The Week’s Most Diaper Change Consent, Rapists for Rent, and Sheep That Are Bent Headlines
THE JUDGMENT OF GOD
A strange and sinister new cult has been discovered operating in the United States of America: It’s called Christianity, and it is EVIL. So says a judge of the Portland District Court, who has ruled that a mother can only maintain custody of her 12-year-old daughter Ava if she keeps the vulnerable child as far away as possible from her usual Evangelical Church, as she is in severe danger of suffering abuse there.
What kind of abuse? “Abuse” like being prayed for, being baptized, and being shown images of demons that were deemed to be too “scary.” In the opinion of one expert witness, Marxist sociology professor Dr. Janja Lalich, Ava’s church was a “cultic” organization; as a Marxist, Dr. Lalich should know, because she’s already in one.
The judge agreed, finding Ava’s mother to be a fully fit parent apart from the fact she was a Christian. His Dishonor then patronizingly refused to capitalize the word “God” on court documents, before handing down a series of harsh custody conditions if the little girl was not to be taken away. These included Ava not being allowed to read the Bible, meet with any of her old chapel friends, or attend any weddings or funerals held at any church whatsoever, not just her customary one.
Whether this will include Ava not being able to attend her own funeral once she shortly commits child suicide in complete despair shall probably become a matter for the Supreme Court.
ORTHODOX BRO’HOOD
At the precise same time Christianity is being damned as a cult, American teens are being pushed toward the transgender definitely-not-a-cult instead. One suspected member, Donald Trump’s would-be assassin Thomas Crooks, has been exposed as enjoying a bizarre obsession with online images of something called “Muscle Mommies,” which consist of normal women’s heads crudely placed atop the torsos of muscly male bodybuilders. In other words, photos of Michelle Obama.
America’s young men have clearly had their minds badly warped by leftism; the best solution may be the counter-cult of Orthodox Christianity, which new figures show is soaring in popularity among male younglings. Orthodoxy is still fringe, accounting for only 1 percent of the national population, as opposed to 40 percent who are Protestant, 20 percent who are Catholic, and 39 percent who are going straight to hell with Muhammad and Moses. But unlike most declining Christian denominations, Orthodoxy is actually growing.
Its main appeal is that, unlike fashionable woke rivals who embrace trannies and towelheads, Orthodox Christians actually remain proper traditional Christians, as demonstrated by their popular joke “How many Orthodoxes does it take to change a lightbulb?” “Change? What’s that?” (The alternative, Amish answer is “What’s a lightbulb?”)
Marking last week’s International Men’s Day (IMD), there was much media talk of Orthodox online influencers called “Orthobros,” who provide manly, masculine role models for Western youth who are otherwise sadly lacking in our pansy, trannified age.
Over in the U.K., Deputy PM David Lammy, very black and very proud of it, made an IMD video naming his own ideal male role model from his own confused youth: Bill Cosby. Lammy was abandoned as a schoolboy by his father (as we say, Lammy is black), and absorbing Bill’s fine, youth-loving vibes from TV as a child, David said, “helped fill the great father-shaped hole in my life.”
That’s another court case for Cosby to be facing soon, then.
LEND ME YOUR EARS, OR LEND ME YOUR REARS
Although Mr. Cosby is now far too frail and infirm to have joined in with helping fill any more father-shaped holes personally, there seems to have been something of a global competition this week to see who could rape someone in the strangest possible way.
Predictably, the Africans made the earliest running. A disturbing report into the mass rape of 300 female inmates by male prisoners in a Congolese jail (see what happens when you let them share, Stonewall?) featured the quite deafening detail that the men raped the women in all available orifices…even their ears. Normally it’s a good thing when an alert female victim hears her rapist coming, but not in this case.
Not to be outdone, two white Texan pedophiles hatched an even more ambitious plan to commandeer a ship and invade Gonave Island off Haiti, backed up by “an army of homeless people” recruited from Washington, D.C.—in other words, an army of other Haitians. It was to be like the Bay of Pigs all over again, but even less successful. The two Texans planned to have their forces kill every last male on the island, before forcing all the women and underage girls to become their sex slaves—perhaps 60,000 of them. If they really wanted to invade a small helpless island and rape all the kids in the company of an army of homeless black men, why didn’t they just sail to Great Britain?
Contrariwise, a suicidal Englishwoman, Sonia Exelby, flew across the Atlantic seeking to be “sexually abused and possibly murdered” by a Florida man named Dwain Hall, after meeting him on a fetish website and agreeing to pay him thousands of dollars. Dwain says he had her consent to allegedly molest and stab her, but skeptics argue she was clearly out of her mind at the time. Evidently so. If Sonia wanted to be raped and stabbed by a stranger and fled the U.K., she really must have been insane.
SUCKING ON A LEMON
In other hilarious rape news, Jeffrey Epstein has been revealed as possessing an “extremely deformed” penis that was “the shape of a lemon.” Being forced to squeeze its juices left Jeffrey’s victims with a bitter taste in their mouth. That is the accusation of one such alleged unfortunate, Rinah Oh.
Rumors of Epstein’s loin-lemon first emerged, reports said, “when he was grilled by a lawyer in 2009.” The lawyer must have been expecting a sausage.
At a reputed mere two inches long, Jeffrey’s high-hanging fruit may have been even more of a micropenis than that recently unveiled as having belonged to Adolf Hitler. Life can’t have been easy for Epstein with such a freakish member, but as the man himself was often heard to say when giving yet another 15-year-old a golden shower, “When life hands me lemons, I make lemonade!” It was still better than when he made fizzy cream soda.
The extreme psychosexual instability and distress caused by his bizarre lemon dick was what caused Epstein to enter into his whole life of sin in the first place, Oh testifies. It also explains why he chose a Limey as his procuress.
THE LEGEND OF ZELDIN
It is always possible Oh’s abuser was not Epstein at all, of course, and it was simply a case of mistaken genital identity. After all, retarded black Democrat Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett this week made the grave mistake of incorrectly accusing Republican Party opponent Lee Zeldin of accepting political donations from Jeffrey Epstein.
Zeldin admitted this was so, but that they were from a different Jeffrey Epstein, a completely unrelated neurosurgeon from Long Island—something that should have been blatantly obvious, as Dr. Epstein’s donations were made after the lemony pedophile had popped his final pips in a federal prison. Rather than just admitting she was thick as a bucket of frozen concrete, Crockett’s genuine excuse was pure genius, of a kind: “Listen, I never said it was that Jeffrey Epstein.”
What next? Falsely accusing Toys “R” Us of being financed by Jeffrey too, to allow him easy access to the nation’s kids? “Listen, I never said it was that Jeffrey,” Crockett would respond, after being confronted with a libel suit from a large, angry, bipedal giraffe.
As for Dr. Jeffrey Epstein (the live Long Island one, not the dead pedo one), he decided on a foolproof plan to get his own back: He pledged to make a small and feeble donation to Jasmine Crockett himself, thereby to allow Lee Zeldin to legitimately make loud public claims right back that Crockett was also in receipt of funding from Jeffrey Epstein too.
Poetic justice indeed. Poor, wronged Lee Zeldin. How would Crockett herself feel if she was wrongly associated with Davy Crockett on the mistaken grounds of their shared name and indelible association with the word “coonskin”?
CRADLE OF FILTH
In such a dark, predator-filled world, it is vital to give our children comprehensive anti-rape training while they are still young—while they are still literal babies, in fact.
This is the sincere recommendation of two soppy women posing as experts in the field of Early Childhood from Australia’s Deakin University, who have written a shared paper explaining that parents should exploit the process of changing a soiled diaper to teach children about the concepts of informed consent, bodily autonomy, and inappropriate touching. Rather than simply whipping the diaper off without asking, like they would in a Congolese prison, enlightened parents must inform babies that they need their bum-rag swapping, and then “pause so they can take this in.” Even though most babies cannot understand words yet. Because they are babies.
Then parents should closely observe their infant’s facial expressions and body language to check that they comprehend what is happening. After both parties sign and date some kind of official consent form, children are NOT to be distracted from the actual diaper-change procedure by the adult foolishly singing or blowing raspberries to make the baby laugh. Instead, say the researchers, “It’s important children notice when someone is touching their most intimate parts,” to prepare them for a life in the Muslim-majority Western nations that are their future.
As such, when enjoying the sponging down of their polluted parts, babies should be educated by their mothers or fathers of the correct specific anatomical names for their bits, rather than having infantile nonsense like “pee-pee” or “poo-poo” babbled at them—the specific medical-book terms the potty professors advise be used are “vulva, penis, anus.”
The “scholarly” rationale is that, by accurately using such educated words once able to talk, the babies will be empowered to reassure other responsible “trusted adults,” like teachers, policemen, or Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett, that they are fully safe and in control of their own bodies. Yes, because nothing says “definitely not at-risk” like a 2-year-old who repeatedly uses the word “vulva,” does it?
Why not just teach them how to say the word “lemon,” and leave it at that?
EWE ARE SO GAY!
Also in need of having their vulnerable bodies protected are our planet’s oppressed homosexual sheep. A New York fashion show, “I Wool Survive” (a reference to AIDS?), has just taken place, in which all the clothes, from gay little sailor suits to big gay suits of skintight woolen armor, were knitted from the coats of gay sheep. Said animals are sourced from the fields of a German agricultural “charity,” Rainbow Flock, which claims one in every twelve sheep is gay, just like one member of every jury.
Rams that rim are treated appallingly, says the queer shepherd in charge. As they refuse to mate with the ewes, they are sent off for slaughter early by callous, homophobic, Nazi farmers, so the charity gives them a safe home.
Yet a rainbow sheep’s needs are multifarious and expensive, necessitating the creation of an “Adopt a Gay Ram” scheme of “Sponsorsheep,” in which donors pay for “food and medicine to keep them happy and healthy for life” (quinoa and antiretrovirals). The sheep all have punning human names, like Horny, Woolly Wonka, and Prince Wooliam. Wasn’t Prince Edward supposed to be the gay one? There is even a highly endangered gay Muslim sheep on the Rainbow Farm, called Määhmet. Muslim sheep go “Mää!” not “Baa!” apparently; so why not call him Määhammad?
Rather than staging gay fashion shows, they should use the wool of queer sheep to knit the homemade “pussy hats” of all those feminist anti-Trump protesters we see marching about like morons these days at No Kings marches. An intersectional row has been reported as having broken out among them over whether having hats shaped like pink vulvas is racist and sexist against some fellow “female” marchers who possess black and brown penises instead.
Very well, stick large knitted phalluses on some of their scalps, too—let the whole world see they are quite literally dickheads.
If, during their current heated arguments, one marcher with male genitalia on their hat should happen to headbutt another one wearing female genitalia, would that technically constitute yet another act of rape too?
A short while ago, I read a review of a history of pedantry.
A pedant, I take it, is a man who delights more in error than in truth. He does not want to learn, he wants to correct. I have several books in my library, some of them quite long, in which a pedantic previous reader has underlined a misprint or a small grammatical mistake and inscribed three exclamation marks in the margin, say on page 219. At last, he has found what he was looking for and pounced on it like a raptor diving from the sky! How happy he must have been to find something to assuage his ravenous hunger for error to expose!
A pedant is a man happy in his disdain.
When I started to review books forty years ago, I thought it would be fun to tear them apart (metaphorically) and to point out all their errors, no matter how small, but my desire to do so soon lessened and then disappeared entirely. From then on, I decided, I would make no correction of errors, of fact or interpretation, unless such errors were seriously misleading and would lead a reader to a false conclusion. Along with this softening of stance came the desire always to say something good about a book under review, even if it appeared only as damnation with faint praise, because after all, a book always represents someone’s labor, and with a little effort, some saving grace can usually be found in it.
But I understand the joys of pedantic correction because they still tempt me. Such correction gives the pedant an easy victory, sometimes over someone much more distinguished than he; he feels a sense of vindication, as if his life has not been spent entirely in vain. He is more than equal to what he had corrected, albeit a masterpiece.
Occasionally, the pedant performs a public service. For example, I have twice corrected factual errors on Wikipedia. They were very small errors, on matters of trifling importance, one of them the date and place of the first performance of one of the greatest plays of the 20th century. This was not a correction to change the course of empire or history, but if information on small matters is to be given to the public, it might as well be correct.
I felt very virtuous when I had made my corrections, for of course I had done so both anonymously and gratis, for the good—the very slight good—of humanity. And as good works should be done anonymously, so should corrections that would count as pedantic if he who made them sought glory or expected some public recognition for them.
But I think the joys of pedantry go deeper than that. I think that pedantry is often, if not always, an effort to keep at bay the fear of disorder in the world, and of the meaninglessness and fleetingness of human existence. A man who scours a text after its publication for error (I am not speaking here of copy editors, who scour it beforehand) thinks that he is engaged in important work, saving the world from misconception; but in reality, he is defending himself against insignificance.
Pedants make themselves hostages to fortune, for they themselves are sometimes mistaken, and it is difficult to forgive the errors of a pedant. In my pedantic phase of book reviewing, I once corrected something that (as I thought) was in error but that was, in fact, correct. I was mortified when this was pointed out to me. I had introduced error where it had not existed, but my mortification was not guilt at having done a public disservice, but that of personal humiliation. He who lives by pedantry dies by pedantry—so to speak. And as a Muslim fears that there is someone more Islamic than he, so a pedant fears that there is someone more pedantic than he, someone more talented at sniffing out the mistake lurking in almost every human utterance. One resource always available to the pedant is to respond to any statement containing the slightest abstraction by saying, “It depends what you mean by…” Thereby the pedant can lead a whole roomful of people down a rabbit hole of semantics, distracting everyone from more substantial inquiry.
Pedantry is to the intellectual, or would-be intellectual, what excessive housepride is to the housewife. The second law of thermodynamics is against such a housewife, whose goal of perpetual perfection in the arrangement of cushions, knickknacks, and everything else in her house means that she cannot relax for a moment because that great law is ever present, malignly waiting to thwart her. The price of tidiness, in her sense, is eternal vigilance.
The human mind, having only a certain amount of space available to it (metaphorically, of course), can occupy itself only with limited material at any one time. If and when it is emptied even of that material, disturbing and unwanted questions of meaning and purpose enter, questions that do not admit of easy answers, or any answers at all. We invent tasks to fill our minds to avoid the irruption of those questions into our consciousness.
“Can’t you stop me thinking, doctor?’ was a question prisoners in the prison in which I worked quite often asked me. They did not mean by this that they wanted to eliminate any thought in particular; they meant thought as such. For, it having been decided a long time ago that prisoners could not be put to work against their will, most of them had many hours of time that hung heavy upon them, and they had nothing else to do but think. They have since been allowed television to substitute for thought.
The goal of human life, then, when survival is no longer in question, is distraction. The poet A.E. Housman captures this very well in one of his poems. He himself was a pedant of heroic proportions, devoting decades of his life to a laborious edition of a Latin poet, Manilius, whom not even classical scholars read—an edition never superseded, and that will never be superseded. He wrote the following (I mention in advance that the word “lief” here means “gladly”):
Could man be drunk for ever
With liquor, love, or fights,
Lief should I rouse at morning
And lief lie down of nights.But men at whiles are sober
And think by fits and starts,
And if they think, they fasten
Their hands upon their hearts.
Theodore Dalrymple’s latest book is On the Ivory Stages (Mirabeau Press).
Michael Wolff is being pilloried, and although he’s a friend, he deserves some of it because of his dealings with the arch pimp and blackmailer Jeffrey Epstein. For any of you traveling abroad in North Korea, what Wolff has done is play uncle to the blackmailer-pimp, no longer with us, thank God. Michael Wolff has become rich by writing books—hatchet jobs, actually—on Rupert Murdoch and Donald Trump. Media types don’t like Rupert because his newspapers are mostly conservative. Media types are usually physically ugly and politically left-wing. Ergo, they don’t agree with Rupert and wish he had never come over to these shores and rescued papers like the New York Post and The Wall Street Journal.
Oh yes, I almost forgot. He also started Fox News, and Fox dominates not only the news cycle but also late-night shows. If Fox didn’t exist, a certain Queens real estate developer would not be living in D.C. as I write. Hence Michael Wolff does not like Rupert. But I do, and I also like The Donald, another person Michael Wolff really dislikes. But I will forgive Michael Wolff anything because of his beautiful wife, Victoria, and I do accept the fact that I’m a sucker for any person of the feminine sex who happens to be beautiful. I simply can’t help it, despite years of trying to resist it.
Neither Rupert—my onetime boss at the New York Post and London’s Sunday Times—nor The Donald fell for Epstein’s tricks, despite Michael’s advice to the pimp and blackmailer. Both men are too smart and have been around the quad for too long, as they say, to fall for them. Rupert would not be caught dead in the moral sewer that was Epstein. I wish I could say the same for The Donald and Michael Wolff, but however hard Michael tries, along with Trump haters like the Times and New Yorker types, The Donald did not ever get involved with Epstein except having his picture taken at various crappy lowlife parties, now described by the know-nothing media as glamorous shindigs. The onetime head of Harvard, Summers, yes, onetime world’s richest man Gates, yes, onetime president of the Unites States Clinton, maybe, former head of Apollo Leon Black, definitely, but not The Donald. Michael Wolff wanted to entrap Trump with the scumbag but never managed it. He made a fortune trying, though. Good for you, Michael, but it’s a pity your name comes up with that of Epstein.
What I find amusing is how desperate the media in general and the Times in particular are to try to connect Trump with Epstein. Ms. Giuffre’s book is now considered the Bible by the Brit hacks who managed to bring down Andrew Windsor. The fact that she took 12 million greenbacks from him, and after that committed suicide, has not made her story at all suspect to the Brits. The most ignored passage in her book is the one that absolves Trump, the one stating that he acted like the perfect gentleman as far as she was concerned. It must be very frustrating for all those ugly little people at the Times, being unable to hang a crime on Trump. Some of them might even take out their frustrations on their long-suffering, homely wives. The one I feel most sorry for is Summers, an innocent about women who only asked for advice. Summers should not have resigned any post because he did nothing wrong.
Wolff advised Epstein to let Trump hang himself. The Donald is too smart for that. I have written this before, but here it goes once again: A woman I was seeing on the side long ago was asked by Epstein about me. He wanted to meet me. I told her to get lost. Some time later, while sitting in a port-side café in Saint-Tropez, my wife and I were approached by Ghislaine Maxwell, whom I knew from London in the past. She almost begged us to attend a party she was giving. My wife said we were about to sail away, and we actually did. There was no way we would ever be seen with such lowlifes.
So here is my question: How could someone like Leon Black, a shark if there ever was one, pay millions to the pimp Epstein for market info? It had to do with you-know-what, as Epstein was a con man and the shark knew more about markets than Epstein could ever hope to. I can see Larry Summers being taken in because as an academic he’s an innocent where the fair sex is concerned. Gates, ditto. Never mind. The best thing Epstein ever did was to do himself in, but leave it to the left-wing media to reach for straws. Poor things, they’ve got three more years of Trump. Maybe a Russian connection or some hooker’s claims might save them. They live in hope.
If you’ve been buried in Jeffrey Epstein’s emails advising Harvard professors how to cheat on their wives, you may have missed the video put out by six Democratic lawmakers last week, somberly instructing members of the military to “refuse illegal orders” from the commander in chief, one Donald J. Trump.
At least I think that’s the point they were making. Here’s the gist of their public service announcement:
Sen. Mark Kelly, D-Ariz.: “Our laws are clear: You can refuse illegal orders.”
Rep. Jason Crow, D-Colo.: “You can refuse illegal orders.”
Rep. Chris Deluzio, D-Penn.: “You can refuse illegal orders.”
Rep. Maggie Goodlander, D-N.H.: “You can refuse illegal orders.”
I’ve watched it several times, listened to it backward, showed it to friends, and I think the subtle message they’re trying to convey is that members of the military can refuse illegal orders.
Trump and a slew of Republicans accused the six of sedition for encouraging troops to stop before following orders, mull over the directive, then decide whether, in their considered opinion, the order is “legal” or not. (Admittedly, Trump may have gone too far in suggesting all six should be put to death.)
Any normal person sees a video like this and thinks, There must be a problem if they’re doing PSAs about it!
The Democrats reacted with wide-eyed innocence. That’s the law! Are you saying troops should follow illegal orders? We even got the inevitable Holocaust comparison, with CNN’s Jake Tapper delivering this little sermon:
“The Nuremberg defense — this is the war crimes tribunal after World War II — was that these Nazis were only following orders, and the Nuremberg defense was resoundingly rejected in international law. Carrying out illegal orders is not a defense because you were being obedient.”
This is a classic Democratic cheeseball attack: Make baseless accusations while pretending not to be making baseless accusations.
Here are some other classics:
“Hate has no place here.”
Wait a minute. Are you talking to me?
“Stop racism!”
Who are you calling a racist?
Then-Sen. Kamala Harris grilling Brett Kavanaugh during his nomination hearing: “Be sure about your answer, sir.”
I guess his other answers were careless lies.
Needless to say, the lawmakers were unable to cite any illegal orders from Trump or anyone else in the military’s chain of command. (Nor, for the record, did Kamala produce any lie told by Kavanaugh.)
When pressed to name an illegal order, the not-terribly-bright Rep. Crow indignantly informed Fox News’ Martha McCallum that it was unreasonable to expect Democrats to be referring to anything at all. “Here’s a novel idea,” he said. “How about we actually prevent things from happening before they become a problem, right?”
I can think of millions of ways Democrats are breaking the law if I don’t need a single example.
But, unlike them, I do have examples of illegal orders issued by Democrats. Democratic presidents, Cabinet officials, mayors, governors and members of Congress have issued illegal orders that have been followed, or are being followed, even as we speak.
For example:
President Joe Biden ordered border patrol agents: Don’t do your job.
Mayors in blue cities around the country ordered (and are ordering) police: Don’t do your job.
Governors in “sanctuary” states are ordering law enforcement officers, voting officials, prison administrators, department of motor vehicles workers and others: Don’t do your job.
All of these employees also take oaths to faithfully perform their duties. Republicans should run the Democrats’ exact video — with the same termagants doing the hectoring — but with a new intro, directing the announcement to state government employees who are following illegal orders right now.
With any luck, Tapper will give us another lecture on the squalid inadequacy of the Nuremberg defense.
Apart from Democrats doing the exact thing they are falsely accusing Trump of, their smarmy video gives me some great ideas for other public service announcements.
Here’s one.
Despite the best efforts of liberal think tanks, charitable trusts and Michelle Obama, “food deserts” are a huge problem in this country, depriving mostly poor black people of access to healthy food. The main cause of the problem is that grocery store chains simply can’t afford to locate in certain neighborhoods on account of the industrial-scale shoplifting.
Here is my proposed PSA, to be delivered by the CEOs of Walmart, Kroger, Costco, Publix, Target, Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods and Sam’s Club:
“Inner city residents: You have to pay for stuff. We know that’s something new for you, but it’s against the law to take items off the shelf and walk out without paying for them.”
Would anybody have a problem with that?
What? We’re just saying that it’s the LAW to pay before leaving a store. Are you guys in favor of shoplifting?
People are turning to socialism. Two-thirds of Americans ages 18-29 hold a “favorable view” of it.
New York just elected a “proud socialist” mayor. My video explains why his ideas would make things worse.
Of course they would! Socialism has never worked. Anywhere!
Yet Seattle too just elected a socialist mayor.
“Let’s give socialism a chance,” said a student writing in The Student Life, a college newspaper.
Americans should know we already gave socialism a chance. The only reason we get to celebrate Thanksgiving with lots of food is because the Pilgrims learned (the hard way) that socialism doesn’t work.
When they came to America, they first tried sharing land. Gov. William Bradford decreed that each family would get an equal share of food, no matter how much they worked.
The results were disastrous.
Few Pilgrims worked hard, claiming “weakness and inability,” wrote Bradford. “Much was stolen.”
The same plan in Jamestown led to starvation, the death of half the population, even cannibalism.
Learning from their mistakes, the Pilgrims tried a different approach: “Every family was assigned a parcel of land,” wrote Bradford. Then, he noted, Pilgrims “went willingly into the field.”
That’s capitalism.
Soon, there was an abundance of food. So much that the Pilgrims and Natives could celebrate Thanksgiving together.
This abundance has only grown.
We’ll feast on vast amounts of food this Thanksgiving that, despite media clickbait, is much more affordable than it used to be. Today Americans spend only 10% of our disposable income on food. When I started working, it was twice that.
This abundance didn’t come with people in government manipulating supply chains, or comrades dictating prices and quality.
It comes from millions of people practicing capitalism, making billions of voluntary exchanges.
It comes from free people willing to innovate and take risks, in an attempt to make more money by serving customers better than the next guy.
This process almost always works better than government central planning.
Without central direction, farmers, truckers and grocers move food across the country with remarkable coordination and efficiency.
Stores compete so fiercely that they sell turkeys at a loss, just to get you through their doors.
Global competition drives airlines to lower their fares so it’s cheaper for you to fly home for Thanksgiving.
And despite the media’s alarms about climate change creating food shortages, global agricultural output sets record highs year after year.
Government didn’t orchestrate any of that. Government can barely manage a DMV line.
Markets create abundance because they quickly reward people who figure out how to make things cheaper, faster and better.
That’s what I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving.
The alternative looks a lot like Venezuela, Cuba, North Korea …
While we enjoy the gifts that free enterprise brings, AP reports that in Venezuela, “every meal is a struggle.”
NBC, before going on to write silly stories that practically promote socialism, admits that in Cuba, residents face “daily blackouts lasting up to 20 hours, mounting piles of uncollected garbage, and severe shortages of food and basic goods.”
When politicians try to control the economy, the abundance you get … is scarcity.
We live in a country where choices overwhelm us, and shortages are something we read about in the news.
It should make us grateful. Not just for the food, but for the free enterprise system that creates it.
This Thanksgiving, as you go around the table to say what you’re thankful for, take a moment to thank the farmers, truckers, pilots, grocery workers, engineers, entrepreneurs, and most importantly, the economic freedom that makes it all possible.
Let’s not let socialist idiots kill it!
Abundance doesn’t happen by accident. It won’t continue if we forget where it came from.
Trial lawyers have been the bane of U.S. employers for many decades, sucking blood out of the economy like a swarm of mosquitos.
The most famous case was back in the 1990s when the courts awarded a $500,000 judgment to a McDonald’s customer who claimed she was burned by coffee that was too scalding hot. Then there was the Washington man who sued a dry cleaner for $50 million for losing a pair of pants.
My favorite was the lawsuit against Buffalo Wild Wings alleging that their “boneless wings” weren’t actually made from deboned chicken wings. Buffalo Wild Wings retorted: “Our hamburgers contain no ham. Our buffalo wings are 0% buffalo.” A federal judge dismissed the class action lawsuit.
Trial lawyers are often “ambulance chasers” who profit from others’ misery and misfortune, often through class action suits that make tens of millions of dollars for themselves but only a fraction of that for the injured parties. What a deal.
A famous RAND study found that roughly 80 cents of every dollar in damages paid to class action victims were absorbed by legal and administrative costs, and less than 20 cents made its way the plaintiffs.
Excessive litigation is estimated to shrink the U.S. productive economy by up to $500 billion a year. Tort costs have exploded in recent years at an annual return of 7.1%, more than twice the inflation rate.
Yes, victims deserve to be compensated for corporate bad behavior, as a matter of justice and to deter dangerous and unlawful behavior.
But just because you have an injured party doesn’t mean you have a company villain. If everyone who breaks a leg skiing could sue the manufacturer of the skis, there would be no skiing.
Back in the 1990s, Republicans put a muzzle on the most rapacious lawyers and passed laws to protect businesses from the most outrageous harassment lawsuits. Lawsuit reform was part of the Republicans’ 1994 “Contract with America.” At that time about 80% or more of the trial lawyers’ political contributions went into the coffers of the Democratic Party.
But now trial lawyers are courting the GOP and conservative leaders with a spate of lawsuits against Big Tech and Big Media, two industries that conservatives have traditionally felt are hostile to free markets and conservative values.
Compounding the problem is the new scam called “third-party litigation funding,” which allows law firms to court investors who will fund lawsuits in exchange for getting a share of the judgment if there is a guilty verdict.
Under this practice, unknown investors secretly bankroll lawsuits with “dark money” in the hopes of scoring big verdicts. What’s really nefarious is that the third-party investors, not the injured party, often walk away with the bulk of the jackpot awards.
These lawsuit investment funds are growing rapidly and captured more than $2 billion in new financing agreements for 2024. The total assets of these funds have grown to $16.1 billion.
This method of encouraging and funding lawsuits is of questionable legality. But it most certainly should be transparent so that defendants and the public know the real economic interests behind those suing employers.
The problem with these arrangements is that juries think they are aiding the victim, when the jackpot award for damages can just as readily be directed to the bank accounts of the investment funds.
The good news is that Rep. Darrell Issa (R-Calif.) has sponsored the Litigation Transparency Act, which would require disclosure of these agreements in federal civil cases.
Some conservative groups are worried that this means they would have to disclose their donors, which could discourage giving. Issa tells us that this is absolutely not the case — donors don’t receive compensation, so they wouldn’t be disclosed in such cases.
Frivolous lawsuits make us all poorer — not just the company that gets targeted. This reduces investment, wages and risk-taking.
Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis just recently announced billions of dollars in insurance premium savings in part due to curtailing frivolous lawsuits advanced by trial lawyer sharks. In other words, a good way to increase affordability is to reduce legal costs and the trial lawyer tax.
The rest of the country should emulate Florida and end the scams behind third-party litigation.
October gave us many things: fall colors, cooling temperatures, and, in Rome’s case, a papal ice blessing that would have made even the more experimental Broadway directors mutter, “Bit much, isn’t it?” Pope Leo XIV, America’s first pontiff, Chicago-bred and currently moonlighting as the chaplain of the Church of Greta Thunberg of Latter-day Alarmists, solemnly blessed a giant block of ice at an Italian climate conference. Yes, ice. Not a martyr’s relic, not a pilgrim’s rosary, not even something useful like a baptismal font. Just…frozen water. And as if to prove that reality has fully surrendered to parody, Arnold Schwarzenegger materialized to wave a large blue tarp in the air, simulating “rising sea levels” like an overfunded preschool staging of Noah’s Ark: The Musical.
All of which makes the transition from the late Pope Francis to Leo XIV less a rupture than a rueful sequel. Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the chain-smoking porteño who traded Perón’s ghost for Peter’s throne, spent twelve years tilting at ecclesial windmills: Laudato Si’ thundering against climate apostasy, synodal chitchat inviting every dissenting deacon to the table, and a mercy so expansive it blurred the line between absolution and accommodation. His papacy nudged the Church leftward on the culture-war front. When he died last Easter—stroke, coma, the works—he left behind a flock somewhere between bemusement and bewilderment, just in time for his icy successor to turn the Vatican into a climate-conference sideshow.
The spectacle unfolded at the “Raising Hope for Climate Justice” conference, a three-day festival of clerical hand-wringing marking the tenth anniversary of Francis’s eco-encyclical. It promised “ecological conversion,” which in practice meant the usual maneuver: Take the latest political fashion, sprinkle holy water on it, and call it doctrine.
At the climax, activists hauled the ice on stage like a holy relic rescued from the freezer section of a Roman supermarket. Leo XIV, bedecked in full papal regalia and unintentionally evoking the opening ceremony of a very solemn ice-skating competition, made the sign of the cross and warned the world’s leaders to act with courage. Then came the moment destined for the Vatican Museum’s “Exhibits We Hope Visitors Don’t Notice”: The Pope cried out, “Will you join with us?” as Schwarzenegger flapped his tarp like a doomsday semaphore operator.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the real world: Christians are assassinated in the United States, slaughtered in Nigeria, erased across the Middle East. But Rome’s attention? Ice. Blessed ice.
This is not leadership; this is optics. It is faith hijacked by the green-industrial complex, sacraments replaced by symbolism and priests by performance artists. One shudders to imagine what the Church Fathers, men who debated the Trinity with the intensity of nuclear physicists, would say about a pontiff blessing a mini-glacier worthy of a Sir David Attenborough nature documentary.
And the script doesn’t improve when the conversation turns to migration.
Leo XIV insists that protecting borders is incompatible with being “pro-life,” a claim he repeated this autumn with the confidence of a man convinced the Sermon on the Mount included notes on asylum quotas. He warned American Catholics that supporting strong borders, particularly under the Trump administration, was a moral failing.
Tom Homan, border czar and lifelong Catholic, was having none of it. He pointed out that while the Church denounces U.S. enforcement, you can’t stroll uninvited into Vatican City without being arrested, and with penalties far more severe than those at the Rio Grande. Homan might as well have added, “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and unto the Swiss Guard your passport.”
He reminded the bishops that more than 4,000 migrants died attempting the journey north. Add the quarter-million Americans lost to fentanyl smuggled over the border, and Leo XIV’s moral calculus looks less like charity and more like a suicide note for civil society. Yet the U.S. bishops, desperate for a good New York Times write-up, issued a “special message” condemning mass deportations and “vilification” of illegal immigrants.
In the modern Church, “prudence” appears to be the only virtue requiring a permission slip.
All of this fits the leftward drift that began in earnest under Francis and has continued without missing a beat under his handpicked successor. The conclave of May 2025 wasn’t the Holy Spirit whispering; it was Chicago machine politics in scarlet zucchettos. Leo XIV is not a brake on the Bergoglian bandwagon; he is the man who topped up the petrol, wiped the windshield, and adjusted the rainbow bumper sticker before pulling back into traffic.
And nowhere is the supposed contrast between Francis’ theatrical progressivism and the new regime more illusory than in a quiet incident this month. At the annual “lunch for the poor,” Francis’ showcase of curated compassion, 48 transgender women—twice welcomed to his head table—arrived to find their VIP seats gone. Instead of the privileged placement that had become an unofficial photo-op sacrament, they were dispersed throughout Paul VI Hall, reminding everyone that the “new direction” looks suspiciously like the old one, just with a different man holding the crozier.
For years, Francis elevated these guests to the status of ecclesial mascots for his outreach. And once you turn ideology into liturgy, expectations metastasize. Give the Alphabet People an inch, and they demand a throne at the high altar; fail to deliver the same attention, and suddenly you’ve committed a pastoral hate crime. Francis built a machine of expectations that no successor, least of all a more cautious, institutional Leo, can satisfy without plunging the Church into a quagmire of its own creation.
Which brings us to the delicious irony: While Rome now flirts with fashionable causes—blessing ice, scolding borders, turning the Gospel into a U.N. development brochure—the old mainline Protestant denominations have already sprinted off the cliff with the same rainbow flag. The Episcopalians bless same-sex marriages and wonder why the pews are empty. The Lutherans ordain transgender bishops and discover that even Scandinavians tire of virtue-signaling in subzero temperatures. The United Methodists split, leaving the rainbow-stole remnant to preside over a denomination shrinking faster than the Arnie-flapped ice block.
In other words, the mainline Protestants did exactly what progressive Catholics beg Rome to do: They embraced the zeitgeist and promptly died. Rome, for all its stumbles, has so far refused the final plunge. It still faces east, not Portland. And in 2025, that counts as heroic resistance.
Naturally, our betters call this “regression.” The rest of us, watching once-great denominations turn themselves into rainbow-bedecked mausoleums, call it survival.
In the end, the blessed ice will melt. The tarp will be folded away. The activists will jet home emitting more carbon than a medium-size diocese. And Rome will resume its curious experiment with fashionable relevance, undeterred by the fact that the Church grows strongest when it preaches eternal truth, not temporary trends.
Because in an age of genuine crisis—moral, cultural, spiritual—Rome needs to be Rome again. Not the world’s most solemn ice-blessing guild. And certainly not the chaplaincy to the faculty lounge.
The West is dying of a thousand progressive cuts. At least one ancient institution is still pretending, badly, that it isn’t terminal. For that small, melting mercy, we should probably thank the Holy Ghost…and perhaps the ghost of G.K. Chesterton raising a pint to the sheer bloody-minded continuity of it all.
Channel 4 used to be a serious British broadcaster. It once transmitted landmark shows and series like Gnostics, Equinox, Father Ted, and Brass Eye. It now transmits no-mark shows and series like Hitler’s DNA: Blueprint of a Dictator, a “documentary” alleging the real reason der Führer invaded Poland was that he had something called “a micropenis.”
The Roswell Incident
The show became possible when, back in 1945, a U.S. serviceman with the most Jewish name ever, Roswell P. Rosengren, entered Hitler’s Berlin bunker and saw a big bloodstain on the sofa where the dictator shot himself, before pulling out his pocketknife to cut away the stain as a souvenir. Now, 80 years later, science has advanced enough for the Dr. Mengeles of today to be able to extract Adolf’s DNA from it.
If this were the movies, we would at this point be primed for a Nazi-themed sequel to Jurassic Park, in which armed clones of Hitler inhabit a giant zoo, before escaping during a diplomatic visit by Benjamin Netanyahu’s entire cabinet. This being today’s relentlessly lowest-common-denominator and dumbed-down Channel 4, however, what we get instead is some daft Tristram in North London excitedly sending a tittering email off to the lab asking, “How big does it say his cock is?”
The answer was “less than 2.7 inches,” the official medical definition of what constitutes a micropenis. According to Adolf’s blood sample, he had something called Kallmann syndrome, which can lead to male patients possessing a very small manhood, or undescended testes—thereby potentially meaning the old WWII song about how “Hitler, he only had one ball/The other was in the Albert Hall” may have been at least somewhat true. Subsequent Channel 4 documentaries about whether or not “Himmler was very similar/But poor old Goebbels had no balls at all” will doubtless soon follow.
The problem is that Kallmann syndrome does not necessarily entail either of these subsidiary afflictions. In fact, only 10 percent of sufferers have anything seriously awry down below whatsoever. Hitler may well have been hung like a horse at Nuremberg. Far from having only the one testicle, it is perfectly possible he had as many as four, like Salvador Dalí thought. The most common symptom of Kallmann syndrome is actually having no sense of smell, not mutant genitalia; but an extremely boring documentary about Hitler’s blocked nose would not have gleaned quite so many free advertising headlines for Channel 4 prior to broadcast.
A Very Broad Spectrum
One of Channel 4’s hired onscreen professors opined that, had Hitler read a report of his own DNA results without knowing who they belonged to beforehand, “he would almost certainly have sent himself to the gas chamber” as a genetic reject. Once inside, he wouldn’t even have been able to smell the Zyklon B.
But why would being poorly endowed have gotten Hitler killed? Not even the Nazis murdered people for having tiny willies, did they? No, but they did gas the disabled, and Channel 4 claimed Hitler’s DNA results showed he was probably “neurodiverse,” too, possibly with autism or ADHD, a diagnosis supposedly backed up by his poor school reports, which said he was unable to concentrate properly. Is that why he fatally tried to invade both Britain and Russia simultaneously, because he simply didn’t have the patience to see the one battle through to its bitter end first?
Not necessarily. Once again, analysis of Hitler’s DNA only demonstrates he had the correct genes for a potential predisposition toward such conditions. Nothing is definite here. This is despite talking heads in the documentary explicitly saying things like “People with ADHD, like Hitler.” This particular talking head was Professor Michael Fitzgerald, of Trinity College, Dublin, who has made a habit out of diagnosing dead people with neurological disorders: He says Ireland’s national poet W.B. Yeats had autism, too. The evidence? Yeats also did badly at school, just like Hitler did.
The idea behind this kind of thinking seems to be “X historical figure had an unusual mind/was a high achiever—therefore X historical figure must have been autistic or something.” The helpful elasticity of such postmortem diagnoses can be easily seen in the fact that Yeats wrote poems, whereas, by very slight contrast, Hitler was best known for having conquered most of mainland Europe. Autism really does have an extremely wide range of symptoms to it, then, doesn’t it?
Neurodivergence being generally thought a spectrum, almost anyone can be placed upon it, if you want to. Even weird-acting fictional characters like Sherlock Holmes and Dustin Hoffman are now “diagnosed” as being “on the spectrum,” often on some very scanty evidence.
According to literary scholar Paula Leverage, Sir Perceval, one of King’s Arthur’s imaginary Knights of the Round Table, was described as possessing typical autistic traits by the medieval French writer of Romance, Chrétien de Troyes. After all:
When at one point in the narrative Perceval is asked to describe a castle, he focuses on architectural details rather than a more general description. A number of studies have found that some autistic people have a remarkable attention to detail, often at the expense of the full picture.
No doubt at some point in de Troyes’ narrative, Sir Perceval also eats some food. Autistic people sometimes eat some food, too. Therefore, Sir Perceval must have been autistic. QED: Quite Erroneous Deduction.
Obsessive Repulsive Disorder
Channel 4 has traditionally presented itself as an outlet of “alternative” media, a supposedly “taboo-busting” organization—just so long as the taboos to be busted are right-wing or conservative in nature, and therefore not truly terribly taboo among today’s Establishment at all. So the lefty station controllers are delighted to pump out a trashy TV show dubiously claiming the left’s all-time villain Adolf Hitler was a sexually defective brain-spaz, safe in the knowledge this will gain precisely zero politically motivated complaints from viewers beyond a single one from the pen of David Irving.
If Channel 4 wanted to put out an authentically taboo-busting and daring documentary along these lines, it would choose as its subject someone with a rather more currently socially powerful constituency than a dead Nazi—the Prophet Muhammad, for example.
My own proposed new Channel 4 series, Was Muhammad Muham-Mad?, may not be able to make use of any ancient, Mecca-collected DNA material, but there is a preexisting fringe scholarly tradition of trying to diagnose from a distance that Muhammad, just like Hitler, was neurodiverse, citing evidence from the Koran and hadiths.
Primarily, Mo is said to have suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD, with many of his instructions to the faithful centering fixatedly upon the idea of repeating seemingly random actions precisely three times.
Before going to the toilet, for example, so as to avoid unclean djinnis hiding in the bowl (a known natural habitat of genies in Islamic teaching), Muhammad orders all true followers of Allah to first say a prayer (“Oh Allah, I seek refuge in You from the male and female devils”), then to enter with your left foot first, to sit down to urinate, to avoid splashing wee on the floor lest you be punished in the grave, to shake your penis (if you have one, microscopic or otherwise) three times to dry it, to cleanse your anus using an odd number of pebbles, like three, not an even number, like four, to leave the bathroom with your right foot first, and then to say another prayer to render your hole and soul alike fully clean again (“Praise be to Allah who relieved me of the filth and gave me relief”). Furthermore, “When defecating together, two men cannot converse, nor look at each other’s genitals.” Why not simply wait your turn to enter the cubicle individually?
If Sir Perceval can be “diagnosed” with autism purely from reading medieval stories about him, then why can’t Muhammad be “diagnosed” equally as plausibly with OCD from reading the Koran? At least the latter book is theoretically supposed to be true, unlike such explicitly made-up texts as Le Fou d’Arthur and Sir Gawain and the Dyslexic Knight.
Chatting Filth
What Channel 4 commissioners will really want to know, of course, is whether or not the Prophet had a micropenis too, just like Hitler did. One valiant online researcher has unearthed persuasive evidence he did.
Famously, Muhammad first penetrated his favorite wife, Aisha, when she was only 9 years old without causing her any pain. This should not really be physiologically possible, leading one amateur internet historian to type the following valid query into the popular ChatGPT AI answer-bot: “If Aisha was nine and she was not harmed [by sex], wouldn’t Muhammad’s penis be the size of a crayon?”
Depends how big you define a crayon as being; an ordinary Crayola, or one of those special chubby ones they hand out to elementary school kids? Professor Chat-Bot had no such doubts, however, answering like so:
If you’re reasoning strictly from anatomy and historical context: yes, if Aisha was around nine at consummation and the act did not cause physical harm, then the penis involved would have had to be small enough to avoid injury. Since the pre-pubescent vaginal canal is very short—about 3–5cm (1–2 inches)—a very small penis would be the only way intercourse could occur without trauma. So your “crayon-sized” analogy is roughly in line with that anatomical reasoning.
And that, remember, is the official answer of The Internet, arrived at from electronically scraping the entire collective sum of stored human knowledge since the year dot. Therefore, Channel 4 would surely be justified in broadcasting a genuinely sensational and attention-grabbing 500-part documentary series alleging the Blessed Prophet of Allah, PBUH (Penis Below Utility of Hitler’s), was broken of both ganglia and genitalia. And yet, strangely, they do not.
A Load of Old Balls
Why was this? I demanded to know. So, I went to ChatGPT myself and asked it, being provided with the following partial rationale (Ofcom here is the U.K.’s legal broadcasting regulator watchdog):
Broadcasters must avoid programmes that amount to hate speech
UK broadcasters—including Channel 4—are bound by:
• Ofcom’s Broadcasting Code
• Anti-discrimination and hate-speech lawsA programme portraying the central figure of a major faith as “genitally deformed” or “mentally ill” without evidence would be seen as:
• Inciting hatred against Muslims
• Deliberate denigration, not historical inquiry
• A breach of broadcast standardsNo mainstream broadcaster would take that legal or ethical risk.
Or, indeed, the risk of getting their heads chopped off.
The United Kingdom is supposed to have formally abolished its national blasphemy laws forever, back in 2008. Evidently this is not the case; the original laws protecting Christianity have simply been quietly replaced by alternative hate-crime laws and implicit fatwas protecting the religion of Islam instead. Unlike Muslims, though, taking aim at Nazis represents the very softest of soft contemporary targets, no matter how much Channel 4 may try to present itself as being “brave” and “edgy” for having done so.
Channel 4 is an absolute disgrace. Talking total, tasteless, evidence-less crap about a major historical figure, just for the sake of gaining cheap attention and clicks; as a responsible writer, I would never do something like that myself.
Rather than debasing your mind by tuning in to such nonsense, why not watch this alternative 1970s revisionist Japanese documentary, proving Hitler was actually a giant starfish, instead? It looks much more plausible.
The Week’s Most Trump’s Insults Get Crass, China Bans It Up the Ass, and Epstein’s Pedo Math Class Headlines
DON’T HAVE A COW
Our world today is becoming ever more inhuman and unnatural. The latest evidence comes from Israel, where an innovative food-tech start-up, Remilk, has declared it will begin selling artificial milk, grown in a lab, hoping to launch an entirely “cow-free era.” Given their past experiences in cattle trucks, you can see why the Jews may dislike the animals so much, but isn’t this going a little far?
In Judaism, religious restrictions on milk consumption are fairly complex. In dietary law, meat and dairy cannot be consumed together, which is why kosher cannibals always leave their female victims’ breasts wholly untouched. Any rumors to the contrary are merely part of a long-debunked medieval myth known as “The Milk Libel.”
On the other hand, Israel was traditionally promised to the followers of Moses by Yahweh as being “the land of milk and honey,” and the prophesied reconsecration of the Third Temple prior to the Day of Judgment cannot occur until a miraculous red heifer is slaughtered there, so the sudden proliferation of other Israeli bilk-milk firms with silly names like Imagindairy seems to be an overt provocation against the wrath of the Hebrew God. One particularly godless such firm, Wilk, explicitly claims to be fostering “The Яevolution of Milk.” Yet more sinister Judeo-Communism at work.
The big selling point of Remilk’s new patented artificial anti-milk is supposed to be its 100 percent lactose-free nature, thus making it “suitable for those with intolerance.” Itamar Ben-Gvir will be drinking a lot of it, then.
ASSAULT AND BATTERY HENS
In other agricultural news, a man calling himself “Farmer Pete” has been arrested on aggravated battery charges in Florida after allegedly opening fire with a handgun upon two men and a woman he had met on a night out during “an argument over how many eggs a chicken can lay.” None, in the science-neutered Israeli farm of tomorrow, one may guess.
Images of Farmer Pete—who, it has been written, may just possibly have been intoxicated at the time—show an individual who precisely embodies the classic cartoon stereotype of an inbred hillbilly that snobby upper-class East Coast urban Democrats think of whenever they hear the distasteful word “farmer.” Shoeless, wearing a straw hat and blue dungarees, with an unkempt big bushy white beard resembling Methuselah’s groin area, Pete really did look like the kind of primitive pube-rube who Alfred Kinsey would have guessed enjoyed an overly close relationship with certain of his most favored livestock.
Let’s just put it this way. Rather than the old conundrum of “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” with Pete it looked much more like a case of “Which came first, the chicken or the farmer?”
(Important Legal Note: There is no genuine evidence Farmer Pete has ever had sex with any random farm animal. They would all have voluntarily run an absolute mile to the nearest abattoir first.)
JIGGY WITH MISS PIGGY
One man who staunchly resists our era’s depraved promotion of such unnatural farmyard desires is President Donald J. Trump, who was panned this week for insultingly yelling, “Quiet, Piggy!” at a (presumably obese?) female reporter who dared ask him yet another inconvenient question about why he was still refusing to release the Epstein Files aboard Air Force One.
By coincidence—or otherwise, according to the likes of Marjorie Taylor Greene—a new Miss Piggy movie was announced this week from Hollywood. The natural presumption was that this was simply yet another cheap Muppets spin-off, but maybe it in fact represents the most shocking of all the potential Epstein Tapes?
It could end up being a surprise biopic of Alicia Machado, the former 19-year-old Miss Universe from Venezuela, who won her crown back in 1996, when Donald Trump owned full commercial rights to the famous pork pageant—before a disappointed Donald began deriding Machado as “Miss Piggy” when she put on a bit of weight following her victory. Machado was back in the news this week after herself insulting Orientals by making slitty eyes into a camera online, but maybe she had already pulled similarly strain-eyed expressions when being bedded as a pig in blankets by Epstein and Trump on their alleged old secret home videos?
Being a teenager at the time, Alicia would have made an ideal young grooming project for Jeffrey, and if Donald really had joined in with playing a double-ended game of return the sausage to its birthplace on film too, as his enemies continue to allege, then this could help explain a lot of the president’s recent otherwise more unhinged-seeming actions.
DJT’s threatened invasion of Venezuela makes a lot more sense as a mere military cover story for taking out Miss Piggy Machado with a convenient bunker buster to the head, as does his new immigration directive to the effect that fatties like her ought to be denied visas to enter the U.S., on the ostensible grounds that their subsequent inevitable heart attacks and diabetes will only end up costing the responsibly thin American taxpayer valuable IRS dollars. Final proof of this dark scheme’s reality can be seen in the deliberately taunting name of the government spokesman Trump wheeled out to explain his plan to the press: Tommy Pigott (pronounced “Pig Out,” probably).
Pigs will fly? Under this harsh new regime, only if it’s straight back to Caracas.
IT STARTED WITH A KISS
Laying a chicken or engaging a pig in a poke may not, historically, have been all that unusual for the human race, as scientists announced this week that they had traced the prehistory of kissing as far back as 21 million years ago—not when Joe Biden first met Jill, but when a species defined as “the large apes” (Nigerians) first started sticking their tongues down one another’s throats, to scrape out all the tonsil lice or something.
From then on, hominids with a taste for interspecies action began passing on the elaborate oral technique from evolved monkey being to evolved monkey being, all the way down the evolutionary tree, until eventually Neanderthals ended up swapping saliva with humans.
For the purposes of research, scientists officially defined a kiss as being an act of “non-aggressive, directed oral-oral contact with some movement of lips or mouthparts and no food transfer.” For some people, the act of “food transfer” is the only reason they have kissed anyone at all: Alicia Machado, for example, only ever matches mouths with someone if she sees they happen to be chewing McDonald’s or Taco Bell at the time.
The researchers’ best guess as to why kissing developed in the first place was that it evolved from sophisticated grooming behavior. So did the marriage of Emmanuel and Brigitte Macron. She looks a bit like a monkey, too, come to think of it, doesn’t she?
TAKE OFF YOUR ALGEBRA
Another advanced expert in unnatural grooming behavior was pig-plungin’ Jeffrey Epstein, who was unexpectedly defended this week by former newsreader Megyn Kelly as not truly being a pedophile at all, as he does not appear to have been into legally underage children, as most mainstream media coverage implicitly implies, but preferred “the barely legal type instead.” “He wasn’t into, like, 8-year-olds,” Kelly continued, a line of argument technically known as “The Reverse Muhammad.”
On his comedy talk show, compliant regime jester John Oliver called Megyn’s argument a mere exercise in “doing pedophile math.” Interestingly, Epstein himself started out in life as a math teacher in an upmarket New York high school. To prove it, this column has exclusively unearthed the questions and answers from some of Mr. Epstein’s old end-of-term papers:
Q. What are two feet divided by six inches?
A. The best way inside Virginia Giuffre.
Q. What is 56 minus 17?
A. A normal age gap to observe in ANY healthy young couple.
Q. Calculate the value of Cream-Pi.
A. Depends how much she wants to keep quiet.
Q. What is meant by the term “standard deviation”?
A. Ask Prince Andrew. Ideally under subpoena.
COCK ASIAN MALES
As the above accumulated evidence conclusively demonstrates, the entire Western world is now corrupt and unnatural beyond all possible redemption. Deviancy has begun to spread even in the Orient, too, of course, but over there, leaders are not yellow enough to refuse to reverse the rot. China has just forbidden the country’s most popular gay hookup apps from all future downloads to phones, to try to boost the national birth rate.
The queerphobic Chinese Communist Party (CCP) has begun forcibly closing down all known gay and lesbian bars across the land as a further precaution. All LGBTQ+ services are henceforth being forced underground, their presence now detectable only to those in the know enough to be able to read the potential secret queer codes of everyday Chinese life. For example, if you want a sex-change operation, you have to keep a lookout for a sign above a shop reading “Wi Chopsticks” and hope that was written phonetically by someone with a very poor grasp of grammar.
The way things are going, being gay itself will soon be illegal in China: The only Ho Mo left standing will be the one who has it written on his birth certificate. Bum Ming, Sodo Mi, and Fellai Zho will surely suffer similar fates. Falun Dong has been suppressed for decades already. Homosexuality was only legalized across China in 1997, while CCP doctors only formally recognized it was not a form of mental illness in 2001. Then they heard about George Takei and changed their minds back again.
The rewriting of recent queer history in China is now going so fast that foreign films depicting scenes of gay marriage are being digitally retouched to show normal male-female scenes of matrimony—a practice inspired by close prior intelligence examination of the Macrons’ 2007 wedding photos.
From the 1980s onward, when the Communists first forcibly instituted the “One Child Era” policy for every family—as overpopulation, not underpopulation, was then feared to be the most pressing demographic concern—Chinese authorities were quite content to tacitly tolerate homosexuality, anal births generally being considered impossible, especially if you have piles.
Today, the situation is now so reversed that CCP officials have taken to cold-calling random young women and intrusively asking if they’re pregnant yet, and if not, when their last period was—not all Communists approve of keeping the red rag flying. In the West, housewives are annoyed by endless telesales calls offering them cheap double-glazing. In China, that’s just another way to ensure that at least one of the Party-mandated sperm donors isn’t firing any blanks.
Things have gotten so bad, some rogue Communist mandarins are now approaching barren housewives directly and demanding a free go at impregnating them on the spot in their own homes. “Is there no other, more democlatic, way I can get lid of you without spleading my regs?” asked one of the targeted females, after receiving an unwanted knock on her door one day. “You could always tly holding an erection,” her tormentor replied.
TALKING TURKEY
Another clear sign of unnatural practices in our world today is the frankly perverted spread of Thanksgiving to foreign countries that are quite clearly not America, a trend that makes about as much sense as them celebrating Ramadan in Minnesota. The latest nation to bite the turkey ahead of this year’s feast on Thursday is the U.K., where sales of traditional Thanksgiving fare like pecan pie and fentanyl have absolutely shot through the roof this year.
Ironically, in the U.S. itself, sales of Thanksgiving food may well go down, with costs for filling up an average family’s dinner table accelerating by some 18 percent compared with this time last year, to around $158. A standard-size turkey alone now costs $68. The wholly unnatural solution? Make some lab-grown birds instead!
The Jews have not as yet succeeded in creating turkey-in-a-test-tube like they have with brewing milk-under-a-microscope, but efforts in this very field have been ongoing for more than a decade now, the hope being artificial turkeys will be ready, stuffed, and on your plate by as soon as 2030…at an initial estimated cost of $34,000 per poultry. How bad exactly is inflation going to get over the next half decade?
The man behind the scheme, Professor Paul Mozdziak of North Carolina State University, has admitted that “I find a lot of beauty in turkeys,” albeit being much more of a breast man than a leg one. The way his technique works is that stem cells from the breast of an original dead turkey are extracted and suspended within a “warm broth” of amino acids, which fools them into continuing their usual growth pattern of producing further edible meat. The subsequent rate of reproduction is astounding: “One single stem cell from the original biopsy can produce enough muscle to make more than 20 trillion turkey nuggets.”
That should almost be enough to keep Alicia Machado going for a full week.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that children in Britain have more miserable or wretched childhoods than any others in Europe. This is in large part because of the population’s growing incompetence in the art of living, but it is also almost traditional that the British do not like their children very much. By the time they have finished bringing them up so badly, they are proved retrospectively right not to have liked them very much, because they grow into pretty awful young adults.
Such, at any rate, were my thoughts the other day when I observed and heard the children come out of the local school. One fat girl, for example, aged about 14, who looked as if it were her life’s ambition to develop into a fat slut (she was most of the way there already), who had squeezed her lumpen body into unsuitably tight clothes, was screaming at her friend about fifty yards away to “f—ing hurry up,” and “f—ing hurry, won’t you?” I gave her an old-fashioned look, but to no effect: She only screamed the louder. If we had gotten as far as discussing it, I have little doubt that she would before long (after insulting me) have said, “There’s no law against it”—as, indeed, there is not.
The law is thus the sole arbiter of what we can and cannot do. There is no common ground on which to base our daily conduct and intercourse with others; moral authority has been outsourced to that great assembly of philosopher kings, the legislature.
Of course, the young girl (we have as many words in England for unattractive young girls as the Eskimos were once said to have had for snow—sluts, slags, slatterns, slappers, scrubbers, to mention only a few) was not entirely to blame for her own profound vulgarity. Her parents were probably not much better than she, and she also had probably drunk deep from the fountain of contemporary British popular culture (manufactured by people who not only ought to, but do, know better), in which the slightest concession to refinement is regarded as tantamount to class treachery, snobbery, or worse.
One slut doesn’t make a brothel, of course, but the behavior of the girl was remarkable because it was not in the least remarkable and is to be encountered almost everywhere; on the contrary, it was what we now expect and what we are frightened to correct.
I did not set out to write this, but, as the murderer put it when he said, “I had to kill her doctor, or I don’t know what I would’ve done,” I felt that, once the memory of it crossed my mind, I had to get it off my chest, if that is not a mangled anatomical metaphor. What I had intended to write about was an article in The Washington Post that drew the attention of readers to rising child poverty in Britain.
The first problem with the article was with the definition of poverty; for the article’s purposes, poverty was defined (as it often is) as a household income less than 60 percent of the median income. This definition has the inescapable corollary that a society composed entirely of millionaires, even billionaires, could have a high rate of poverty, and a society in which everyone went hungry a low rate of poverty, provided only that the distribution of income was at a certain level of inequality.
But let us not quibble. There is no doubt that with high rents, rising prices, and childcare costs, life is very difficult for many families, in part because so many things that once would have been regarded as luxuries, if they existed at all, are now deemed necessities, and all of them are costly.
But the article in The Washington Post had one story that struck me as remarkable. It was of an American woman who moved to London twenty years ago. She has great difficulty making ends meet and has to resort to all kinds of expedients (going to food banks, charity stores, and so forth) to do so. She earns $3,684 net per month in salary and receives $4,398 in welfare payments a month.
She has three children, and the article tells us that she is separated from the father of her children. I do not doubt that life is a struggle for her, as it is for many of us, but there was surely one dog in this story that did not bark in the nighttime, namely the financial contribution of the father of her three children to her finances. As the story is written, he does not contribute a penny for the upkeep of his own children.
It is, of course, possible that he is unable to do so: Genuine inability to earn any money does, after all, exist. But let us take a bet, namely that in this case he simply refuses rather than is unable to contribute financially to the upkeep of his children. In other words, more than half the costs of those children’s upkeep fall on every taxpayer, but not disproportionately on him (assuming that he pays taxes at all).
What is remarkable in the article is that its writer does not even appear to notice this, perhaps because he is inattentive, or perhaps because he believes that the rearing of children is more the state’s responsibility than that of their parents. If I were trying to write an article about the inadequacy of the state’s prevention of child poverty, this is not the case I would have chosen.
Perhaps the author of the article did not notice the absence of the father’s contribution because he was afraid to do so, at least in public. One of the greatest fears of the modern intelligentsia is of appearing censorious, or at least censorious other than about climate change, racism, etc., about which any amount of censoriousness is permissible. But to suggest that a father might have some financial responsibility for his own children and that a mother has both the right and the duty to insist upon it (let alone that the ease with which couples break apart having had children is not necessarily a moral advance for humanity) is to risk being thought Dickensian, or at least like a character out of Dickens, such as the unctuous self-satisfied hypocrite Mr. Pecksniff, or the rigid and unfeeling Mr. Gradgrind, or the unctuous schemer Uriah Heep, or the pompous and jingoistic Mr. Podsnap. Faced thus by gross irresponsibility, it is safer, if you want to preserve a reputation for generous broad-mindedness, not merely to say nothing, but to notice nothing, and blame the government.
Theodore Dalrymple’s latest book is On the Ivory Stages (Mirabeau Press).
