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.



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.”

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.






Well, Iowa, New Hampshire and Nevada are under our belts. At least the Kabuki Theater; not so sure about the actual counts and associated drama and intrigue. I still don’t have a clear definitive “final tally” for Iowa and as one would have expected, it’s just one day past Nevada and there are still lingering questions there as well. Correction; only if you’re worried about coming in third. First seems to be a fait accompli. And it’s causing some pretty amusing responses across the democrat party and their kissing-cousins in the press.

What will the DNC do if he gets the DeLorean up to 88 MPH?

James Carville weighed in and for the life of me, I’m not sure what his overall point is other than he hates Bernie. Ol’ jimmy is implying that Putin is totally pleased to help Bernie, a life-long, card carrying, proud supporter of the old USSR (you know, similar to Putin) because Bernie winning the democratic nomination helps get Trump elected. So Putin is undermining the democratic party by helping them avoid a brokered convention it would seem, giving them a clear leader who eventually loses to Trump, who has screwed Russia on the energy markets where they get most of their working capital. Because the guy who went to Russia, enthralled his socialist brethren with timeless party tunes while shirtless is actually just a feint; Putin is just out to destroy the democrat party and Trump is the Manchurian (Or Ukrainian, I can’t be sure) candidate who probably got activated by the word “Bigly.”

It seems all of a sudden, that the left, which has had a policy of slow, incremental progression towards socialism for most of my life, has gone quite apoplectic about it now. One would think that they were all pure capitalists and strict constitutional constructionists, given the alarm they are sounding towards one of their own, a man who has been consistent about the overall purpose and end-game of the programs they have all been pushing for decades. Are they quite afraid that the frog may detect the rapid boil?

It’s actually much easier to understand than they are letting on. They hate Bernie in the same way they hate Trump. They have no control over him or his supporters. Bernie is beholden to Bernie and his Bros and to no one else. That’s not how it works in Washington; certainly not how it worked with Bernie last time. Why isn’t he playing ball this time? Angling for a bigger lake house? Because Bernie, like all the rest of the elite ruling class eventually do, senses that this is HIS moment, his last best opportunity to become the supreme ruler of the Socialist States of America and dammit, he’s not going to settle for the establishment hawking his books for him to walk away this time.

Bernie and Trump are the perfect intersection, a phrase much loved on the left. However, because neither is willing to play ball by “accepted” party rules and have supporters also willing to thumb their noses at both the press and the parties who have insinuated their own superiority over the electorate for decades, it is readily apparent that neither the press nor the Washington elites are willing to admit that both Trump and Bernie are monsters of their own making, of their own design. I saw the same exasperated expressions on the face of the GOP who ineffectively shot everything they could at Trump, with the help of a press willing to destroy any threat to their own preferred candidate.

Not convinced? Bill Kristol was one of the most ardent “never-Trumpers” and he’s ready to support any left-leaning democrat to take Trump out. That’s not party loyalty, certainly not patriotism. That’s “what’s in it for me-ism.” Bill can’t quite get any traction anymore and being out of power and rather irrelevant is pissing him off. Bill’s also quite salty that no one is stepping up to the plate to rid the establishment (read: uni-party) of Bernie so he can vote for one of the other slow-burn socialists and get even with Trump. Bernie or Trump, it makes no difference, Mr. Kristol hasn’t quite endeared himself to the constituencies of the leading candidates of either party, not a good look for someone who’s supposed to be a “high falutin’” political pundit.

And what to make of Chris Matthews? This man got tingles for years listening to Obama steer this country toward the same lofty socialist goals as Bernie, yet Chrissy has all of a sudden gained clarity about socialism, warning that he’d be one of those shot in central park if it ever takes hold here. Where the hell has his common sense been for the last thirty years or so as we now listen to him pontificate about how horrible socialism is; he’s sure of it, has first hand experience with it yet tried to destroy any decent politician who stood against it. Now, he likens Bernie’s success in Nevada to Hitler’s march across France. Sweet, but predictable, as the Nazi card is the go-to for liberals who have their heads so far up their asses that they can no longer make cogent arguments. Orange man bad; Jewish man Nazi. You get it.

Still, there is hope that Biden can do well in South Carolina, if in fact he realizes he’s actually in South Carolina when he gets there. But Mr. Biden hasn’t fared well recently, and referring to his rally attendees as “lying dog-faced pony soldiers” is puzzling at least; downright hilarious at best. But the concern is that Bernie has closed to within five points of Biden, and House majority whip James Clyburn has pretty much told the world that South Carolinians may be uncomfortable voting for someone who calls himself a socialist. Odd James, you supported a socialist who rammed Government health care down everyone’s throat, and the DNC is sending a whole bunch more to your primary. What if South Carolina sends Biden packing? You going to encourage everyone to vote Trump?

Hardly. This is all about power and control and the DNC and the press corps is watching it all fade away. Socialism is supposed to be a slow indoctrination; they know this. They’ve been practicing it forever, hoping that no one notices, and keeping their own voters so ill informed about it that you can’t discuss it with them because they’re convinced that the post office and the local fire department is proof that socialism just rocks. Bernie is loud and proud, just as is Trump. They both have the same convictions in their beliefs and are both exposing the press and the political parties for who and what they are.

And it’s ridiculously entertaining to watch.


I dropped by “The American Thinker” in the middle of last week and noted a piece by Patricia McCarthy titled “The wages of Trump Derangement.” I’m quite sure that the experiences she speaks of are more common than she can imagine; I too wondered what happened to those who I called friend, and who had called me friend for decades. What she’s calling “Trump Derangement” however, isn’t really “Trumpian” at all. No, this disease of the personality and character was always there, slowly metastizing into the full-blown uncontrolled projection of hate that embodies much of the liberal left and to be frank, some of the conservative right. It has very little to do with Trump. It has always had to do with power and control over a populace who is normally so apathetic and disconnected from their own governance that they can’t even be bothered to show up on voting day.

These things happen..

Trump is actually a convenient lightning rod and whipping boy all rolled up into one. The extreme revulsion and anger he elicits from the left is staggering and would actually be quite amusing if leftist weren’t attacking people in broad daylight, including a fifteen year-old kid who had to be “re-educated” for the mere crime of posing with the President’s son.

The hate and disturbing beliefs and behaviors were always there Pre-Trump; I had friends and acquaintances back in my college days dissemble into frothing, spittle-spraying manics because I believed that Reagan’s optimism was what the country needed to get beyond the grey-sweater-ed dullness of the Carter malaise.

This hatred and anger came into sharper focus during the 2008 campaign. There was a slow, well-hidden simmer from the ardent supporters of Hillary; they were quite disgusted that she wasn’t “allowed” to become the first female president, something she had “earned” and was certainly entitled to. It’s amazing how the “I’m entitled to it” crowd reacts when someone more special and more entitled jumps in ahead of them. Quite unfair, they assured me.

Irritating them more were the Alinsky tactics, which they had been imposing on others, shoved into their own faces; they weren’t really going to criticize the first black president were they? As most adolescent personalities do, they found others to project their anger on. I just happened to be at the right place, right time, ideologically speaking of course. I had old friends, or rather, people that I had assumed were, calling me racist and misogynist simply because I wasn’t “With Her.” Their heads would explode when I would ask them how they could support the enabler of a serial sexual predator. Yet, because I didn’t want to pay for the murder-solution to a woman’s poor sexual choices, I obviously hated every women that had ever walked the planet, including my wife, daughters, sisters and mother.

No, the 2008 election showed them just how deeply those in power believed in their own superiority over everyone else, including the foot soldiers that spent years agitating on college campuses and getting out the vote in suburban, economically depressed, democrat-run poverty centers. To make their misery more complete, they soon discovered that any slight of the first black president would be met with the same charges of racism that these disaffected foot soldiers had previously used so effectively to shut down others with whom they couldn’t successfully debate.

Angered so by the reality that they would never get to actually decide who their masters would be, they would lash out at others, me included, telling me I just hated the thought of a “brown person in the white house.

As I look back now, it mattered not whom I was going to vote for; only who I wasn’t going to vote for. That I ended up with only Trump as a choice pissed me off to no end, but there it is. My choice. I didn’t go out into the crowd with my trusty Antifa mask and bike lock and bash the heads of unsuspecting “I’m with Her ” voters because I didn’t get my way. But that’s the point I think we are all missing here. It wasn’t about Trump; It was about who it wasn’t. It wasn’t who they selected. Their Anaphylaxis would have been just as severe if Jeb! Had won; or Kasich. It wasn’t “Her” and that’s all you need to know.

“Her” was going to continue the legacy of “Him.” “Her” was the next selection and both sides knew it. Unless you’re totally daft, you realize that the two parties are just separate lanes on the same one-way road, lanes where the center line become less and less clearly defined. One lane is just a faster speed. Have any of the past republicans stopped or reversed the slow insidious march toward socialism or been a thorn in the side of the establishment class as Trump has? Mitt, Jeb! Or Mcain would have certainly known their place and have stayed in their lane. Trump doesn’t even use his turn signal and it pisses them off greatly. They can’t control this SOB, and the realization that they can’t control his supporters either frightens them into collusion delusions and conversations with hallucinations at State of the Union speeches.

Sadly though, the loss of those I once called friends is totally on me. It appears that my Pollyannaish view of others has allowed me to surround myself with people to whom I had given way too much credit, people who never had to jump through hoops or prove themselves in any way to afford my respect and devotion; people, who I liked and enjoyed the company of because I could learn from anyone. People who I would certainly aid in the worst times of their lives, have extricated me from theirs simply because they felt they were ultimately entitled to the fruits of my labor or, at the very least, should be able to dictate my beliefs.

Maybe it’s luck, or maybe it’s the universe; I’m not sure. But once you get beyond the sadness of the loss of a friend, and you realize you were never really that important to them anyway, it becomes easier to let them go. Even though this should be an object lesson on how I pick my friends, I’ll cut myself some slack here. I’ve never sent my friends the hate-filled missives they’ve sent me, never accused them of being something they would find so egregious and hurtful. If they voluntarily remove their toxicity from my life, so be it.

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