I witnessed a murder…

As is usually the case with witnesses of a crime, I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time; although I would never have assumed that the oversized couch in my living room could ever be a crime scene, with the possible exception of some poorly worded, cringe-worthy Dad-puns designed specifically to induce eyerolls from my children. I am the master of this. I’m sure it’s gotta be illegal on some level.

You cannot paint a beautiful existence with only one color on your palette..Jp

No, I had my chubby feet elevated on the coffee table, safely encased in my fuzzy Christmas present slippers, lazily sinking one Oreo after another into my tumbler of chocolate milk when the crime unfolded in front of my very eyes, conveniently delivered to my living room via some such alphabet news channel, the name of which currently eludes me. I sat in horror and sheer disgust as I watched one human slowly squeeze the living essence from another human; defenseless, subdued and begging for his life. How one person can do this to another is a question as old as man’s very existence itself. What type of monsters live among us that have the capacity to do this and how, or indeed can, we ever guard against this most hideous nature of those with whom we share our human heritage?

I saw the replay multiple times over the course of the evening, not bothering to listen to how I was told I should feel about this or what it means from the perspective of those who were working their hardest to educate me that it indicates some issue or flaw in some segment of humanity that I mostly resemble or am responsible for. No, I was still struggling to come to grips with the image of one sadistic, unique representative of our species who was more than willing and determined to end the life of another totally unique representative of that same species.

I suppose I am just as guilty, not only because I am told that I am, but because I failed to see what value there is in making any sort of distinction between the killer and his victim. Would we all have felt some slight relief if the color palette had been reversed? Or maybe if the victim had been a young man of Asian descent? Or possibly some young Italian kid from Brooklyn? Would that have bothered me less, viewing a politically correct murder versus the one I was a witness to? It was a murder nonetheless, a slow deliberate act of kneeling across the airway and blood supply of a unique member of our species at the hands, or in this case the knee, of another. I need no disclaimers beyond that fact, no “perspective” or “context.” I saw pure hatred and pure evil, with no need to adjudicate it further. This S.O.B killed another human and that, in and of itself, is all that matters. The victim is no more or less dead based on his color or the color of his assailant. Maybe I’m too simple a man for all this, maybe all the pundits and looters have insights beyond my capacities, but if you believe that racism is the crime here, then we are as a species, truly the most flawed animals on the planet. You cannot be motivated to kill a person of color without being savage and callous enough to take the life of another human in the first place.

So now the education begins. I’m sure to receive quite the bit of hate mail and persuasion from those who seek to dance on the grave of George Floyd for their own macabre political power play. His death will serve this purpose or that, result in this program or that legislation, none of which will truly address the reality that we are a species that is quite capable of killing on a whim, exploitation of that death notwithstanding. I saw a man in a “position of authority,” sworn to serve and protect, willingly execute an unarmed, shackled and prone suspect, without cause, without trial, without sentence.

Unfortunately, we will never have what the left is always clamoring for, a “real conversation about racism.” To do so would strip away all the importance and the power of that charge, laying us all bare to the fact that indeed, we are all racist whether we can, or wish to admit it or not. I’ve spent the last two weeks listening to pundits on various channels tell me how Derek Chuavin is representative of all police officers, if not of all “white people.” Van Jones is quite sure that I have “a virus in my brain that can be activated in an instant.” If I were to make the same comment regarding Mr. Jones, I would be accused of racism without hesitation. But I’m told that as a white man, I cannot speak about racism because I’m not black. It’s the irony lost on the left when they tell me that “I cannot speak to racism because I’ve never been judged on my race,” as if that sentence is one they’ve been trained to speak like an oath without unpacking the meaning. Because I am of the white race, they judge that I cannot speak about race. But that’s not racist.

So to prove how racist I am, they loot and burn their own cities in honor of George Floyd, chasing away the jobs and opportunities so sorely needed by those they claim to care for; those who have spent hours, blood and sweat to build businesses, livelihoods and homes in areas that will now take decades to recover, if they ever will, ensuring that the next generation of young people, of all colors, suffer in excruciating poverty and hopelessness. And for this, they preen and pose and “speak truth to whatever” in an effort to gain and maintain the power that they have held over the inner cities for the last 50 years of my life, places where it’s taboo to speak about black on black crime lest we show just how truly racist we are. I don’t need to speak about the crime stats, you can look them up yourself and argue against them; they’re not mine, I don’t own them or produce them. And frankly, I don’t care about them. Stats just ensure that we continue to break down our shared existence into convenient buckets of victimization and “I told you so-s” that do nothing more than separate us from our common bonds, our common existence, our common humanity and gives fodder to the worst in all of us; all of us, regardless of color.

Simply put, I witnessed a murder. If you need some type of qualification to make it more or less hideous than it truly is, I can’t help you.

#notyoutoo

It would appear that the New York Times, Allsya Milano and quite probably many others in the left-leaning world of main stream media are finally coming to grips with the implications of the #metoo movement. Maybe “coming to grips” isn’t quite the phrase I’m looking for. Maybe the phrase I’m looking for is “situational application.” The correct application of #metoo and its career ending punishment for those transgressors who qualify appears to be wholly dependent upon the end goal one is seeking to achieve. And right smack in the middle of the hypocritical determination as to who is the antagonist and who can qualify as victim (or hero) depends on the value they can bring to that desired outcome. Again, either “some animals are more equal than others” or “you have to break a few eggs” applies here, one would guess.

Sorry kid, #notyoutoo

Ms. Milano had no concerns about due process when it came to the sympathetic visage of Christine Blasey Ford, as Ms. Milano sat behind the grand inquisitors grilling Justice Kavanaugh, “sending daggers” and quietly mouthing her disdain for the accused the whole time. Due process be dammed, all women are to be believed.

Fast-forward to the accusations by former Biden staffer Tara Reade and well, all bets are off. Whether I believe Ms. Reade or not is inconsequential. She has filed a formal criminal complaint that entitles Mr. Biden to the “due process” others were not entitled to and this lands the left into a bit of a quandary. A woman, a victim, who doesn’t fit the narrative of a woman suffering in silence, a former supporter of a left leaning icon to boot, has accused Ms. Milano’s chosen hero and given Ms. Milano the vapors. What is a person of her intellectual capabilities and highest integrity to do? Backtrack. Or as she puts it; “I’ve been very vocal about Biden and my support for him,” Milano continued. “I don’t feel comfortable throwing away a decent man that I’ve known for 15 years in this time of complete chaos without there being a thorough investigation.” Dam the torpedoes and ones’ character; if the facts don’t support the models, the facts must be ignored. Not all women are to believed, apparently. As I’ve said before, with the left it’s “I’m with her unless I’m not.”

Ms. Milano isn’t alone either. Over the weekend, the venerable (or is that venereal?) New York Times tripped over their own duplicity and let a headline slip through in a vein of truth that they were unaccustomed to. Their original headline read; “No other allegation about sexual assault surfaced in the course of reporting, nor did any former Biden staff members corroborate any details of Ms. Reade’s allegation. The Times found no pattern of sexual misconduct by Mr. Biden, beyond the hugs, kisses and touching that women previously said made them uncomfortable.” (Bolding mine) Upon realizing their unintended act of honest journalism, they quickly pulled their headline and edited it to read; “No other allegation about sexual assault surfaced in the course of reporting, nor did any former Biden staff members corroborate any details of Ms. Reade’s allegation. The Times found no pattern of sexual misconduct by Mr. Biden.” Unfortunately for the Times, the Internet is forever.

So it would appear that the Times has decided that “hugs, kisses and touching that women previously said made them uncomfortable” is no longer a litmus test for #metoo. Or maybe it is, they haven’t made it clear. By ending their last revision with “The Times found no pattern of sexual misconduct by Mr. Biden,” it appears that those behaviors are just ducky; “no harm, no foul.” Or at least, “one of our guys, no foul.” Biden gets a pass then, as the Times found no pattern of what they consider misconduct (although the creepy image of the young girl trying to escape his sniffing fetish still lurks in my mind.)

I don’t care to defend or deride the #metoo movement at all. It always was and will always be, another Alinsky tactic used by the left in the guise of the undying support and concern they have, or want you to believe they have for women. But women are just another powerful voting block to be courted with promises and trinkets provided by the left in the hopes that they can get enough women to move en masse to the left in the voting booth. This is what they think of you. On an individual basis, you’re nothing, your opinion must only reflect theirs or you’re of no use to them what so ever. As long as they can get enough women to stand neatly and quietly in line, your individuality is of no concern to them; unless of course you threaten to disrupt their narrative, possibly making others question the veracity of their arguments too.

Probably the most hideous thing in all of this is the realization many won’t face; that the left is always willing to exploit someone who is suffering, has a tragic tale, pushing them directly into the camera’s gaze, broadcasting their name digitally around the world for the benefit of their own agenda. And every once in a while, they let their masks slip and are forced to deal with the consequence of their own tactics, wondering what to do with the casualties of their own friendly fire.

Their answer is actually simple and quite obvious; change the meaning, pretend it doesn’t apply or basically lie through your teeth. They’ll just move on to the next emotional hashtag they can find to exploit and move on again. No harm, no foul.

May I suggest #notyoutoo ?

 

 

 

 

I’m with her…unless I’m not…

So the DNC debate between Bernie and Ole’ Joe was last night and I’m still trying to figure out what the heck I just watched. I have to keep in mind that there are some very decent folks out there chomping at the bit for either one of these two to grab the golden ring, and for the life of me I don’t really know why.

“if the nesting doll fits..” But which one?

Maybe it was the part about not deporting any criminals in the first one hundred days. I guess the safety of legal citizens doesn’t really matter to voters. Oh, and oil; yes, we will do away with oil and fracking! At least this time when they both talked about destroying the energy sector, they didn’t look into the camera and tell all the oil workers, coal miners and others in the field to “learn to code.”

There seemed to be an awful lot of space on that stage, however. Makes one wonder why the DNC went so far out of its way to exclude the only woman left in the race. Odd that, seeing as how at any other time, the press would be bleating on mercilessly about sexism and misogyny, yaddi yaddi yadda. Of course, the DNC can actually nominate anyone one they want, voters be damned. It’s a private club, their rules, no matter how inconsistently they apply them. And women really have nothing to complain about anyway, as Biden committed to selecting a woman as VP. Neat-o; nothing suggests pandering more than “I am going to select someone based on their genitalia.” So, got yourself a vagina? Here’s a shot at second place.

After all the hand-wringing about sexism, the party really let me down. I wanted to see Tulsi up there, kicking ass, taking names and giving away free shit too. It seems that maybe they need to clarify their definition of what a woman is. That may be asking them too much, I know. Maybe Tulsi isn’t the right kind of woman. In August, she pledged not to run a third-party campaign if she didn’t win the nomination. I imagine at the time, she believed all the party rhetoric about sexism and thought she’d be a great contender given her specific bodily configuration. (Or is it identification? I can keep up at this point.) Is it all women or just this woman? Maybe the nesting doll really didn’t fit here.

It really doesn’t make a difference at this point (wow, just channeled Hillary for a minute), because now, she too can employ the victim card, as did those who dropped out before her. Gillibrand was crapping out rather early in the race and whipped that “woman as victim” card out real quickly. Of course, she used the double-whammy victim card, a “young woman.” Extra points for still coming in dead last.

Kamala was relegated to the same fate, as the horrible boys in the party wouldn’t vote for her either. She had the other double whammy-card, a “black woman.” And of course, the esteemed “woman-of-color-not-really-a-woman-of-color,” Elizabeth Warren, is quite sure that her fortunes too, were scuttled by the hatred that the American electorate has for women who seek the highest office in the world. Warren fails to consider for one moment that she lied for years to her own voter base and couldn’t win her own state. But, yeah, sexism, let’s go with that.

So is it sexism after all? Maybe not, as almost every one of the candidates that dropped out preferred to endorse one of the remaining men in the field. Could it be preference other than gender? Possibly, but your preference is suspect if you don’t vote the way the left decides you must. So it becomes an “-ism;” a flaw in your character to vote your personal preference instead of following the orders of the party, individualism be damned. If you prefer to vote for a particular person based on their positions, you must justify the unfortunate circumstance of their gender if they’re male. Unless of course, the male is a democrat and you just happen to be one of the wounded harpies crying about how mean the electorate can be to little girls. Then, you too can stand shoulder to shoulder with the boys and block the only remaining woman from the stage without any hint of shame. Makes sense.

At a minimum, maybe some introspection would go a long way here. Many of these women couldn’t even win their own states; some of them had baggage that would have sunk many male candidates. But a very large percentage of the democrat voter base is women, and you have to be ready to call them all sexist for preferring a man to you in the same way that you abandoned the only woman left in the race. So maybe it isn’t sexism, or maybe sexism isn’t that big a sin? You tell us ladies; you’re the ones who are quite sure that voting for one’s preference, especially if it is a preference for one gender over an other, is a horrible thing that should cause us to hang our heads in shame and report to the nearest woke-clinic for re-education.

Sexism for democrats is situational and fluid, and only good as a weapon when the press embraces it. Other than that, it’s a bumper sticker. I’ll go you one better and define it for you:

Sexism; A narcissistic coping mechanism where the subject seeks to avoid responsibility for failures or rejection through the delusion that others reject her only because they hate her gender. This delusion also enables the subject to dismiss the reality that at least half of her detractors in fact, share her gender.

 

 

Nice Hybrid you got there. What‘d you pay for it?…

The popular phrase is; “he’s evolved.” You’ll hear this all the time about politicians who once held a certain position diametrically opposed to the “popular” stance they now have. It used to have something to do with principles. But we’ve sold our principles long ago, for the warm comfort of participation trophies, “likes” and “followers,” and the thrilling but fleeting recognition from people we fawn over who only care about us as long as we pad their checkbooks or political campaigns (which incidentally, are quite often the same thing.)

“Someone’s dying for a new car..”

I evolved too; maybe evolved isn’t the right word for me, maybe “spoke power to my own truth” or some other worthless liberal term that masked my confusion and lack of courage over the years. A position; a stance, taken not because of what I believed or agonized over, but a position that would please the most people, keep friends, and allow me to gain entrance to social circles that at the time mattered to me more than my own character or integrity.

How could I not support a “women’s right to choose,” a right to the determination of her own body, her own medical health? I knocked on doors for quite a few democrats in small town Maine, even towards the end of my college career, always smiling, always saying the right things knowing deep in my heart I was lying though my teeth, ignoring or brushing aside the dissonance I experienced; understanding that at the very core of the issue is the fact someone pays the ultimate price for someone else’s “right to choose.”

So I sat through all the seminars and planning sessions, memorizing and understanding how to phrase the argument, keeping at bay those religious zealots who today are roaming the left’s nightmares in the garb of “The Handmaid’s Tale.” Funny question just hit me; is it just the outfit that terrifies them, or the unimaginable possibility that they could be forced into breeding stock? I am asking for a friend who likes to watch TV shows about baby mamas, so…

I digress. It started to unravel for me when I first asked about the validity of the Roe decision, way back in one of my early freshman classes. Really, just trying to wrap my head around the “states rights” thing, and you know, trying to find that phrase in the bill of rights that says “a women’s right to kill her own child in utero shall not be infringed and shall be fully funded by all citizens whether they believe in it or not.” But recently, it has been proven that we’re willing to let them suffer and die slowly outside the womb if need be, to protect this right (which is afforded to half of the population and of course, shall at all times be fully funded by everyone.)

This is where we are. Maybe I didn’t evolve; maybe the issue evolved right by me and I stood perfectly still, listening to friends who only wanted me to vote for their side, wanted to shame and silence me for forcing them to face their own convictions.

I was assured that this was desperately needed; that women were dying. That women everywhere were forced into “patriarchal servitude” at the hands of (men like me?) men everywhere, evil men who see women as nothing more than chattel, only good for continuing a man’s blood line. (See “baby mama”…)

Yes, I heard it all. I never got answers though, but was always told that as a man, I ultimately had no right to speak out on the matter anyway; “her body her choice!” I wasn’t allowed to question any reason why a woman would choose to end the life of her child because, “you have no idea what a terrible ordeal” it is to find out you’re pregnant, and to be faced with a “life altering momentous decision.” No more shame over abortions, just shame for any man stupid enough to question the orthodoxy of one of the most fanatical religions I’ve ever seen. Not only are we far from “safe and rare,” we’re now at “look at how killing my child has improved my life,” an attempt to assuage one’s guilt live on television, whether she realizes it or not. Can she really assume her life would have been worse if she hadn’t killed her child? Her “hybrid and beautiful f**king home” apparently don’t remind her at all that she was willing to kill to achieve them, so with that exchange rate, one can only guess.

I was also told that it’s not a decision any woman takes lightly. But we’ve so degraded the importance, the sheer miracle of motherhood, that giving birth is now dislocated from what it means to be a woman. We’ve gone from a mother lifting up a car one-handed in order to save her child, to women now willing to throw those cars at whoever gets in between them and the nearest planned parenthood clinic.

Ultimately what I learned from my abortion supporting friends was very simple; you should be ashamed for asking why a woman would get an abortion; you are a man and you have no say in the matter other than making sure you continue to fund it; you hate all women if you don’t blindly defend it; and any departure from total support will cost you friends for life. And it has.

So I’ve actually taken hits from both sides because I was trying to moderate, keeping everyone happy (or so I convinced myself) by not asking the questions that really bothered me at my core. And when I started to ask out loud, those who couldn’t answer became more angry, belligerent and finally left my life as I dared to challenge their deeply held conviction that this wasn’t a child; nothing more than something you’d excise on an episode of Dr. Pimple Popper. The same fanatical left that would determine a rare microbe, living on the ass of a water buffalo, needs federal protection and would destroy people’s lives over it are angry at me for insisting that, no matter what helps you sleep at night, you’re killing your own children.

So maybe I haven’t evolved at all. Maybe it’s just clarity. I can’t bring myself to support your fanatical beliefs anymore because over the years, you’ve done nothing but show me that they are indeed fanatical. I never wanted to be the one to decide what a woman could or could not do with her body. I supported you on that. But you decided that I would be involved anyway, threatening that I would pay for your children one way or another; either I could help you abort them, or you’d go on government assistance and I could pay for them that way. I wasn’t the father, but I was still going to be held responsible for choices someone else had made. And I always wondered; what kind of man falls madly in love with a woman who will look him in the face and tell him that she solely reserves the right to kill his children in the womb? I’m quite sure that being involved with men who are ready to sacrifice their own children, men who are actually boys unable to take responsibility for their own actions is probably one the biggest reasons why most women choose to abort in the first place.

But I’m not such a man. Fatherhood defines me, drives me. Yes, I even celebrate and weep for children who aren’t mine, children I coach or volunteer with. Children of friends or family, it matters not; when you determine that the life of another human could be an inconvenience to you, especially your own, then it’s highly likely that I’d never be one of your favorite people anyway.

As you exit my life, I wish you nothing but the best and hope you enjoy your new hybrid and “beautiful f**king home.”

Dancing around the issue….

Cooties. Maybe it was cooties. At what age do young boys shed the debilitating scourge of cooties and become remotely approachable or at least socially acceptable to young girls? Should we start investing heavily into a vaccine? Surely, one would think that modern medicine would have discovered a cure and a vaccine by now, but no; turns out that modern medicine is being upstaged by modern social engineering in our middle-school administrative think tanks known as “the faculty lounge.” And don’t call me Shirley.

Geez, the teachers didn’t pick our partners, they just checked that there was adequate space between us…

Principal Kip Motta certainly has the cure. Cooties are cured by top-down edicts about whom one will, or will not associate with based on that age-old tried and true methodology of “someone’s feelings.” See, as long as you do what you’re told, no one’s feelings get hurt and that’s just nifty. Regardless of how you feel of course. You have to be totally responsible for the feelings of others above your own because, well, I don’t know why but there’s got to be an “-ism” or “phobe” that can be attached to it. And the good folks at the Rich Middle School in Laketown Utah are all wokey and feely-goody and they’ll be the ones to decide who little eleven-year old Azlyn Hobson will or will not socialize with, dance with or possibly crush on. Because surely some two-bit authoritarian public sector employee with an important title that buoys his own self esteem knows better than some snot-nosed little eleven year-old girl in his charge. He’s an edumacator you see, he’s even got fancy degrees so shut the hell up and do what you’re told.

Sounds silly, no? Maybe. Maybe it’s that same damned sweet spot I have for children who always end up being the lab rats for people with their own agendas and personal baggage. When asked to comment by the Today Show Principal Motta writes, “We do ask all students to dance. It is the nice thing to do and this will continue to be our policy,” Motta wrote on Feb. 15. “There have been similar situations in the past where some students have felt uncomfortable with others, and, as stated prior, the issues were discreetly handled. This allowed all students to feel welcome, comfortable, safe, and included.” How to disassemble this policy? Where do we start?

The logical question would be, “what the hell are you trying to teach students with this policy?” For starters, are you telling young girls that their feelings and emotions come second to the feelings of others? That “no means no” unless you get over-ruled by someone in authority? That your personal autonomy will be decided by someone who gets to run for office so he can make real important, impactful decisions like who eleven-year old girls must partner with at middle school dances? At what age does she finally get to make that decision, oh oracle of adolescent social wisdom?

If it sounds like a tempest in a teapot, it’s not I assure you. Superintendent Dale Lamborn (who must be real friggin’ special because his title has the word “super“ right in it,) has not responded. Apparently, coward is one of the degrees required to be “super.”

So we’re going to stand behind “it’s nice that no one gets embarrassed by rejection” at a time when probably the most important social lesson children need to learn to cope with is just that. So instead, the lesson of learning to lick your wounds and “buck up” (my mom used to say) has been replaced with “though shalt not reject anyone without prior written approval.” Tell me Mr. Principal and super-dude, when does she finally get to say “no thank you?” When they’re both seventeen-years old, he’s got forty or fifty pounds over her and they’re walking home alone from the high school dance or in a mall parking lot? And when does he need to start accepting the fact that the world doesn’t revolve around him; that some people are going to like him, some people aren’t, and the principal isn’t always going to be around to make the girl of his affections dance with him for the rest of his life?

What you’re teaching these children is that you can invade another person’s space, get your way if you’re just willing to play the wounded party; that young girls need to be compliant to keep everyone from getting hurt, her emotions be damned? That no one will ever refuse or reject you and if they do, we’re not willing to help you learn the strategies to move past it? The other policy in place here is probably grief counseling made available in case some young hot head gets rejected and has no other coping mechanism but violence. Super-dude and Mr. Principal would probably be on record immediately, gushing about how they are helping students learn to deal with their emotions and move past this trauma.

This is a policy fraught with too many downsides, and that neither of these respected, well-educated boneheads can see that, is as frightening as hell. One can only assume that our two esteemed educators are still grappling with the painful memory of little Suzy or Annie looking them in the face in front of their twelve year-old peer groups, telling young Mr. Principal or super-dude, “no I don’t wanna dance with you ‘cause you got the cooties.”

If this passes for the administrative horsepower of the Rich School District, you parents had better lean in here. It’s not about this one girl, who may have secretly been crushing on another boy, hoping he’d ask her to dance. It’s about her feeling that she didn’t want to dance with a boy who made her uncomfortable and her feelings were discounted so the school district could claim a policy of inclusiveness, happiness, rainbows and unicorns at the expense of teaching your children the real lessons they’ll need to navigate the world they live in.