about one of Hollywood’s most powerful men, Harvey Weinstein. The lecherous behavior of this disgusting man is one of Hollywood’s worst-kept secrets; no doubt the Times could have an ongoing series of articles about this movie-making, sexual predator. Like many Hollywood moguls, Weinstein parlayed his fortune and influence into political power, becoming a major Democratic party donor and fundraiser. Since 1990, he has contributed more than $1 million to Democratic PACs, officeholders, and candidates, many of whom must have been aware of Weinstein’s reputation as a first-rate vulture.

So, let’s take a little trip down Social Media Lane and see how our virtuous, high-minded celebs who wanted Trump charged with rape a year ago have reacted to the Weinstein story.

Do you hear the crickets? I sure do.

And that’s absolutely ALL you’ll hear, too. Read all of it; Kelly’s conclusion is dead on the money, as is all the rest of it. Limbaugh, too, sees the bigger picture clear as crystal:

But let’s just look, from Ted Kennedy to Bill Clinton to Woody Allen, Bill Cosby to Harvey Weinstein, Anthony Weiner to Eliot Spitzer, they all exploited women without consequence because they were card-carrying members of the liberal establishment, which includes the media and Hollywood and Washington.

Not only are prominent Democrats guilty of egregious hypocrisy when it comes to feminism, they are equally guilty when it comes to environmentalism. Leftists denounce carbon footprints. They denounce the overabundant use of CO2. They routinely shame people for their lifestyles and yet produce volcano sized carbon footprints themselves.

On practically every seminal issue, the Democrats mandate, the left mandates a certain behavior for everybody but themselves. They are always exempted from the punitive policies that they want imposed on everybody else. They claim the sea levels are rising. They’re apoplectic in public crying about rising oceans. They shrewdly buy up beachfront property when the cameras aren’t looking. They live in the very places they claim are going to be underwater in a number of years. They know the sky isn’t falling, and they know the oceans aren’t rising.

Liberalism is a con game. They have no intention of using the same health care system they devise for everybody else. They do everything they can to make sure no law affects them. Affordable health care is the kind of stuff they give us. It’s neither health care nor affordable. It’s a sop to their donors. And it turns out they’re bullies, sexual bullies in the workplace.

Equal pay? Equal pay for women, equal pay here, equal treatment there, look at the way they treat women in Hollywood. Equal pay at the Obama White House? That was a joke. Equal pay at the Clinton Crime Family Foundation? We find out that there is no equality in any of these institutions that the left run. There’s no equality, and there’s no safety. Look at Chicago, look at Detroit, look at places they run.

It’s a giant con game that liberalism has going.

It certainly is. Trust me folks, you’re gonna want to read all of this one too.

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"America is at that awkward stage. It's too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the bastards." – Claire Wolfe, 101 Things to Do 'Til the Revolution

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