A belated congratulations to those of you who had “Global Race War” on your 2020 Bingo card! I was almost finished with a clutch of new pieces for this esteemed publication when Civil War 2: Eclectic Boogaloo broke out, rendering my musings instantly obsolete. Pandemics and lockdowns, R naughts and CFRs: all mere fragments from…
A belated congratulations to those of you who had “Global Race War” on your 2020 Bingo card!
I was almost finished with a clutch of new pieces for this esteemed publication when Civil War 2: Eclectic Boogaloo broke out, rendering my musings instantly obsolete. Pandemics and lockdowns, R naughts and CFRs: all mere fragments from the beforetimes now.
Today we find ourselves in Year One: the Year of Oh Lord.
A new world has dawned!
God help us all.
Mayhem by the Sea
I spent many blissful afternoons as a kid romping along the streets and beaches of Santa Monica, California. In the 1980s, Santa Monica was a sleepy Mayberry with soda fountains, surf shops, and vintage clothing stores. The ’90s and 2000s brought bars, high-end retail, and swanky hotels that catered to wealthy locals and tourists. I got engaged in Santa Monica, married in Santa Monica, and had several children at the hospital there.
Last Sunday, Santa Monica’s business district was looted. Picked clean, the ashes salted, the empty Vans shoe boxes dumped in alleys. I watched via livestream as hordes crashed through stores I knew well, ruining livelihoods and running out with armloads of goods, in full view of police and media who stood around outside, neutered and paralyzed.
In the end, more than 250 Santa Monica businesses suffered an estimated $11.5 million in exterior damage alone—not including the cost of the stolen merchandise. The marauders even hit the pharmacy in the E.R. of the local hospital.
Over a week later, the plywood remains up at every window. Why? Because thanks to so much peaceful protesting, there is now a shortage of plate glass in Los Angeles.
Then, as soon as the looting was over, it was barely discussed. Even now I wonder, did it really happen? A local reporter on the scene covered the Rape of Santa Monica in detail, but her account is filled with convulsive handwringing as she berates herself for even reporting such a thing.
This week my Instagram feed was full of Santa Monica residents celebrating fellow locals who arrived the next day with brooms to clean up the thousands of pounds of shattered glass. Some posted glowing tributes to crude BLM-themed graffiti art all over the plywood nailed to the broken windows.
Not one word about the destruction of their own neighborhood.
One protestor who witnessed the looting was quoted as saying “It’s a rude awakening for Santa Monica natives,” adding that, “with all the pain and suffering Black people have gone through, the looting and damage doesn’t compare.”
Beware the Anti-Racists, My Son!
Let’s say you are a good-hearted person, perhaps even a person of faith. You strive always to do the moral thing. After all, you want to help your children become saints in heaven! Racism is not a part of your worldview and never has been, so you’re good, right?
Eh, not so fast. Have you done the work? Apparently, we all have a lot of work to do. For now you must strive to become anti-racist!
But Peachy, you might say, of course I’m anti-racist! I hate racists! Heck, I don’t even know any, and I definitely go out of my way to not say anything offensive! I strive to see each human being as an equally valued and worthy soul!
Diversity, tolerance, fairness, inclusion, race-blind admissions: those are bad now, Grandpa.
I can’t believe the dozens of unsolicited emails and posts I am seeing about “anti-racism” from my liberal friends. For example, I just learned that “inclusive parenting” has now been replaced with “anti-racist parenting.” Looks like I’ll be working through their anti-racist reading list all summer, and watching lots of anti-racist movies with my children as we confront our despicable privilege.
An organization called Curious Parenting also recommends buying dolls “that are representative of all races.” (Please do not bring up the fact that these same people told us last year to toss out our dolls in favor of gender-neutral ones.) Whew, I feel better about giving my toddler the complete collection of Disney Princess Barbies! Wait, those don’t count? Hm, I think we still have one of the Fat Barbies, but she’s a little too white-presenting to be of any help.
As a last resort, we have three American Girl dolls: a blonde one, the only Jewish one, and a black one. Maybe I’ll nail all three to the front door and hope the angel passes over us.
Or maybe I can get a yard sign like some of my neighbors have. Mine will say: “IN THIS HOUSE WE BELIEVE: in being left the hell alone.”
Battle of Britain 2
“Each one hopes that if he feeds the crocodile enough, the crocodile will eat him last. All of them hope that the storm will pass before their turn comes to be devoured. But I fear greatly that the storm will not pass. It will rage and it will roar ever more loudly, ever more widely.”
That’s Winston Churchill of course, who knew a thing about history. You’re forgiven if you’re young and haven’t heard of him, because he was just canceled in the U.K. His memory and legacy are being erased from the British history books as we speak, and his statues defaced in full view of the British bobbies, whose behavior represents a Seligman-worthy example of learned helplessness.
But it’s not the cops’ fault! They’ve been staying up late learning choreography for the next day’s peaceful protest. If your dance displeases them, the “mostly peaceful” mob will be ready to hurl glass bottles and bricks at your head. What a jolly new British tradition! Like yelling in Parliament or trying to get a reaction from one of the guys in the fuzzy black hats at Buckingham Palace! Too bad you got brained by a pint of Guinness—just keep working on those Cha-Cha Slide moves and nobody else gets hurt.
LOL that the current royal family has nothing to say about any of this. They don’t see that they, of course, are next at the guillotine. I wonder what clever slogans they’ll graffiti on the Queen’s tomb.
The Struggle Session is Real
Tired yet? How dare you be tired. You better not be tired—you have a lot of work to do if you want to survive as a white in America. As New York Times columnist Charles Blow recently put it, “equality will feel like oppression” to non-POCs.
Brush up on those marketing skills, Mr. Blow—you’re not exactly selling past the close. You’re supposed to hide your plans to painfully re-educate people. Some of us already saw The Killing Fields and yeah, no thanks. I used to joke that my guards in the gulag would be fierce drag queens. I’d prefer that to the hysterical, screaming children holding America hostage.
Think I’m exaggerating? An executive I know at a big Hollywood talent agency is being ordered this week to attend “mandatory unconscious bias training.” What happens if you don’t want to attend? What happens if you, God forbid, say the wrong thing in your struggle training session? What happens if you refuse to kneel?
If you do that, you will be re-educated even harder, and like it. You’re going to dance, kneel, open your mouth, bend over, and do the work, or else.
Historically, what happens when a lot of angry, powerful people decide to pin all of the world’s ills on a single racial group? My great-grandmother in Belorussia escaped by getting on a ship and fleeing to America.
I spent yesterday crying at Whole Foods, my helpless tears filling my ski goggles (won’t be skiing any time soon) and rolling down the sides of my p100 mask. The country I grew up thinking was so majestic, so impervious to damage, has become an empty, post-apocalyptic husk of itself. Chinese bat AIDS may not…
I spent yesterday crying at Whole Foods, my helpless tears filling my ski goggles (won’t be skiing any time soon) and rolling down the sides of my p100 mask. The country I grew up thinking was so majestic, so impervious to damage, has become an empty, post-apocalyptic husk of itself. Chinese bat AIDS may not be our final death blow, but it certainly reveals the ugly weaknesses we hid from ourselves for so long.
Thirty days of lockdown in the can, who knows how many more to go, and somewhere amid the frantic hunt for fresh eggs, the carb loading, and the daily panic, the big truth has finally crashed like a wave on my head:
You are alone.
I don’t mean alone in your home, unless you’re lucky enough to live alone. I am never alone anymore—not in a room, not with my thoughts, not in the backyard. No place is safe from my very short, very needy housemates.
What I mean is, you (and your family) are functionally alone as you’re relentlessly pummeled by the world and all of its works, and all of its absurdities, and finally by the big prank it just pulled off that upended your fragile house of cards.
No one is coming to save you!
Gubmint officials and their flimsy checks are not going to save you. They’re fools who told you not to buy masks until they were sold out.
The police are not going to save you. They’re busy arresting people who try to get homeless junkies from sleeping in their doorways.
Firemen are not going to save you. They’ve all got coronavirus and are resting at the vacation homes they bought with triple pension money.
Experts are not going to save you. They’re literally always wrong.
Your employer is not going to save you. Their business model just broke.
Your 401k is not going to save you. It’s wiped out.
Doctors are not going to save you. They don’t know if corona causes ARDS or HAPE or makes you trans!
Speaking of doctors, whom I generally love, don’t count on them to do more than grease the skids for you on the way down. The TikTokking docs down at the local ICU cannot yet treat the disease caused by the virus. The most they can do is give your body a little extra oxygen and hope for the best. “None of our treatments are therapeutic, they’re just supportive. All we can do is give the patient’s lungs a chance to heal.”
My God, you even have to save yourself from the virus.
Coincidentally, that’s the same strategy our beloved publicly traded corporations have been using for 40 years to keep us chugging along. They never actually had the cure for your sense of loss, despair, spiritual emptiness, weight gain, baldness, incontinence, erectile dysfunction, or loneliness. But: if you just watch the shows, see the movies, take the flights to the resort hotels, book the cruise, drink the drinks, eat the food, pop the pills, spend ALL your money—hey, you might not feel so bad for a few hours!
The lesson everyone learned in mid-March was that there is no cure, and there will never be a cure, for what really ails us. America has been on spiritual life support for years, prone and plugged in to the blinking machines keeping it alive. Cable T.V., WiFi, antidepressants, kids stuck at the daycares and the afterschool cares and the Christmas break camps, just to get them away, even on their days off from school, the powerful limb-ripping suction machines at the Planned Parenthood down the street, the constant stream of short videos and porn and quick bite videos (Quibi!). Comorbidities all!
The dystopia was already here; you just didn’t see it because you were watching stuff.
Your future COVID ventilator is simply the final machine in a long line of mechanized life support systems you’ve been dependent upon for survival.
So congratulations, America: you just got unplugged!
Empty Vie, Unplugged
Without the easy breezy access to steady streams of salty food, industrialized childcare, and corporate entertainment, Americans are adrift.
Without school, how will our children learn?
Without experts, how will I know what to think?
Without a one-hour commute, how will I earn?
Without restaurants, how will I eat?
Without shipping containers filled with cheap Chinese goods, how will I decorate my house for Halloween, buy toys, or dress my kids?
Donald Trump and Steve Bannon were right. We really did destroy our middle class when we exported all of those jobs to China. We really did transfer our wealth to China and watch as they built their own vibrant middle class. Then we stood around and watched as the Chinese middle class we built took our children’s spots at the local universities, and just to rub in, paid full price while we had to beg for loans. We wondered why our movies had gotten so bad, and when we found out Hollywood’s new business model depended on selling to the Chinese moviegoing audience and not to us, what did we do? We went to the movies anyway!
Whose idea was it to let China make 100% of our antibiotics? Give me his name!
Whose idea was it to build a Disneyland in China and then cave to CCP demands to change the name of “Main Street, U.S.A.” to the less offensive “Mickey Avenue”? Give me his name! (I know his name).
Forget the wet markets. Whose idea was it to look the other way at Muslim concentration camps, organ harvesting, political prisoner torturing, dog meat festivals, and forced abortions, in the name of a sub-$100 pair of Nikes with a really cool outsole?
American businesses made those decisions, along with feckless American leaders. We may be the bruised and beaten victim of China, but let’s face it—we were asking for it.
I, like you, do not want to be weak. I don’t want to raise a weak family in a weak, sickly empire staggering under its own obese imbecility.
Who agreed to grovel to a nation offended by the idea of “Main Street, U.S.A.”? Did a single American ever object to calling the local dim sum district “Chinatown”? Shame on us for accepting this anti-American hatred and bigotry for the sake of “line go up.” When it comes to China, “line go up” tends to lead quickly to “casket get lowered.”
Enough, I say! Welcome to your independence, America! This time I know our side will win.
The American Dream
The Chinese virus really is the final insult to the American middle class, and worst of all, it was totally preventable. It’s true: the blame must be squarely laid at the feet of our own despicable and compromised elites and the Chinese overlords who shook their hands in tense photo ops as they broke ground on new Amoxicillin factories.
My favorite scene in Time Bandits is when the merry gang meets Robin Hood, who decides to seize the priceless treasures they’ve stolen and hand them out to the desperate people who empower him as king of Sherwood Forest. John Cleese does his best British upper-crust twit shtick.
“The poor are going to be absolutely thrilled. Have you met them at all?”
“Oh you must meet them. I’m sure you’ll like them. Of course they haven’t got two pennies to rub together but that’s because they’re poor.”
As the wretched poor stagger forward one at a time to receive their Hood handout, they are punched hard in the face.
An interesting question: which generation gets most rekt by the Chinese virus? The Boomers, who remain infuriatingly sanguine at the prospect of their imminent demise, seem to be comforted by the knowledge that they had an epic run, the best in human history, and so who cares if a few bad years get shaved off at the end.
The kids and teens won’t know any different, and they still have plenty of runway left to get their futures off the ground. The Millennials are already comfortable with learned helplessness—they enjoy sinecures in cheap rentals without the crushing burden of mortgages and property taxes and more than one or two children.
The real victims are the established, mature families whose woods are deep and have miles to go. The people in their 40s and 50s. Me, in other words. The bitterest pill is how much of a romp our childhoods were, compared to the slog now in front of us. Eighties nostalgia is real for a reason, and not just for Gen X. My 11-year-old daughter’s favorite entertainment is a role-playing Roblox game set in 1984 New Jersey, complete with the music, the hair, and the clothes. Can you blame her?
I cried in Whole Foods because my jokey, ironic longing to go back in time is now a poignant fairytale. There is no going back. The door to the halcyon days is now sealed airtight, welded shut by mask-wearing CCP cops, the key incinerated along with the dead zipped into body bags.
Build the Great Wall
So when will it all end? I laughed when President Trump said he wanted everything back to normal by Easter Sunday. But his instinct to “brand” the opening day as a holiday is a good one. That’s why I propose we look to July 4th, 2020. Not for a full return; there will be no packing of ball parks or parades or invites to neighborhood cookouts. We’ll still be in masks, still shrinking in terror from people we pass on the sidewalk.
But I propose that Independence Day 2020 be the date for those with functioning brains and hearty spirits to collectively decide to reclaim our independence from not just our deep state overlords and Chicom elites but from our multi-decade lotus-binging senescence: our dependence on other people to provide 100% of our food, 100% of our children’s education, 100% our entertainment, 100% of our crap.
The real virus is not corona or humans. It’s the highly infectious weakness encouraged—groomed!—at every level of society. Mental strength is called for now. A clear-eyed view of friends and enemies. And look, just now the fog of war is lifting! Even journalists have started calling for investigations into the shoddy practices at the Wuhan Institute of Virology. Sunlight has started to leak through the cracks in our cave.
So what does our independence look like? Here’s a starter set of ideas:
First, a top-to-bottom BDS (Boycott, Divest, Sanction) movement against China, starting with announcing an immediate boycott of the 2022 Beijing Winter Olympics. Ban American companies from manufacturing products in China. Pull it all back, as fast and as hard as we can.
Then: defund the WHO. Use the dough to fund fleets of tanned, muscular maritime privateers in the South China Sea to harass and stymie the aspirations of the ramshackle Chinese navy (especially while our Navy is in dry dock with a dry cough). Recognize Taiwan. Support Hong Kong. Publicly shame China-owned stooges like NBA star Lebron James. Break ground—tomorrow, if possible—on 50 new factories that make nothing but the highest quality medicines, antibiotics, toys, tools, and everything else in your Amazon cart right now. Lean in to educating your own damn kids and growing a few of your own damn cucumbers. You can do it!
Despite his shaky approval ratings and recent blunders, Trump and his core America First agenda have never looked more appealing. Pathetic failures and comical fumblings have happened at the highest levels since January, yes. They’re inexcusable, but totally predictable. (Both my parents, of Trump’s cohort, a doctor and a teacher, were totally flootarded until practically last week.) Do we really want to replace a president highly antagonistic to China with Biden, a lifetime grifter fully owned and operated by handlers in Beijing?
While “America First” remains an excellent instinct, I suggest a small edit for 2020: “America Independent.” This July 4th, I propose launching the first shot in the Cold Covid War against the Chinese government.
Good news: it’s already begun! Victory Mindset housewives are raking in the dough selling masks by the tens of thousands on Etsy. Families are building victory gardens, planting seeds, rediscovering the pleasure of eating food grown by your own hand. Your children, while occasionally annoying and loud, are also home, safe and sound, and not being forced into state-mandated sex ed that affirms nothing but the sexual perversions of their teachers.
New heroes will emerge soon. More good things will emerge. So embrace your newfound independence!
“You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you right here today would be killed in a major battle. Every man is scared in his first action. If he says he’s not, he’s a goddamn liar. But the real hero is the man who fights even though he’s scared. Some men will…
“You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you right here today would be killed in a major battle. Every man is scared in his first action. If he says he’s not, he’s a goddamn liar. But the real hero is the man who fights even though he’s scared. Some men will get over their fright in a minute under fire, some take an hour, and for some it takes days. But the real man never lets his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood.”
That’s General Patton in his famous speech to the Third Army, in the good old days when you could use the word “manhood” unironically. It’s the stuff you want to hear when being rudely shoved from behind by history into a frightening, unwelcome present.
Like what happened to America last week. Cold reality finally completed its agonizingly slow fan dance for the normies, who finally figured out the plot twist we all saw coming back in Act I and raced to the nearest Costco. After weeks of mocking their prepper friends as paranoid lunatics, the “just the flu” crowd finally coughed up the blue pill.
We’re not all going to die, but some of us will. Some younger than 50, healthy, with no “comorbidities” as they say.
Some children will lose parents. Some parents may lose children.
Everyone I know is thinking the same thing: Who will pull the long straw?
It’s like in Jaws when Quint, recalling how he had to float in shark-infested water while waiting to board the rescue plane, says “You know that was the time I was most frightened… waiting for my turn.”
Good news: President Trump seems to have finally made the required pivot to wartime footing. Thank you, Mr. President, for heeding last week’s piece, Wartime Trump! Since that Wednesday’s Oval Office address, Trump has stepped smartly into a role he was destined to fill: as General in a once-in-a-century war.
The new mission he has chosen to accept? Keep America great by keeping us alive; all else is folly.
We have successfully awakened a tweeting giant!
Into the Unknown
Several months after the birth of my last baby, in a burst of postpartum nesting, we redid our wills and changed the designated relative to whom we plan to leave the offspring in the unlikely event my spouse and I both die. It didn’t really matter, because what were the chances we’d both get hit by the same meteor?
Our wills sat in a drawer, unsigned, for almost three years—until a few days ago.
Underneath my salty exterior, just below my thin veneer of banter and barbed bons mots, I’m a mother to some nice kids. They are sometimes frustrating, often adorable. They even know which gender they are! The smallest one, the one who breaks my heart with her huge eyes, the one I most fear rendering motherless, makes me play “Into the Unknown” from the Frozen 2 soundtrack all day long. I find it a fitting theme song for the current white-knuckled moment. Right now, a lot of parents are being cannonballed straight into the unknown. We’re having unpleasant thoughts we never dreamed we’d be having in the spring of 2020:
What happens to the kids if something happens to me?
What if there are no grandparents left to take over if I’m out of commission?
Who takes care of the baby if both parents get sick?
What does it feel like to be intubated, because I hear it really sucks?
Once the thrill of not going to school wears off, what will the mental toll of all this be on my children and their generation?
I didn’t have a chance to go to confession before we pulled up the drawbridge at the castle. My other, more immediate worry is that I got infected before we started the staycation and I don’t know it yet. Some people can be asymptomatic for weeks before taking the nosedive. We’re safe at home now—but are we? Or are we about to live through a real-life version of The Thing, trying to figure out who might have brought the virus into the bunker?
A Gathering Storm
Since I can’t go to confession, I have to confess this to you. I’ve kept it secret until now. A few days before the word “coronavirus” ever entered my consciousness, I had what I can only describe as a strange vision of some sort. I’m not a Marianne Williamson cult follower, I don’t “do weed” as my mother used to say, and I am not into meditation.
But it happened. I was lying in bed in the middle of January recovering from a nasty flu (or was it?), staring out my bedroom window. Late afternoon sun warmed the quiet room and the bare trees in the backyard framed a wide expanse of blue sky. Nice. Then, like a vivid waking nightmare, I had an overwhelming, full-body, hair-raising sense of impending doom, as if something dangerous and swift and huge was flying towards the house like a missle. I had an insane urge to jump up, gather the kids, and huddle together with them in a closet before the peril hit us. After a few moments, the terror passed, but I spent the next few days torturing my husband with speculation about what it could have meant.
Now he thinks I’m a witch.
A few days later, my fellow coronaprophets and I started watching the approaching plague with a sense of terrible dread, jumpy and alone in our remote foxholes along the front. It is a huge relief to see so many joining the fight, with Trump leading the charge.
General Trump: An Invisible Enemy Meets Its Match
There is transcendent power, and grace, and heck, I’ll even toss in a sainthood, for the courageous leader who can guide a nation through the tight bottleneck ahead.
President Trump is now called to this task; if any leader in modern memory can do it, it’s him.
The market will come back. The people we lose will not. Watching his command of the daily press briefings now it’s clear: he has embraced the war and committed himself to winning it. We may have been slow to rouse, but now we have the overwhelming totality of the country focused on a shared goal: victory. I find it an incredible stroke of luck that we happen to have a president who is not interested in surrendering to the virus or “managing our decline.” Miraculously, we happen to have a president who loves winning more than literally anything else!
He understands now, deeply I think, that to keep us great, you first have to keep us alive, and to do that, you have to do the one thing you never dreamed you’d have to do in spring of 2020: Choose to lose. By choose to lose, I mean ignore the election (remember when we cared about elections?). Ignore the other candidates. Ignore politics and yes, even the economy, totally, for now.
So far, so good! Masks and ventilators and converted hospitals and vaccines and drug trials and medical Navy ships and TrumpBucks are on the way, America!
All we have to do now is win the damn war. And win it we will, with a powerful Victory Mindset shared by all Americans. There will be no surrender. There will be no quarter. There will be nothing but total war followed by total victory. We will plant Victory Gardens. We will help each other. We will stay home. We will stick together by staying far apart. We will do whatever it takes to win. And by win, I mean, deny the virus the Case Fatality Rate of its wildest dreams. We will do to it what it aims to do to us.
Because we do not want to FLATTEN the curve! We want to crush it, utterly!
To quote Patton again, no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making some other poor dumb bastard die for his.
For extra credit, insert your own virus-optimized version of Churchill’s “We shall fight on the beaches” speech here.
Finally, for those of the Catholic persuasion: Englishman Edmund the Martyr (841-869 A.D.) is the patron saint of pandemics, torture victims, and those who want protection from the plague.
Good to know, just in case.
Through the coming darkness lies hope and light and beauty and eventually, a cathartic defeat of the thing that threatens to swamp the great ship of state.
Dear President Trump, You, Sir, are blowing it. I say this as a loyal supporter since early in your candidacy. I placed an early Predictit bet on you, and won big. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit defending you to #nevertrump cucks. My faith in your political and national instincts has never…
You, Sir, are blowing it. I say this as a loyal supporter since early in your candidacy. I placed an early Predictit bet on you, and won big. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit defending you to #nevertrump cucks. My faith in your political and national instincts has never really wavered—until now.
And I’m not alone. Many smart Trump voters I know are bewildered by your response to the coronavirus pandemic.
Most of the country is in the corona truther camp, but you are being held captive by corona deniers. You are wasting precious seconds and spilling dwindling political capital defending sweaty imbeciles with government makework jobs. I know you trusted them for their “expertise,” but these swampheads are only succeeding at digging your hole deeper.
Speaking of holes, I don’t wish to be tossed into one any time soon.
True medieval horrors await those unlucky enough to be caught in the cruel corona vortex: bilateral interstitial pneumonia, medically induced comas, intubation, multi-organ failure, sudden cardiac arrest: these are the fates that await many, many Americans—including thousands of 60+ year-old Trump voters—if you cling to your present course.
And those are the lucky ones who get treatment. Doctors at every hospital in America are, this minute, preparing to triage those they will not have the capacity to help. Don’t bring Obamacare-style death panels back from the dead!
Wuhan approacheth, and fast. It’s not too late. It’s almost too late, and you should have done this a month or more ago. The drawbridge is closing, the train is pulling away, the rocket is lifting off, but we can still avert the worst.
We need you to get this right. Not just to save your political future, but to save our lives.
There is a solution, and I give it to you, free of charge! It requires a pivot that should come easily to you, and one I was frankly expecting as soon as you stepped off Air Force One from India.
Pivot to wartime footing, today, and take America with you. Wartime presidents are great at rallying the nation to a massive effort, which is what defeating this pernicious enemy will require. Only a true wartime mobilization—for total war—will get it done. Otherwise we are facing a cataclysm unlike any other in our history.
It’s a win-win for you: Many of those age 60 and above voted for you. You are going to need their votes this fall, and dead Republicans don’t vote. Everyone knows only dead Democrats vote!
Wartime Trump fits your brand! Toughness, a refusal to tolerate red tape and regulations, stringent border controls, distrust of the D.C. swamp, and patriotic duty: these are your key strengths! Put them to work!
Rally the nation to a “Victory Garden” mindset—people will be willing to make the sacrifices you ask of them, they only have to be inspired.
I have little to offer the country other than the future productive citizens I’m trying not to orphan, but I am a writer. I even used to write speeches for minor notables! So, here is my suggestion for your address to the nation tonight. Please feel free to go full Biden on it, and by that I mean plagiarize it at will.
My fellow Americans:
Two months ago, at the start of this year, Americans were enjoying peace and prosperity the likes of which we’ve never seen before. The economy was at all time highs, American workers were enjoying record employment, and we were killing the world’s most-wanted terrorists without shedding a drop of U.S. blood. Our administration was working tirelessly on ending the endless war in Afghanistan, and bringing our brave men and women home.
Little did we know that an invisible enemy was being born in a far away land—an enemy unlike any we have faced before. This enemy has no armies, no guns, no navy. It can’t be droned, negotiated with, or bombed. Its merciless soldiers are invisible to the naked eye; its tactics are silence and stealth. Little did we know we were under sneak attack—but in slow motion, the infiltration grew, day by day, undetected.
But it is here. And right now, it is winning. This virus is a stubborn and dangerous enemy. Since the coronavirus is so new, so novel, we have no vaccines available to fight it, although brilliant doctors around the world are racing to produce one as I speak.
Because this is a new enemy that the world has never faced before, the only way to defeat it is to do new things; things we’ve never had to do before.
These new measures will cause disruptions, inconvenience, and economic pain. We built a beautiful economy over the last three years, and were ushering in a golden age of growth and wealth, but our lives are more important.
That is why today, now, with the full power of the presidency invested in me, and as commander in chief, I am ordering the entire federal government to assume wartime footing, and for the following actions to be taken.
For the next 60 days, we are effectively putting America temporarily on pause as we wage war on the coronavirus. It will hurt, but not as much as the alternative. It is the most effective and frankly, the only way to mitigate the spread of this virus.
First, I am hereby ordering the temporary closure of all schools in the nation. Students will still be able to go to school and receive meals, but no classroom instruction will be offered. Childcare arrangements for those who need to work will be made at the district level. Truancy and absentee rules are being relaxed through the end of May.
Second, all non-essential businesses should temporarily close. Restaurants and other small businesses affected will be able to get short-term federal payments to prevent bankruptcies.
Third, all state and federal courthouses are ordered shut, effective immediately.
Fourth, I am ordering the FAA to close the airports. This virus didn’t need its own air force—it used our planes. We are asking Americans to stay home, postpone trips, and wait on vacations, for the next 60 days.
Fifth, I am ordering the CDC and FDA to immediately launch drive-thru testing stations outside every hospital in America. Every regulation and rule that has impeded testing to date or is in any way slowing down our rapid response will be abolished. After the pandemic, I will be ordering a top to bottom review of both agencies.
These immediate short-term efforts will be difficult, but by working together, as a nation, as Americans, we will defeat the coronavirus.
Once we do, we will execute long-term strategies that include repatriating our medical supply chain from China, which will help ensure we are no longer dependent on any other nation for our needs. My America First agenda will ensure that our factories at home will start producing the pharmaceutical drugs and equipment we need.
Taking a country to war is serious business. But this is war. This is a war we did not want, and did not expect, but now the battle is joined. We will fight this battle together, until together, we win, and win totally.
World War V will end in Victory for America—an America that is greater, stronger, richer, and healthier than ever before.
Young Woman: I’ve learned to hate you in the last ten years! Older Man: I never meant to hurt you. YW: I was a child. I was in love. It was wrong and you knew it! OM: You knew what you were doing. YW: Now I do. This is my place. Get out! OM: I did what I did, you don’t…
Young Woman: I’ve learned to hate you in the last ten years!
Older Man: I never meant to hurt you.
YW: I was a child. I was in love. It was wrong and you knew it!
OM: You knew what you were doing.
YW: Now I do. This is my place. Get out!
OM: I did what I did, you don’t have to be happy about it.
YW (crying): Do you know what you did to me? To my life??
Yikes! Sound familiar? The above conversation is not from the Harvey Weinstein rape trial, or a recollection by one of the late Jeffrey Epstein’s Lolitas.
If you’re my age, you may recognize it as the actual onscreen dialogue between Indiana Jones and Marion Ravenwood when he first walks into her Nepalese gin joint in Steven Spielberg’s 1981 movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Back in those days, no one seemed to mind the idea that our beloved hero had seduced an underage “child” and then, ten years later, blamed her and told her she was asking for it.
According to a transcript of a Raiders story meeting, Spielberg, the movie’s producer George Lucas, and screenwriter Lawrence Kasdan actually discussed making Marion just 11 years old when her “affair” with Indy occurred.
Times really have changed for the better! As proof, let’s check in with America’s favorite director, Steven Spielberg.
Huh, what’s this? Last week his youngest daughter Mikaela “came out” as a porn star, and is now uploading homemade porn videos to the Internet for fans who are, she says, “mostly older white men.” She’s now waiting for her government license (!) to become a registered Sex Worker.
She’s also engaged to a 47-year-old professional dart player.
What would Dr. Freud say?
Mikaela, in the same New York Post article, paints a less than idyllic portrait of life as one of the seven Spielberg children. She suffered from years of alcohol abuse and eating disorders. Worst of all, she claims she was “groomed and abused for years” at the hands of someone “not in the family.”
Good news for Mr. Spielberg: The King of Kid Movies did not molest his kid!
Bad news for Mr. Spielberg: The King of Kid Movies raised a kid who makes sex movies for old men just like him!
E.T., phone cops?
No Child’s Behind Left Behind
So who was this predator? Just throw a rock in Brentwood or Santa Monica. Bill Cosby did live across the street from the Spielberg’s Pacific Palisades estate, so Xenu only knows who it could have been. When you grow up around celebrities, your compound is constantly filled with lackeys and other celebrities. She posted a photo on Instagram of her as a little girl literally running away from Bill Clinton. I mean, the story writes itself. When you’re a celebrity child, there is no barrier between you and the narcissists who populate that wicked world. And with mom spending all her time down the street at the 24,000 square foot equestrian center your dad built just for her, it’s likely plenty of people had all the access to you they could ever dream of.
Miss Spielberg’s woeful trajectory is so familiar it is as if it was preordained. Mikaela, who is African-American, was adopted as a baby just a few years after Spielberg founded DreamWorks. DreamWorks, as we all remember, was the glorious culmination of Spielberg’s box office magic, which he planned to spin into a monolith of mainstream family fantasy.
Of course, DreamWorks is mostly known now for littering the cultural landscape with ear-splitting eye poison like Shrek and Madagascar.
No Happy Endings
Children acquired through a misbegotten combination of Westside Los Angeles virtue signaling and racial justice utopian ideals and then packed off to a team of nannies and boarding schools while mom and dad are on location CREATING FANTASY FAMILY ENTERTAINMENT–you really couldn’t write it.
It seems no matter how rich, how utterly privileged your childhood, I fear there is no escape from the preschool-to-PornHub pipeline for the traumatized young women of America.
Some may ask why a child of such wealth and privilege, raised by the world’s most famous children’s entertainer, chooses to perform sex acts on camera for depraved perverts.
To them I say, are you kidding? She finally made it in showbiz!
Don’t worry, Steve, your little girl is just doing her DreamWork™.
Ah, what sweet relief that was! How nice to take a break from watching videos of coronavirus-infected Chinese people dropping dead to watch drop-dead gorgeous people with much sexier diseases like Herpes and Chlamydia! Main takeaway: Whatever Penelope Cruz—who is supposedly 45—does to keep looking 25, I need that intel stat. Secondary takeaway: Tarantino wuz robbed. Yeah, I said…
Ah, what sweet relief that was! How nice to take a break from watching videos of coronavirus-infected Chinese people dropping dead to watch drop-dead gorgeous people with much sexier diseases like Herpes and Chlamydia!
Main takeaway: Whatever Penelope Cruz—who is supposedly 45—does to keep looking 25, I need that intel stat.
Secondary takeaway: Tarantino wuz robbed.
Yeah, I said it.
Love in the Time of Corona
Hey, I thought the Oscars were supposed to be #sowhite this year!? Okay, all the main acting awards did go to the whites, but everyone else on stage was from South Korea. Parasite won so many Oscars I might even see it one day! Before you get all upset, please understand that I love Koreans. I’m even related to some Koreans! But I didn’t really expect the Korean nation to so totally sweep up at the Oscars year. Are there any jobs we won’t outsource to Asia?
I admit I do have coronavirus on the brain these days (not in the lungs, not yet at least). Am I the only one who thinks it’s darkly hilarious that just as a virus from Asia is sweeping the world, an Asian movie called Parasite sweeps the Oscars? Yo, Simulation: bit on the nose, wouldn’t you say?
A Moo Rage Story
Joaquin Phoenix gave a heartfelt Best Actor acceptance speech about animal rights that included a plaintive lament for the nursing cow who’s calf is cruelly taken away. It wasn’t a defense of human motherhood, but hey, I’ll take it! I just wish he could have also thrown in an admonition to our friends across the Pacific to quit eating virus-laden pangolins and bats. If they can do that, I will happily forsake pork and beef.
Did our rapacious need to devour creatures sow the seeds of our own extinction? Is Phoenix right, only instead of too many hamburgers our downfall will turn out to be eating endangered species?
Think of it: the guy begging us to quit eating every living thing in sight played a character most famous for…hating a bat.
Sorry, Simulation, way too obvious. Get a better writer.
Jokers and Jokesters
Speaking of appetites, I was starved for jokes during the show. Which is how I feel watching most movies these days, where real laughs are as sparse as real wrinkles.
When I saw Chris Rock stride onstage to open the show, I was momentarily lifted—but then I saw Steve Martin shamble over from stage left. Was Shecky Green unavailable?
The subsequent unemployed comedians in pairs telling jokes looked like they were auditioning for future hosting roles. Maya Rudolph and Kristin Wiig even made their audition into the joke, but as the ladies launched into a lame song, the show director (you sly dog!) cut away just in time for us to see the young singer Billie Eilish deliver an epic eye roll. Her expression was the exact same one you’d make if you just been offered spit-fired pangolin served with a side of fried vampire bat.
But in my opinion they beat out Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Will Ferrell, who were there…why? The influence of SNL remains so outsized in our culture, and yet what do we get in return? One painfully unfunny political sketch a week, awkward award show bits, and zero funny movies. Imagine laughing during a movie! I haven’t done that for a long time. Once upon a time in hollywood, SNL stars used to pump out funny films faster than those Chinese water cannons can pump disinfectant spray onto the streets of Wuhan. Can’t we open a second comedian factory somewhere?
And that brings me to Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood. Best movie of the year and also maybe the last ten years—although maybe that’s just my Gen-X flaring up again. Lots has been said about it being too white, too straight, too whatever. I don’t actually understand the woketocracy’s beef with it, but to me and those who share my impeccable taste in cinema, it was pure moviemaking joy. I loved it so much I even decided I have to love Lena Dunham just for her bit role as the real-life Gypsy from Manson’s harem of lost hippies.
I loved it most of all for its spectacular revisionist ending (spoiler alert!). When Brad Pitt’s character Cliff Booth savagely smashes Patricia Krenwinkle’s face into a wall, it was, to me, nothing less than pure revenge fantasy for the death of Sharon Tate and her unborn baby. The real Sharon Tate, of course, was massacred and then buried with her newborn, Paul Richard Polansky, swaddled and tucked in her arms, at Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City. She begged her killers to let her live long enough to have her baby, so that he might live. Maybe that’s why I found the film’s finale so deeply, viscerally satisfying. Tarantino’s rewrite of history was like his way of saying to Sharon and baby Paul: I remember you.
Has anyone addressed the strange similarities between the real Charles Manson and the “fictional” character of Joker? Fleck is obsessed with stand-up comedy and a famous nighttime talk show host. Manson wanted to be a singer and was obsessed with the Beatles.
We learn that as a child Arthur Fleck was beaten and tortured, suffering the permanent neurological damage that triggers his Tourette syndrome cackle and ruins his life. Charles Manson was born of a teenage alcoholic mother, endured a series of abusive alcoholic stepfathers, and was finally sent to a series of terrifying boys homes where he was repeatedly raped by older boys.
Do I excuse Manson’s bloody incitement of his followers? No, but like Arthur Fleck’s journey to madness, it was frankly the only logical outcome. Manson’s life was a perfectly constructed narrative—a horror story that should have left no doubt about what shape his final form would take.
I suspect that Joker’s writers may have based Fleck’s big Break Into Act 3 speech on what Manson actually said at his own murder trial:
“My father is the jailhouse. My father is your system…I am only what you made me. I am only a reflection of you…You want to kill me? Ha! I am already dead—have been all my life. I’ve spent twenty-three years in tombs that you have built.”
Much has been made about Joker as a mental health movie. I would argue that it is in fact a child abuse movie in which the child finally extracts long-overdue vengeance upon his abusers and the system that enabled them. Joker, in the end, takes his bloody revenge.
In the world just outside the Oscar theater, there are children, so many children, crying for justice, and unborn babies to be saved, far beyond Arthur Fleck, Paul Polanski, the nursing calves of the world, and yes, even the little boy who started off life as “No Name Maddox” and became a sociopath.
After all, it’s still a sick world out there, and it’s about to (probably) get a whole lot sicker.
I hear there’s another hot new trend headed our way from Asia, and I want to grab some before they sell out: surgical face masks.
The morning of the big game, I predicted that the elderly singers poised to take the stage would appear in opaque nude panty hose and vinyl leotards, since legally the older the performer, the more skin they are required to flaunt. My prediction was very close to what they wore, except with slightly less fabric….
The morning of the big game, I predicted that the elderly singers poised to take the stage would appear in opaque nude panty hose and vinyl leotards, since legally the older the performer, the more skin they are required to flaunt.
My prediction was very close to what they wore, except with slightly less fabric. And yet, how could I, a tradwife with no inside knowledge of the various show producers, costume designers, and choreographers who work with J-Lo, possibly know this?
The day after the now infamous halftime show, a million outraged tweets declared the shockingly scantily clad performance lewd, crude, and tacky, a pornographic strip show unsuitable for American football families hunched around platters of nachos semi-eagerly awaiting their annual helping of America’s Entertainment™.
A second group lavished praise on Shakira and Jennifer Lopez’s “stunning” show, heralding it as a proud celebration of “Latinx” heritage and culture in the age of Trump. (And now, happily, we know what the X in “Latinx” means.)
A third group, mainly white feminists and corporate marketeers (but I repeat myself) proclaimed the spectacle a bold statement of women’s empowerment. These ladies were leading from behind, using their behinds! The gameday marketing theme was a “Make Space For Women” campaign that featured a hashtag and a commercial by Olay showing women blast into space on a giant dildo-shaped, Olay-branded rocket.
(Side note: I am 100% in favor of sending feminists into space on lengthy expeditions, the more the better.)
So, which was it? A sleazyy strip tease, an unapologetically sexy Latina pridefest, or a bold third-wave feminist statement?
In my opinion, it was actually none of the above. Instead, it marked the total collapse of mainstream pop culture into its final singularity: a tired, exhausted banality obsolete from the moment of its birth.
THE BANALITY OF DIVA
The halftime show, starring 43-year-old Shakira and 50+ year-old Lopez, had no actual nudity, or even a wardrobe malfunction like Janet Jackson’s split-second boob flash back in 2004. It did feature an excess of pole dancing, copious gluteal jiggling in ludicrous, unflattering costumes that were basically full-body G-strings, and heavy hip thrusting on the floor and with a troop of male backup dancers.
Shakira wore a fringe mini dress, which compared to Lopez was like being in a full niqab, but she quickly found a way around her modest skirt with a camera-level squat that generously allowed for close up looks at her crotch.
Lopez arrived in a black leather S&M catsuit that she stripped off into skimpier and then skimpiest outfits, finally left only in a nude body stocking with tiny silver pasties over the few inches of flesh she wanted to cover.
For good measure, she made sure to draw our eyes to her covered bits, tantalizing as they already were, by sliding towards the poor unsuspecting cameraman on her knees rubbing the millimeter-wide strip of fabric stretched across her crotch as if to tease and say “don’t you wish you could see what’s under here?”
In truth, her attempt at self-groping was half-hearted, and you could almost sense her reluctance. The depraved choreographers and creative directors are firmly in control of these ladies, but sometimes even the best-trained marionettes balk.
Did anyone even hear the songs? I recognized a few of them, and they sounded much worse than I remembered. The whole wretched affair derrière was not what it was, ahem, cracked up to be.
I asked my 14-year-old the other day as he sang along to “Tainted Love” on the car radio, why do they still play all the songs from when I was your age, and why do you like them?
“Because music today sucks.”
TWERKING AND TWERKING IN THE WIDENING GYRE
Ladies have been proudly shaking their collective tuchuses for many decades now. It’s tiresome, at this point, to muster up any degree of libidinous excitement or even offense at the (diverse!) multi-hued array of butt cheeks jiggling in our faces from all directions.
I suppose in the beginning it was thrilling to catch Josephine Baker at the Folies in Paris, wiggling in nothing but a tutu made of bananas. Ziegfeld’s chorus girls showed plenty of skin, and were the first real pinups. When the Hays Code was introduced in 1934, Hollywood was forced to clean up its act, so skin was not in again until the late 60s when the entertainment industry realized skin was going to sell a lot of tickets.
Still, when Madonna strutted onscreen in a bustier and fishnet stockings in the mid 1980s, teenage girls were thrilled and parents were genuinely appalled. Her entire persona was about epater-ing the bourgeoisie, and shock them she did.
But then, the look she pioneered devolved into the standard workaday uniform of the average pop superstar. Tight, high-cut leotards and nude legs became the dress code and have remained unchanged for the last 35-odd years.
Please, can someone put on some pants? Imagine the shock value!
Recall that Cher wore a nude body stocking in the 1997 video for her hit “If I Could Turn Back Time.”
Then came in rapid succession Britney Spears, Nikki Minaj, Cardi B, Taylor Swift, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, Ariane Grande, and grande dame J-Lo—all of them without exception adopting the onstage leotard and bare legs look, in various colors and fabrics.
So many female mediocrities twerking their way into cultural irrelevance. Less fabric! More twerking! Faster pussycat! It’s all so very cringe.
Beyoncé’s 2008’s “Single Ladies” video featured her and two back up dancers in leotards. Nowadays, every time I fire up the Daily Mail for my Meghan Markle fix, I am treated to lavish wide-angle close ups of the obese rapper Lizzo in what looks like a piece of string stuck to her posterior, grabbing her ankles and gyrating inches from a camera’s lens. I do not desire to commit to memory the contours of other women’s inner thigh protrusions and camel toes; does anyone? When did Lizzo’s taint and Lopez’s labia become marketing gimmicks to sell Pepsi?
No wonder American men are forced to gobble ED pills by the handful! Women’s bodies have been stripped, literally, of their mystique and power to titillate and turned into gross anatomy lessons.
Perhaps this is why 18-year-old singer Billie Eilish was able to break out so fast last year. Her shapeless sweatsuits and baggy overalls seemed radical, and set the fashion standard at our local public high schools. Her talent, youth, and surprisingly lovely face just landed her on the March cover of Vogue. Perhaps her recent dominance at the Grammys over almost all of the women mentioned above is a hopeful sign. Eilish beat Gaga, Grande, Lizzo, and even Swift, among others. Of course, she currently sports a black Joan Jett shag haircut with the roots dyed neon green, but nobody’s perfect.
Could her rocket to fame mean we are ready to #makespaceforwomen that don’t fit the hooker/stripper mold? Do young women prefer to gaze upon the face of a beautiful teenager who can actually sing, and whose figure is literally shrouded in mystery, over the proctologist-eye view of middle-age has-beens having seizures in sequins in desperate efforts to seize your attention?
I hope so. It’s not ideal, but I suppose Eilish is the radical pop savior we deserve.
Wait, you mean you didn’t hear about the recent gathering (or as they say, “General Assembly”—LOL, OK boomer) of the United States Catholic Conference of Bishops? Their annual meeting was held in Baltimore in November; Baltimore, you may recall, was recently newsworthy for being particularly rat-infested. So many rats that no one paid much attention to a…
Wait, you mean you didn’t hear about the recent gathering (or as they say, “General Assembly”—LOL, OK boomer) of the United States Catholic Conference of Bishops? Their annual meeting was held in Baltimore in November; Baltimore, you may recall, was recently newsworthy for being particularly rat-infested.
So many rats that no one paid much attention to a few hundred bishops scurrying around.
Cue the Ritual Rearranging of Deck Chairs
The glorious event opened with speeches on the gravest issues facing the Church: gun violence, climate change, and DACA immigrants. Sorry, which General Assembly is this again? Paging the DNC!
Not much—not nearly enough—was made of the Chief Crisis of the Church. You know, the never-ending torrent of rape accusations. Those pesky kiddo eruptions. All those darn coverups.
Also too briefly touched upon was Chief Crisis #2: the hemorrhaging of Catholics from American parishes. For every one person that joins, another six flee. The average age of a cradle Catholic when they stop identifying as Catholic has dropped from 18 to 13. (Must be a coincidence that 13 is roughly the average age of a priest-abused child.)
Did any of the assembled elders figure out that Crisis #1 and Crisis #2 might be related? That in fact, Crisis #1 has caused, or is a major cause of, Crisis #2?
Who knows! All these bishops know is that 13-year-olds are mysteriously vanishing from the pews, in mind if not body, and this must be stopped. It must be stopped, they say! We must keep them, hold them close…not like that! Get your mind out of the gutter…
They’re right, of course. Without new parishioners, a parish dies in a generation or two. Without new parishioners, who’s going to pay the lawyer bills and victim settlements? This explains much of their frantic push for open borders. The writing’s on the wall for these guys and they know it. Most Sunday masses look like an open casting call for Golden Girls impersonators.
But instead of rooting out the deviants who continue to pirouette through seminaries and rectories, they focus on installing the Francis political agenda and tap dance around the elephant behind the altar.
What we the parishioners want to see is action. I want to see a Zeal Team 6 made up of armed Carthusian monks and highly trained Belgian Malinois with headcams strapped to their snouts storming sacristies and chasing down degenerates until there’s not one of them left in a frock.
This would pretty much take care of Crisis #1.
Instead, the doughy dotards have decided they need…
Better websites. Some good tweets. You know, for kids!
Enter Bishop Barron
The Gómez election was somewhat overshadowed by the appearance of Bishop Robert Barron. You may know him as the 60-year-old auxiliary bishop of Los Angeles, where he landed in 2015 after being pushed out of Chicago by the simpering Cardinal Cupich, a hardcore Francis ally. Barron is “conservative” (though he wrote his master’s thesis on the political philosophy of Karl Marx), so that makes him popular among traditional boomer Catholics.
He is most famous as the host of the popular PBS series Catholicism, which is sort of a Catholic version of Kenneth Clark’s memory-holed Civilization series. Episodes consist of Barron standing in front of ancient monuments around the world doing deep dives on scripture. They are historically enlightening and theologically sound. Barron comes across as intelligent, affable, and—vitally—not overly creepy. A rare combo! In the Wall Street Journal, Matthew Hennessey called Barron the “bishop of Catholic social media.”
A true evangelist, Barron seems to care deeply about the survival of the church into the future and has created a multimedia empire around his mission: to create new Catholics and entice the unaffiliated (he calls them the “nones”) to consider conversion. There is the nonprofit Word on Fire Institute, there are videos, DVD sales, books, speaking tours, and more. And he has plans—big ones—for rescuing the Catholic Church from its present mess.
Finally! A smart guy to fix the problems, root out the rot, and clean out corruption! If anyone can do it, it’s Barron! After all, he’s the Bezos of bishops. The Musk of the Magisterium. The Oprah of the Novus Ordo. The Zuckerberg of the zucchetto. And ZOMFG he has over 150,000 Twitter followers! (New York’s Cardinal Dolan has 240,000, but who’s counting). Barron’s even done a few Reddit AMAs—his last one kind of blew up.
He’s the man for his time and place.
He has the answers we need.
If we are only wise enough to listen.
Effetes vs. Aesthetes
Back in the giddy days of the original dot-com bubble, I was a junior creative at a fancy web design biz. The slick creative directors—famous for throwing parties in New York that featured go-go dancers and underdressed, empowered females in tech—saw themselves as missionaries to impossibly lame massive corporations. “If it can be digital, it will be” these slick salesmen would whisper in the ears of dorky CFOs poised over their checkbooks.
Back in those days, big companies trying to build a cool website were like drunks with no arms trying to find a lightswitch in the bathroom. The flat fee for our Phase 1 deliverable—an itemized list of everything wrong with your current totally lame brand and what we could do to make your brand less lame—was one million dollars.
A million bucks and you wouldn’t even have a website. That would require a much larger check. And if you wanted it to actually work at the end of the process, well, that was really gonna cost ya.
Barron, bless his heart, is trying to help these guys out of their hole for free! No charge for his brilliant digital creative consulting!
During his presentation to the other bishops, Barron laid out a precise five-point plan for enticing young people to come and rest their weary foreheads upon the pillowy manboobed bosom of the Church. His Institute even created a training film about the plan, so it would be easy to share with priests in their diocese.
Bishop Barron, tell us your secrets!
First: Tempt kids with the “way of justice.”
I guess having the Sultan of SJWs in the Vatican is not enough. One of Barron’s suggestions is to get local children trained to be “community organizers” (his words) through the parish action committees.
Second: Lure them with the “way of beauty.”
“People find us through our websites,” he said. “Let’s make sure our websites are beautiful.” He’s right. If you’ve ever tried to navigate your local parish website to find say, a mass time, you know it’s a disaster.
Third: Barron urged bishops to transform parishes into missionary outreach centers.
“The young people aren’t going to come to us,” said Barron. “We have to go out to them.” Picture it: a mob of obese elderly men staggering down the street toward the nearest unsuspecting middle school. If that’s not the stuff of nightmares, what is? He urged the bishops to invest in social media experts.
There’s actually a word for that thing where super friendly adults want to get between you and your kids, reach out to them, offer them fun activities, and get them to try new things.
That word is grooming.
Fourth: Stop dumbing down the faith. Seconded and adopted!
And finally, how does the wise Bishop propose to help the assembled enfeebled effetes appeal to teens?
Fifth: By embracing a “creative use of new [sic] media.”
“It’s a tool that we can and should use to reach out to this world,” said Barron. “There’s a sticky quality to things you put out there. Meaning, it goes out there and someone gets stuck to it.”
“Young people live online,” Barron helpfully informed his colleagues, and therefore they need to be accessed where they are. “Using this new [sic] tool, we can now reach into their world.” Brilliant! Who among us has not welcomed random messages on their teenagers’ Discord chats and Minecraft servers from random adult men?
“We want to get them to parishes,” Barron said, “but as a first step, I think that’s one way to do it.”
As an example, he brought up that one time he made some Word on Fire vids about Bob Dylan and Catholicism, and one guy saw it and decided to head to mass.
Gee, Bob Dylan videos? Heck, my preteens can’t get enough Dylan content, especially when delivered by priests. Hey, how about a totally awesome video series where Cardinal Dolan takes on Donny Osmond? Or Cardinal Wuerl tackles Earth, Wind, and Fire?
Now we’re talking sticky!
Beauty and the Beasts
When Barron brought up beauty, I was confused. A little wistful. Beauty? Was that a thing once?
As a former non-Catholic, I was drawn to the art of the Church first. It’s the worst cliché, but who wasn’t?
Isn’t it prima facie proof of the church’s early aesthetic success that literally everyone (universally!) enjoys the spires, the stone, the art, the domes, the Michelangelo. You are seduced first by the pagan (Bronze Age?) biceps of the David, which is actually just foreplay to soften you up for the slam in the gut from the Pietà. How could a human carve this? Recall the rending of garments as Notre Dame burned. Not the flying buttresses! Do not hurt my flying buttresses!
On semester abroad, I signed up for an art history tour across northern Spain that tracked the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela. It culminated in a packed mass in an absolute unit of a Gothic edifice at the windswept northwest corner of Spain. Afterward we had scallops and sangria. It was a delight.
When I decided to join up with the Caths, I knew the eyesore church in which I would serve out my RCIA sentence was a pink 1970s atrocity. But what did I expect, a bunch of masons in Van Nuys to recreate Chartres just for me? It’s not about the aesthetics, Peachy. You have to look beyond the linoleum, you snob, I was told by the lifers—like prison inmates telling the fresh meat that the Friday mystery loaf is actually pretty tasty if you put enough Tabasco on it.
I knew I was not going to get Sistine ceilings and Gregorian chants. I knew I would be baptized by a tanned, white-haired gentlemen who resembled Liberace’s younger brother and spent weekends in Palm Springs with a close male friend.
I knew all this going in.
When Mount Pedophilia erupted, I was assured, it’s ever been thus, the priests are human and sadly all too fallible, just worry about yourself and your own sins, Peachy. There is a wonderful Word on Fire video you should watch that will really help put it in context.
When priests offered pandering, meandering homilies about racism and immigration and excuses for molesters that included phrases like “a few bad apples,” things that made me want to convert on the spot to something else, anything else, I was admonished, the homilies are never good, didn’t you know that? Why are you even paying attention to such petty details? Even bad priests still give communion, it’s about the consecrated body of Christ, not what the priest says. Stop being so shallow, Peachy!
Maybe this is how Barron survives his own banishment in Los Angeles. Just look at his homebase. The L.A. cathedral is an infamous, incoherent edifice courtesy of former Cardinal Roger Mahony. Wags call it the Taj Mahony.
Of course, the disgraced Mahony is not spoken of these days. Better known as the Jeffrey Epstein to the junior set, he cost his diocese the largest pedo payout in history (roughly 1 billion) and today enjoys a cozy sinecure emeritus at St. Charles Borromeo in North Hollywood—Theodore McCarrick’s old stomping grounds, dontcha know. He even gets to pop in to mass alongside Bishop Barron from time to time. Mahony, who sent more young boys to their doom than WWI Field Marshall Douglas Haig, still clings on, an eternal boil on the underside of the city.
And no one says anything about it in public.
You want to keep kids Catholic? Ignore the kids. Pay attention to their parents.
Show us competence. Demonstrate action. Round up rapists. Build pretty churches. Bulldoze the rest. And sure, make the websites nice and the tweets pithy.
When Archbishop José Gómez was formally elected at the end of the conference, some conservative Catholics cheered. Did they realize they’re cheering for the new captain of the Titanic when we’ve already hit the iceberg?
Gómez, who has been unable to stop Mahony from performing public ministries, will now ride this battered boat all the way to the bottom. Because they are the real crisis: the bishops themselves! The chief crisis is not one of abuse, or a fleeing flock, or bad art.
Those are all just symptoms.
The true Chief Crisis is competence—or lack thereof.
You want to save the church? Make sure not a single U.S. Bishop ever, ever, ever shows his face in public again. In fact, abolish the General Assembly. Hide, run, leave, quit. All of you. Today, if possible.
On Veteran’s Day, we flew our flags and honored those who served. As is right and just. But maybe from here on out we should prevent our young people from enlisting in the U.S. Armed Forces. At least until we figure out what the hell is going on. With American foreign policy in a post-Trump…
On Veteran’s Day, we flew our flags and honored those who served. As is right and just. But maybe from here on out we should prevent our young people from enlisting in the U.S. Armed Forces.
At least until we figure out what the hell is going on.
With American foreign policy in a post-Trump world, that is.
Full disclosure: I’m married to a veteran who served during the halcyon pre-War-on-Terror days. The sole injury he sustained was on liberty when he had a tooth knocked out in a bar brawl. But still, he did serve, and I thank him for his service on a regular basis.
Like many of you, I was raised to hero-worship the mighty United States military. My forefathers were veterans of WWII. I grew up on a steady diet of pure, uncut Stephen Ambrose-style Greatest Generation hagiographies.
To my great shame, I cheered the Iraq War—even the surge. We were going to stomp the evildoers and obliterate Al Qaeda! Muh WMD! The invasion was necessary! To keep us safe—
Then the real slaughter began.
Army. Navy. Maybe?
My final redpilling on unwinnable foreign entanglements happened a few years after shock and awe, when I found myself being carpet-bombed with two babies worth of spit up and diaper blowouts. A third boy arrived later, around the time of Obama’s Afghan surge.
I spent hours toddler-proofing the house to keep them safe. I covered sharp corners on the furniture. Installed safety plates on electrical outlets. Cut each grape into not just quarters, but eighths. Paid experts to install car seats.
I did all this as the broken bodies of slightly older American boys stacked up overseas.
Elections really do have consequences. Foreign policy decisions made in D.C. over the last 20 years have hurt American families much, much more than they have helped them.
At this year’s American ConservativeForeign Policy Conference, Matthew Peterson, the esteemed editor of The American Mind, was asked to elucidate the mysterious change of heart conservatives have had vis-à-vis the Iraq intervention. They were for it before they were against it. What sorcery was this?
His answer got right to the heart of things:
“Because they saw their family and friends coming back from the war.”
Bingo. We don’t need white papers or think tank studies to figure out that it was a terrible, awful, no good, very bad war. Actual parents—the ones who raised their kids to want to serve, dropped them off at boot camp—got to see and touch and feel the results of our foreign policy decisions up close: scars, phantom limbs, disfigurement, fresh graves.
A few days ago, I read about a veteran who received a novel organ donation surgery in 2018. “The recipient is a young serviceman who lost his penis, scrotum, both testes and most of both legs when he stepped on a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.”
Take a moment with that.
And he’s not the only one. “A 2017 study conducted for the Pentagon found that between October 2001 and August 2013, 1,367 servicemen experienced genitourinary wounds, more than a third of them considered ‘severe.’”
The number of cases is “unprecedented” and the injuries “uniquely devastating” because they can impair a man’s ability to have sex, father children, or urinate normally, according to the report. Most of the wounded men—94%—were 35 or younger, in “their peak years of sexual development and reproductive potential,” the report said, adding that the psychological toll was especially heavy in such young men. Researchers say these men are at high risk for suicide.
Have more male genitals been mutilated by the Department of Defense than by the cocklopping surgeons of the transgender left? Is that possible?
(In a twist of terrible irony, the DoD performs voluntary cocklopping surgeries on active-duty service members, so that pads their numbers a bit.)
There is a temporary antidote to this permanent madness: President Trump. His flat refusal to entertain follies like Libya and Syria and Fallujah have saved American mothers—how many? Thousands?—from the fathomless ocean of despair. His restraint has certainly preserved lives and limbs and unborn grandchildren. Trump’s recent vivid description of what’s it like to greet the grieving military families at Dover was a watershed moment.
This all matters to me. My sons are patriotic. They like camping. Scouting. They’re gun-curious. They’re interested in how to quickly increase the size of their pecs. My 9-year-old chugged extra milk the other day, hoping he would wake up with bulging biceps emerging from his spaghetti-thin arms. (Hm, did he stumble onto our copy of this book?)
This sounds pretty good, right? This is what you want from boys. Strength, bravery, those elusive leadership qualities. They’re excellent prospects.
Then, a few days ago, I overheard the oldest telling his friend what he wanted to do when he grew up. His answer stunned me.
“I’m thinking about going to the Naval Academy, then becoming a Marine officer, then going to law school.”
That law school part is bad enough! But…the Marines?
If I was the mother of a Marine right now, I’d feel nothing but extreme relief every time President Trump exposed the F.P. experts in D.C. as the buffoons they are. But what about those of us with kids who would serve 5, 10, or 15 years from now? Will they serve under some bleak socialist regime? Under President Pete Buttigieg? President Ilhan Omar? President For Life Her Excellency Alyssa Milano? Will they be as careful with American lives and limbs and flesh as Trump has been?
And what about the Republicans? President Nikki Haley? She’d be very happy to show the world how tough a woman can be. That was Hillary’s problem, too (among a few others). Ah, but a President Pence! He’d be wise about using force, yes? A NeverTrump guy I know recently tried to convince me that impeachment would be for the best. “Come on—imagine how much Pence could get done in a year!”
Now, that’s a terrifying thought.
When I see the heat Trump gets for a minor withdrawal, or when he calls off the jets in midair, forcing them to return to base with payloads intact, the stern-faced guys with the little medals on their shirts excoriate him for “disengagement” and “isolationism.” That’s my proof that the relative peace we enjoy today is just a short pause in the death toll. A dip in the bar graph. More blown limbs and cratered futures lie ahead.
This is why I urgently seek out those wise soothsayers who can show me a glimpse of the decade to come. Why else care so much about politics and the turn of the screws, other than to try and see what landscape awaits future soldiers? Is it a charred, smoking hellscape, or a verdant valley of peace? What nightmare slouches our way?
I need to know this before I hand a child to the generals. I demand to know this.
Let’s check in with some thought leaders and see if they have any predictions! Mainstream conservatives, what say you?
“Our military planners foresee a few more decades in Syria, maybe Yemen next. We can have your boys liberate the Crimea, Iran, NoKo, and Hong Kong and be home in time for supper. We’ll whip ‘em by Christmas, latest.”
Democrats, any thoughts?
“Cisgendered youth assigned male at birth will be permitted two choices in GreeNewMerica: they can be throupled and humiliated by wives liberated from patriarchal marital bonds, or enjoy virtue-signaling marriages to transwomen. Transwoman marriage will come with some exciting tax credits and special privileges that allow you to skip to the front of the bread line (gluten-free bread lines coming soon)!”
Yikes! Well, maybe the good Christian peeps have better ideas?
“Send them to the seminary! We need more priests! Don’t worry, we just installed new locks in the seminarians’ quarters. Father McGropington will no longer be a problem, we can assure you.”
Med school? Get woke.
Law school? Go broke.
Seminary? Get poked.
I’m not a pacifist—hardly, dude. I want every American armed to the teeth. When the Chinese submersibles land on Will Rogers Beach and platoons of amphibious soldiers start marching east on Wilshire Boulevard, yes, we’ll haul out the hardware and take covering positions.
Until then, the U.S. military will not get to load their cannons with my handsome boys.
An epic battle is being waged on the left. It’s not between Medicare for All nuts and Obamacare nostalgics. It’s not even between the Green New Dealers and the Slightly Less Green Dealers. It’s between feminists and transgenderists.TERF Wars Radical, leftwing ladies—the “feminazis” of old—are mostly progressives, pro-abortion, and against basically everything mainline conservatives believe…
It’s not between Medicare for All nuts and Obamacare nostalgics.
It’s not even between the Green New Dealers and the Slightly Less Green Dealers.
It’s between feminists and transgenderists.
Radical, leftwing ladies—the “feminazis” of old—are mostly progressives, pro-abortion, and against basically everything mainline conservatives believe in. But! They are risking life and limb, career and reputation, for one simple reason: they’re not willing to surrender their own identities as biological women.
The pejorative term for these fearless females—I apologize for using it!—is TERF: trans-exclusionary radical feminists. Trans-lation: biological women who want to bar “transwomen” from traditionally female spaces.
Yes, there is a painfully long history behind the name. Yes, multifarious splinter factions have been skirmishing over it for the past few decades. Yes, I will spare you the details. Gender studies graduate students have produced enough paper on the subject—enough to fill a Dunder Mifflin warehouse.
The so-called TERFs refer to themselves as “gender critical.” Whatever the term, the definition is simple: these are women who believe (know!) that someone born female is different (wut!) from those born male who identify later as female (or who try to retcon themselves as female “all along”). They are women who claim a specific lived experience that maleborns do not and cannot have, no matter what they call the bits they want you to wax.
And no one is fighting harder against this madness than this small Sapphic army of radicals. They are on the front lines and taking fire. Last week, Canadian writer Meghan Murphy, a leading voice and editor of Feminist Current, gave a talk at a Toronto public library. Murphy has already been banned by Twitter, and despite hysterical outrage, the library allowed her to speak. The response was predictable. Video of the scene looks like the violent aftermath last month at the Minnesota Trump rally. The female attendees—mostly older, Lands-End-catalog types—were forced to run a frightening gauntlet as masked Antifa-type protestors screamed vile insults at them. In Canada!
Or take Camille Paglia, who is what my Grammy Hall would call a “real lesbian.” Camille, famous as the author of Sexual Personae, is an OG TERF—and was my cultural hero in college. As outraged younger (straight) feminists screamed at her for arguing that wasted girls at frat parties bore some responsibility for their actions, I sat rapt at several of her talks, in awe, vowing to temper my underage drinking. I didn’t succeed, of course—but Paglia never quit making heads explode. In 2017, she told the Weekly Standard “the cold biological truth is that sex changes are impossible. Every single cell of the human body remains coded with one’s birth gender for life.” This year, students at the college where she’s been teaching for decades rioted to get her fired.
Paglia is one reason why I withstood full-immersion progressivism while many (okay, all) of my classmates succumbed. Nowadays, as a grown-up Catholic straight, I may not be able to officially endorse or approve the full blown lesbo lifestyle. But today’s gender-critical lesbians demand respect: as nice straight ladies have caved in or gone woke, Paglia and company have become the thin pink line between our young daughters and the approaching horde of muscular Ma’ams coming to claim their sports scholarships, NCAA awards, and safe spaces.
One of the biggest online refuges for these women—gay and straight—is Gender Critical on Reddit, with over 45 thousand members. Spend a few minutes on it and you start to wonder if you are at a conservative Christian message board, if conservative Christians had anything to say about the culture.
On one top thread, users share their “Peak Trans” stories, which is their term for the thing that finally red-pilled them on the movement:
“Peak trans” is the event that made you say “no more.” You started out being supportive, or maybe just neutral on trans issues. You tried to understand, to digest, to ask questions…and then it happened. PEAK TRANS! Was it the first time you heard of the cotton ceiling? Was it being called “a “T*RF” for asserting that women are adult females? Was it the frenzy over Caitlyn Jenner’s heroism and bravery?
The “cotton ceiling” refers to the supposedly bigoted, “transphobic” refusal of lesbians to engage in penile intercourse with pre-op transwomen. “Cotton” (sigh) refers to women’s underwear—it must be “broken through,” just like the glass ceiling for corporate women. In 2012, Planned Parenthood Toronto (Oh, Canada!) actually held a workshop called “Overcoming the Cotton Ceiling: Breaking Down Sexual Barriers for Queer Trans Women.”
Which is ironic, since transwomen aren’t exactly clamoring for Planned Parenthood’s primary service. Take it away, Peak Trans:
Many of us accepted the claims of trans activists, wanting to be fair and non-exclusionary, until we really listened to what they were saying, and compared it to our own knowledge and experience. Can “woman” be just an identity, divorced from biology? Can penises be female? Should girls who don’t like dolls be treated with double mastectomies and lifelong hormones?
To many women, the idea that they are somehow the oppressor for refusing to agree to be essentially raped was the red pill. For this thought crime these women are threatened with violence online and IRL—harassed in public, spit on at Pride parades. Yes, a common threat maleborn transwomen make is to “rape TERFS.” I guess this proves women really are the same as men, since now women can rape you using their own penises. Imagine getting rape threats from a group of people you’ve been taught for years to support!
St. Agatha, Pray for Us
Looking for someone to blame for this sad state of affairs? Ask your wife to hand you a mirror. Feckless conservatives—know any?—utterly failed to conserve a culture in which girls and women could grow and thrive. If your teenage son refuses to satisfy the pre-op prom queen, enjoy watching every college admissions officer tear up his applications. If your teenage daughter sets the statewide sprinting record and fails to applaud the transwoman who strips her of the title, enjoy the character assassination to come. This is just the beginning. The locker rooms and the sporting arenas and the Olympic podiums and the scholarship spots—except for the ones rich celebrities reserve for their female offspring—will eventually be handed over to the maleborns.
In my darker moods, I admit, I salivate over this. I can’t wait to see all women’s sports, at every level from high school to pro, dominated by transwomen. What will mainstream liberals do when Serena Williams is sent into retirement by a white transwoman? Imagine the gold medal-heavy women’s U.S. track and field team, majority African-American, replaced in its entirety with transwomen, many of whom will likely be white. What will the left actually do when a superstar black female athlete is kicked off the podium by someone born a white man? Will “social justice” at last occupy the intersection of cognitive dissonance and self-owns?
A few sports may be immune: gymnastics, ice skating, things scored partially on high levels of feminine grace. But perhaps those sports will simply be cancelled as transphobic.
This is our near future.
Unless we rise to the standard set by the TERFS. Pray for these brave ladies! Support them. They need all the help they can get. Until further notice, they’re our only hope. Wanting a patron saint, I nominate Agatha of Sicily—breasts sliced off by an angry male mob for refusing to submit her mind and body to their demands.
O St. Agatha,
who withstood the unwelcome advances
from unwanted suitors,
and suffered pain and torture
for your devotion to Our Lord,
we celebrate your faith, dignity, and martyrdom.
Protect us against rape and other violations,
guard us against breast cancer
and other afflictions of women,
and inspire us to overcome adversity.
O St. Agatha, Virgin and Martyr,
mercifully grant that we who venerate your sacrifice,
may receive your intercession.
Bet you’ve noticed this. Happens almost daily on TV and Twitter. And…it magically works every time. Dumb Republican: “We have to enforce existing immigration laws.” Atheist Liberal: “And you call yourself a Christian? No Christian would turn away the poor!” Dumb Republican: [acts out And I Oop meme, cowers silently in shame.] Noted Christian theologian…
Bet you’ve noticed this. Happens almost daily on TV and Twitter. And…it magically works every time.
Dumb Republican: “We have to enforce existing immigration laws.”
Atheist Liberal: “And you call yourself a Christian? No Christian would turn away the poor!”
Dumb Republican: [acts out And I Oop meme, cowers silently in shame.]
Noted Christian theologian Barack Obama used this technique to great effect: he used to trot out the Inquisition (circa 1481 AD) to mock Christians for objecting to Obamacare, or some other liberal agenda item.
Kristen Powers recently scolded happily married man Tucker Carlson on TV for not cheering for open borders, using this same tired—but extremely effective—weapon.
CARLSON: So I have a moral obligation to share my earnings—
CARLSON: —and my country with people I’ve never met because they are suffering?
POWERS: Are you a Christian?
CARLSON: I am absolutely a Christian.
POWERS: Okay, have you read the Bible? That Bible says—
CARLSON: This is not a theocracy.
POWERS: It is very clear.
CARLSON: No, countries are not run according to Christian concepts.
POWERS: You are telling me that you don’t have any obligation as a Christian to care?
CARLSON: No, you are not saying that.
POWERS: That’s exactly what I’m saying.
CARLSON: What you’re saying is the U.S. government has a responsibility. Now you may have a Christian obligation. You can give charity money. That’s a massive difference.
Tucker is smart and did not fall into her trap. He rejected the ridiculous idea that the Bible or Christian theology gives direct and set answers to all the prudential political questions of modern day policy. He avoided the And I Oop reaction. This is likely because he is well-wived at home.
But most Republicans, being very dumb, do not react in the Carlsonian manner.
When faced with a sneering, usually divorced, Christian-hating liberal who bleats one or more of the following:
“The Bible never talks about building a wall!”
“The Bible never talks about banning abortion!”
“Show me in the Bible where Jesus tells his followers to throw poor refugees in concentration camps.”
“Did Jesus come down from heaven to tell you that transpeople don’t have the right to government-funded gender affirmation bottom surgery?”
“How DARE you call yourself a Christian, you racist sexist bigot!”
…most Dumb Republicans will nervously clear their wattled throats and weakly protest that hey, come on now, yes, they are a Christian, in fact quite devout, and nowhere in the Bible does it say that they should, ah, that is to say…they believe in…the Constitution. Yeah, that’s it, the Constitution! And the Framers, well, they…”
At which point the liberal goes for the head shot: “Quit mansplaining, Christian white man.” And then right on cue, they recite the Emma Lazarus poem at the bottom of the Statue of Liberty.
Watch as the Dumb Republican predictably emits a nervous giggle and visibly sweats under thick base makeup.
Stop doing this right now. Don’t let them use Christianity as a beating stick to keep you in line.
Why should they get to wield YOUR moral sensibilities, your own personal—and yes, Christian—virtues, against you? They do not believe in those values. They believe in nothing, Lebowski!
Their current preferred weapons against Trump-supporting Christians are daggers shaped like Stormy Daniels and dead Syrian toddlers. “But good Sir,” they bleat, “how can you support a man who shtupped a porn queen and then had the NERVE to stop illegal immigrants from emigrating to Santa Monica, north of Montana Avenue? Where all the residents display Refugees Welcome signage in the yards! AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHRISTIAN.”
You have to give them credit, because it’s a tactic that works on Dumb Republicans. Every time. So easy! This nearly bulletproof attack is used by everyone on the left, from the lowly worms like Phillipe Reines, to midlevel toadies like Jim Acosta and Jake Tapper, all the way to Pope Franco, the wily old pedo protecting capo in the Vatican.
To them, the “Christian thing to do” is obvious: throw out the man who committed sins like adultery and vanity, in favor of the liberal nominee, who owns the moral high ground.
Of course, in their moral calculus, the high ground is the sacred mountaintop upon which they gleefully sacrifice a million babies a year, allow thousands of European women to be raped and killed by refugees, and imprison anyone with qualms about mentally ill women who wish to castrate their male children, or those not quite ready to commit to 100% taxation to pay for the Green New Deal.
HOW DARE YOU OBJECT, SIR. AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHRISTIAN?
Republicans: Here is what you are forgetting as you cower in shame live on camera during your CNN hit, sweating it out: when they come at you, when they take aim at you using your own faith as the weapon, remember that they attaq you NOT from the moral high ground.
Instead, they attaq from below. They are the party of the lowest, the debased, the bottomless abyss of muck and degeneracy. Their goal is to bring you down to their level, force you at knifepoint into the mud and filth in which they cavort.
There’s a reason the church of Satan supports “woke” multiculturalist democrats.
“Wut? You got a problem with a 10-foot tall statue of a behorned Beezelbub in front of City Hall? And you call yourself a Christian?”
Dumb Republicans: I would tell you to smarten up, but you can’t. Therefore I speak to all on the right who are still avoir du brains: the smartest response to those who seek to expose your faith in order to plunge it into your heart is simply: