Sara(h) Smiles, Part 21: Rowe, Rowe, Rowe Your Boat

Naturally, I was only being mischievous, in that endearing way I have, when I suggested the other day that Donald Trump ought to be Sarah’s running mate in 2012. I can’t imagine one as vainglorious as he willingly playing second fiddle to a woman, not even one as hot as Sarah. But I’ve had another idea, and this isn’t a kidding-around one: Mike Rowe, from the Wrangler and Ford commercials — and from the Discovery Channel’s Dirty Jobs, which I’ve never watched because I’m squeamish.

Nearly everything about him is perfect. Start with his name — two virile, no-nonsense, all-American monosyllables, in the tradition of George Bush, but better, since “George” is a fairly…squishy sound, whereas Mike is as hard as a Louisville slugger. Mike’s a fearsome heavyweight champion’s (Tyson’s) name, or a hard-boiled detective’s (Hammer’s), or a tough-as-nails former Chicago Bears coach (Ditka’s). George is a curious monkey’s name, or a homosexual crooner’s (Boy).

Rowe is everything his name promises, as far — in his Wrangler jeans, facial crags, and baseball cap — as it’s possible to be from an elitist liberal who thinks he knows more than the average American just because he has a Ph.D. from an Ivy League university. He was an Eagle Scout, and has big pectoral muscles, but everything about him mumbles, “Aw, shucks.” He’s somebody the average American working man could easily picture hoisting a couple of cold brewskis with, and the gals already think of him as having a cute butt — an asset too few vice presidential candidates have offered in recent elections — because of the Wrangler commercials. Whether he actually has one is entirely immaterial, in the same way that Burt Reynolds’ having an undersized penis became immaterial after Cosmopolitan presented him to its readership as a sexpot.

I won’t say Rowe’s perfect; the skeletons in his closet include having sung with the Baltimore Opera at one point, and his living nowadays in San Francisco, that cesspool of homosexuality and Pelosi-ism. What I’m hoping is that his having lived there and remained straight (please, Lord, let it be so!) will make him even more attractive to common-sense conservatives, especially if he can be persuaded to manifest a little revulsion at his LGBT neighbors, Stacy and Kim.

(Speaking of the Chicago Bears, I have formulated a theory as to why commentators and coaches so love to say football — why, for instance, they’ll invariably say, “They’re a heck of a football team,” or, “He’s a talented football player, or, “If we can stop their running attack, we think we can win the football game” even though it’s redundant in each case; everyone knows full well that a guy predicting the winner of the Saints vs. Steelers game isn’t talking about lacrosse or synchronized swimming.

The reason you don’t hear comparable self-references in the other major team sports, basketball or baseball, is that football is just such fun to say, its first syllable being close to the sound boys make when trying to evoke the sound of an arrow or throwing star flying through the air and then hitting its target. And at the end of that first syllable, your mouth is poised perfectly to add ball, as it is with neither of the other two sports.)

In other news, Sarah has tweeted (God is that cute, or what? How could she be more adorable?) that Julian Assange, Mr. WikiLeaks, ought to be hunted down like a dog, a moose, or one of those wolves she, as governor of Alaska, had sharpshooters picking off from helicopters. Naturally, the lamestream media have been having a field day wondering where she comes off endorsing the de facto assassination of a foreign national. My only quibble — and I think this may have to do with the fact that Twitter tweets can comprise only a limited number of characters — is that she didn’t urge the assassins to save a bullet or two for that rhymes-with-witch Katie Couric, Jon Stewart, Michael Moore, or Bill Maher. Might as well take 'em all down at once, it seems to me.

Kill, baby, kill!

Sara(h) Smiles, Part 20: Savin' the American Economy

One of the most exciting things about going from door to door on behalf of the Committee to Elect Sarah in 2012 is hearing all the marvelous ideas my neighbors have for takin’ our country back, for regaining the precious liberties of which our foreign-born, crypto-Muslim socialist president has so gleefully stripped us. Yesterday, for instance, I spoke to a widower, Rex S—, who has lived on Cedar Street since 1968, and was a firefighter down in New York City from 1973 until he retired in 2005 because he’d had it “up to here” with women and non-whites, many of them with names he couldn’t pronounce, being shoehorned into vacancies in the Department. His only regret is that, by the time the propagandists decided to portray the NYFD as the heroes of 9/11, he’d long since stopped going to the gym, and wasn’t depicted in any of the over-100 2003 and 2004 calendars for which his younger buddies were invited (and paid handsomely!) to pose, their gorgeous pectoral and abdominal muscles glistening with their heroic sweat, their melon-sized biceps stretching taut the damp fabric of their form-fitting uniforms, their…

Oops.

In any event, given his wonderful ideas, you’d have imagined that Rex had been an economist and not a firefighter. Having heard over and over again first how America doesn’t manufacture anything anymore, and how we’re getting ever deeper into debt to the Chinese, and how there are countless hundreds of thousands of illegal alien children hiding around the country, and how indigenous inner city children routinely drop out the second they’re eligible to do so rather than brave graffiti-covered high schools controlled by gangs who will kill them for their lunch money, Rex came up with an idea that I can’t imagine any common-sense conservative pooh-poohing.

Step 1: Repeal antiquated child labor laws originally conceived to protect the children of white European immigrants at the turn of the last century. Is anybody — and let’s be candid with each other here — all that worried about the children of dark-skinned Spanish speakers? Step 2: Do away with the minimum wage. How dare Big Government tell the American businessman what he or she can or cannot pay his employees! You want jobs created and unemployment greatly reduced, or don't you? Step 3: Hire, at the same hourly rate Chinese factory workers get, or maybe a few cents more if you can spare it, the thousands of alien kids and inner city school dropouts who’d otherwise just be selling crack and getting each other pregnant.

Problem solved! And in the same fell swoop, we also begin redressing the imbalance of trade between ourselves and China. And it gets even better! Imagine the boost to the American morale when we walk through Target or Walmart and see the words Made in USA on shower curtains and cutlery, flashlights and flatware, woks and inflatable wading pools, this, this, and the other!

I fully expect the so-called progressives to get apoplectic, to ask how we’ll be able to think of ourselves as civilized when we’re working “our” young people to death. Well, where were they when we were dropping to 25th in the world — only marginally ahead of Croatia and the Faroe Islands, and behind Cuba, Taiwan, and the Isle of Man — in infant mortality? If they were going to get apoplectic about the plight of the kiddies, why have the so-called progressives had so little to say about those for whom no first birthday party ever need be thrown?

Of course, we common-sense conservatives think of first birthday parties as wasteful and frivolous anyway. When was the last time anybody heard a child on the day of his or her graduation from college say, “You know, Mother and Pop, I have such very fond memories of that first birthday party you threw for me”? The fact is that one-year-olds as a general rule don’t even realize they’re being feted. It’s all for the parents, who in many cases take off from work the Friday before the weekend of the party to buy decorations and cheap gift-bag crapola and a cake and what-not. In so doing, they take a bite out of the gross national product, and play right into the hands of those who would love nothing more than to see America on its knees.

Under Sarah Palin, America will bow no more!

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Sra(h) Smiles, Part 19: His Truth Goes Marchin' On

Boy, is this a perfect example of what we common-sense conservatives are up against, or what? According to the The Department of Defense’s Comprehensive Working Group’s just-released report on "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," we ought to entrust the protection of our precious American liberties to unashamed homosexuals.

Great idea, Obamarxists! Nearly as great, I might venture to observe, as nationalizing the healthcare, automaking, and banking industries, snatching away the freedom that Americans (at least the white ones) have enjoyed since time immemorial, raising everybody’s taxes, forcing our schoolchildren to attend school on Saturday, but forbidding them to pray, and spending countless tens of thousands of dollars to fly Michelle Obama over to India to shop for saris.

Just picture it. A platoon, or whatever you call them (my emotional problems precluded my serving my country in Vietnam, desperate though I was to do so) of soldiers in Afghanistan has a skirmish schedule the following morning with al-Qaeda. What would you rather have them listening to in their Humvees on the way to battle — Slayer, on the one hand, or Lady Gaga? Which do you suppose will make them more intent on wasting the enemy? And how about if, on the way to the battleground, one of the so-called gay soldiers, made indiscreet by the atmosphere of foreboding inside the Hummer, blurts out to one of his normal buddies that he’s in love with him? The normal soldier’s natural reaction would be to beat the guy comatose, but what effect will his doing in the crowded Hummer have on morale? And if he doesn’t inflict a merciless beating, his buddies are going to be trying to think what he did to arouse the so-called gay one, instead of about their mission. Meanwhile, al-Qaeda, who summarily behead anyone they learn to be "gay", lesbian, bisexual, or transgendered, are perfectly focused. Our boys are at a frightful disadvantage!

I remember in the 1980s a supposedly authoritative scientific report was published suggesting that pornography didn’t, as had long been taken as a given, inspire much depraved behavior beyond viewing it in the first place. It took Ronald Reagan’s brave attorney general, Ed Meese, to dismiss this report as contrary to common sense, and then to toss together one of his own that reconfirmed folks’ existing prejudices. That is unmistakably what is called for now. When we know from the Holy Bible that God regards homosexuals as abominators (and note how much that sounds like Obamanators!), why do we pay a moment’s attention to the “finding” that 70 percent of the very young, and thus easily misled, people who wear our armed services’ uniforms wouldn’t mind their so-called gay buddies “coming out”?

All of which leads to a talk I’ve been hoping we could have. We know, from the fact that we are richer, mightier, and generally a lot better-looking than all others (except for maybe the Scandinavians, but who cares when there are so few of them?) that we are God’s favorite country. And yet, under the so-called leadership of a foreign-born crypto-Muslim whose main exposure to Christianity has been via a Chicago pastor who’s a lot more about hating white folk than loving Jesus we keep our most favored nation in jeopardy by refusing to declare ourselves a Christian country.

To whom does this — can this — make sense? It’s been clear from the outset, when the Founding Fathers paused regularly in drafting the Constitution for Bible study sessions, that this country has always been all about Jesus. That the Founding Fathers generously said it was OK for others to practice whatever weird religions they liked serves only to teach us that nobody’s perfect! Over the course of the past decade we’ve seen all too clearly where tolerating other religions gets us!

Though by law we’ll have to wait until January 2013, the time to put in charge someone who makes no bones about her love for Jesus is right now. His truth goes marchin’ on, with Sarah keeping pace, prettily, prettily!

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Sara(h) Smiles, Part 18: Singin' and Commiseratin'

Why I am not surprised by how very little the lamestream media have had to say about the debut of the retooled Sarah Palin’s Iowa on Sunday night? Never mind that it was uniformly excellent — certainly the best program of its kind since The Carol Burnett Show went off the air in 1958. That Sarah and her producers were able to get both Eminem and Paul McCartney as musical guests was remarkable, but no more remarkable than how beautifully Sarah sang with them, on "The Real Slim Shady," in Em’s case, and a medley of “Rocky Raccoon” and “Let It Be” in Paul’s. Who’d have guessed that she’d sound so much like Stevie Nicks? I, for one, can hardly wait until next week, when her musical guests will be Lady Gaga and Pete Seeger.

What a lot of talent in the family Palin! We knew already from Dancing With Unwed Teen Moms that Bristol is a wonderful hoofer. And now we discover that her big brother Track is a wonderful impressionist, though I think his performance would probably have appealed to a wider demographic had he…done someone more familiar — Jack Nicholson, say, or John Wayne, or even Beavis or Butthead — than a bunch of guys with whom he served his country in Iraq. To be honest, I thought husband Todd’s stand-up comedy routine could have used some tightening up, as some of the material felt over-familiar. Does anyone really need to hear another joke about the difference between the sexes as it’s manifested in their positioning of toilet seats? And I won’t deny that I put my hands over my ears when one gag began, “I’m not saying that Eskimos are terrible drivers, but…” That said, The First Dude's anecdote about the hunter who fell in love with a moose had us in hysterics. A moose! Can you imagine?

I found extremely poignant the segment in which Sarah, holding the twins Trig and Calculus on her lap, chatted via video hookup with Angelina Jolie and Mel Gibson about being a parent to many children. I gained new insight into the pain that’s presumably inspired some of the latter’s more notorious recent acting-out when he recounted his then-13-year-old second daughter, Lucy, confessing that she is Jewish and a lesbian. Sarah’s telling him with misted eyes that she wished she could give him a great big hug made very clear the sort of woman — and person — she is. It was a lot more compassion than that stuck-up rhymes-with-witch Jolie — whose primary interest seemed to be in promoting her forthcoming film Waco — in which she plays former Attorney General Janet Reno, unglamorously, in an obvious attempt to get another Oscar nomination — was able to muster.

Predictably, there’s been much hoo-ha in the lamestream media the past several days about the FBI’s recent busts of might-have-been terrorist bombers. According to the so-called progressives, we shouldn’t be heartened by these arrests because FBI operatives recruited, funded, and guided those arrested. Your tax dollars at work!

As usual, the lamestreamers are missing the point. It isn’t especially heartening that the FBI is foiling terrorist bombings it in fact masterminded, but that their doing so keeps a lot of patriotic Americans employed, at a time when so many federal employees are begging in the streets. Would we rather have these agents standing grimly in line in the unemployment office, having no money to spend online or at local restaurants, taverns, bowling alleys, garden centers, sporting goods stores, and delicatessens, or seeking out delusionial homeless people to pay to become jihadists? Call me old-fashioned, but I’ll choose the latter every time.

We must also consider that we have a rich tradition in this country of trying to buoy the populace’s spirit through flim-flammery. Many readers will recall how, in the summer of 1969, an America at which the whole world was laughing because it had elected Richard Nixon president was made proud again by Neil Armstrong’s walking on the moon. That he was later revealed to have been walking on a soundstage in Burbank, California, was of relatively small consequence. Comparably, an America reeling from the popularity of disco music and the rampantly vapid Farrah Fawcett’s elevation to the status of national sweetheart was hugely heartened by the presidency of Ronald Reagan, who was unmistakably an imbecile, but an imbecile with an engagingly avuncular manner and good microphone technique.

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Sara(h) Smiles, Part 16: Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Having embraced common-sense conservatism hasn’t been without its pitfalls. Whereas I now enjoy 110 percent confidence that I’m doing that which God wants me to do for His favorite country ever, I’m also stung on pretty much a daily basis by the cruel, spiteful things nonbelievers are forever saying about Sarah. When they ridicule her for slips of the tongue that we who love her find nothing but endearing, or mock her undiagrammable sentences, it hurts me too.

At the mere mention of post-traumatic stress disorder, the so-called progressives get all gelatinous with empathy, imagining its victims to be the victims of George W. Bush’s allegedly inglorious war. (We common sense conservatives, of course, regard our liberation of the Iraqi people — as we would regard the liberation of any oppressed people — as wholly noble.) And yet the so-called progressives’ empathy seems to vanish without a trace in the face of the recent revelation that Sarah is suffering from a severe case of pre-traumatic stress disorder.

The literature to this point reports occurrences of this malady only in celebrities and politicians, whose emotional scarring by something that hasn’t actually happened yet — being surrounded by braying paparazzi while out shopping, say, or being assassinated — is no less immobilizing than the anxiety suffered by war veterans.
John Hinckley shot at Ronald Reagan to impress Jodie Foster, decades before she became Mel Gibson’s most energetic apologist, and Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme wanted to kill Gerald Ford on behalf of the redwoods. An Iraqi journalist threw his shoe at George W. Bush, killing him. More recently, Tony Blair, Nicolas Sarkozy, Silvio Berlusconi, and Fiji’s Minister of Weights and Measures have all been assassinated.

So maybe it isn’t so nutty at all that one in Sarah Palin’s position would feel wary while out addressing a political rally or signing copies of her new book, Notes I Wrote to Myself On My Hand. And maybe too it isn’t really that hard to understand that after a while, her having to wonder constantly if some crazed Obamarxist with a handgun of the sort promised him by the Second Amendment is about to shoot her dead, causes her tongue occasionally to slip — to say North Korea when she means South, for instance. Maybe instead of so gleefully ridiculing her gaffes, the press, just for a change, could concentrate on the fact that she’s offering better suggestions for getting America back on track than all others combined!

In other news, attempts to get that Burmese woman with the weird four-part name to sign on as Sarah’s presumptive running mate in 2012 have apparently stalled; the woman’s apparently too busy letting the Burmese press fawn all over her to think about what’s best for America. Mitt Romney, who no one doubts would look adorable, with his chiseled features and gray temples, standing behind Sarah on podiums — the two of them would undoubtedly make the most telegenic twosome in American political history — is apparently intent on running for president in his own right. Spoiled brat.

My guess is that Sarah might very well have the same problem of egotism with Donald Trump, who would also make a terrific running mate. He’s obviously gorgeous, with a pout that has endeared him to tens of millions of viewers of his reality show The Asshole Boss, has the most interesting coiffure since A Flock of Seagulls, and is obviously both good and very smart, as evidenced by his great wealth. If only someone could persuade him to put the country’s interests ahead of his own, or at least to convince him that the two are in fact one and the same!

Assuming that this will prove impossible, Ted Nugent seems a perfect choice. He’s on record as believing the Second Amendment to be the only gun license or carry permit any American should need. He is disgusted, as are all right-thinking Americans, by forms of sexual expression other than his own. He’s an avid hunter who once proclaimed, “I’m stymied to come up with anything funnier than people who think animals have rights. Just stick an arrow through their lung.” We haven’t seen that sort of decisiveness since the late George W. Bush!

Countless tens of millions of baby boomer rock fans are guaranteed to bellow, “Whoo-hoo!” when his having joined the ticket is announced, spilling Bud Lite all over themselves in the process, but so what?

Drill, babies, drill!

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Sara(h) Smiles, Part 17: White Wednesday

During the 2008 presidential campaign, Sarah suggested that the day before Thanksgiving be designated White Wednesday, during which all Americans would have the day off work to reflect on the huge contributions to our culture of the descendants of Anglo Saxons. The Rev. Al Sharpton and other self-styled civil rights leaders were expectedly apoplectic with indignation.

Black Friday, to which political correctness precludes anyone objecting, therefore seems an appropriate day on which to compose this précis of the common-sense conservative view of American race relations.

I am no racist; no way. In my college dormitory, I lived just down the hall from an African graduate student; if you’d closed your eyes while he was speaking, you could have sworn you were speaking to a member of the British royal family or something. Later I played briefly in a band with a black person. During my rock and roll days, I “dated” two ebony beauties — not, regrettably, simultaneously. In the early 1980s, as I finally worked up the courage to pursue my dream of temporary office work, I processed words with a black woman named Vertis Johnson, who, along with my wife and Rod McDonough, an English solicitor of Irish origin, is one of the three sweetest people it has ever been my privilege to know.

Neither I nor many other common-sense conservatives would want to live in a world in which there are no Denzel Washington, Jamie Foxx, or Morgan Freeman movies, or one lacking the zingy comedic stylings of Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, or Wilma Sykes. Scott Joplin, Paul Robson, and Beyonce are but three who spring immediately to mind when one considers the contributions of blacks to music. Blacks have been disappearing from major league baseball in droves the past several years, and were never really present in ice hockey, but those of us who follow the National Basketball Association and the National Football League are well aware that they continue to play those sports with great panache, if rather more self-aggrandizingly than their white, European, or Samoan teammates, and thanks in large part to the fast-twitch muscle fibers of which they have more than their white teammates. It’s hardly possible to see a television commercial these days in which black people aren’t acting just like you or I.

We common-sense conservatives are not saying, then, that there aren’t talented, bright, or even hard-working black Americans. Rather, what we’re saying is that, on balance, there seem to a lot more Rev. Jeremiah Wrights and LeBron Jameses and welfare mothers in Cadillac Escalades and 50 Centses than the nice kind, in Liz Claiborne or Ralph Lauren. So maybe the best thing for all concerned would be if they all went back to the country their ancestors came from, Africa, where their darker pigmentation wouldn’t be wasted, as it is here, where the sun generally isn’t as bright.

It’s imperative to take into consideration that blacks, in the tradition of the 19th century’s Underground Railroad, operate most of the so-called safe houses in which illegal immigrants hide when they first sneak across our borders with the intention of getting degrading minimum-wage jobs and overloading our welfare system. Send them back to Africa and Jose and Manuel and Maria have nowhere to elude the INS when they get here, no barbecue joints in which to wash dishes the first few months, no hair-braiding salons in which to develop remarkable manual dexterity.

Many people who secretly agree that America would be better off repatriating its persons-of-color will pretend to believe otherwise because of the idea’s prohibitive expense. But look at it this way, the cost of sending 40 million so-called African Americans back to Africa will probably be offset within 18 months by the fortunes we’ll save not having to arrest, prosecute, and then imprison black teenaged crack dealers, or buy their mamas Cadillac Escalades because they claim not to be able to walk, and then howl about calling the NAACP when we say, Oh, of course you can walk. American youth will save so much money not downloading hip hop singles about bitches and ho’s and what-not that we won’t have to worry anymore about the escalating cost of college tuition. LeBron James and his kind can take their talents to a new African conference in the NBA, and we can continue to enjoy their exploits, as we will the movies of Denzel Washington and the comedic stylings of Chris Rock, on television, without having to worry about his "posse" bringing loaded handguns into restaurants and strip clubs.

I say it with some trepidation, but no shame whatever: America for Americans!

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