More tales from the front lines of the Democrat crack-up

Weeping Woman 1937 by Pablo Picasso 1881-1973The ongoing Democrat crack-up is definitely the best show in town — and no, I don’t feel bad at all at laughing at people who are showing their emotional immaturity or appalling lack of judgment or intelligence. There was something about being called evil, bigoted, racist, homophobic, misogynistic, and stupid that burned off any vestigial conscience I might have about pointing and laughing when incredibly arrogant people are exposed for the pathetic faux-intellectuals they are and always have been.

With that in mind, I’m happy to share with you three opinion pieces that came across my radar, all of which either lambaste Trump or laud Hillary (or do both).

The first unintentionally reinforces something I’ve come to believe, which is that Trump has the potential be one of the greatest presidents ever. He’s a paradigm buster. He figured out two things about the old rules: (1) they didn’t serve Republicans and (2) they didn’t serve America. He’s rewriting the playbook.

One of the ways in which Trump is re-writing the playbook is by speaking directly to the American people via his tweets. For example, after his planned phone call with the President of Taiwan, Trump tweeted out brief, substantive messages:

The media reprinted those tweets verbatim — to attack them. The problem for the Left, though, is that many Americans no longer take the media seriously because they understand that the Left has become unhinged and, therefore, unreliable when reporting on Trump. Indeed, Trump tweeted that out too:

All that the media is managing to do is to relay the tweets to whose don’t follow Twitter.

The other problem for the Left is that Trump’s dense, data- and thought-rich tweets flummox them. Their counter-attacks are inept. Nothing proves this more beautifully than the viral tweets a man named Danielle Muscato sent out in the wake of the little tweet war Trump set up with Saturday Night Live.

Muscato describes himself as “an atheist, civil rights activist, musician and a trans woman (she/her).” I understand the phrase “trans woman,” when paired with the biology-breaking pronouns to mean that Muscato was born with male DNA and genitalia, but dresses and acts like a woman and, quite possibly takes drugs and has had surgery in furtherance of this open, and rather sad, display of body dysmorphia.

(By the way, you’ll probably notice that I’m not being particularly gracious about trans people anymore. I once professed sympathy for their confusion, since a mental illness that makes you uncomfortable in your own skin is a pitiable condition. However, since the trans community has declared war on Americans who are troubled about yielding to the trans warriors’ escalating cultural and political demands, I no longer view them as people who are more to be pitied than censured. They’re the enemy, and must be treated as such by stating the truth about them, rather than retreating to mealy-mouthed social platitudes.)

Before I get to the tweets, take a moment to appreciate the praise “Mashable,” a Buzzfeed-esque website, heaps upon Muscato’s tweets:

While any tweet Trump sends out is bound to get a variety of responses, Danielle Muscato’s string of tweets deserves special recognition. ***  she encouraged her fellow Americans to call out Trump for his lies and stand against racism, bigotry, homophobia and hate crimes that have spiked since the election. The tweets have since amassed Muscato with over 200,000 likes and thousands of new followers.

Wow!  From that high praise, I expect to read facts, argument, more facts, logic, and biting conclusions. What I discovered, instead, were opinions, obscenity, insults, and unanswered questions. Muscato’s tweets offer a stunning display of hatred, wrapped around ignorance, that’s then celebrated as insight.

I won’t reprint all of Muscato’s tweets here, because doing so would cause a mass IQ drop-off in my readers, but I will give you a general sense of the stupid, which is strong with this one. To give a little context, Muscato is responding to this classic Donald tweet:

Muscato opens with insult, opinion, and (the favorite arrow in each Lefty’s quiver) obscenity:

Ooooooh! Oooh! Feel the burn. Ouch! But then, according to Mashable, Muscato gets (ahem) substantive:

Before I leave the above tweet, let me just say that it does include a single fact: America does have a population of slightly less than 330,000,000. I’m impressed by this fact, because it’s the only one Muscato musters in a 30 tweet rant.

What you’ll start seeing Muscato do in the upcoming tweets is deluge his Twitter feed with pointless rhetorical questions. They don’t say anything about Trump’s opinions or policies. They are simply there to imply that, quite possibly, Trump’s opinions or policies might not align with Muscato’s. As Trump would say, “Sad.”

And so it goes, maddened rage unleavened by information, intelligence, or logic. I don’t recommend reading the rest. It’s dull. It’s the mental vomit of an intellectual anorexic.

So, let’s abandon the sad, angry Muscato and move on to other, more amusing mental breakdowns on the Left. My current favorite, I have to admit, appeared on a Lena Dunham website two weeks ago. Now, normally I don’t troll Dunham’s website (I only have so much tolerance for an intellectually naked exhibitionist), but this one fell into my lap when a Progressive Facebook friend posted it with a comment saying something along the lines of “Oh, I so agree.”

What you’re about to read isn’t an analysis of Hillary’s virtues or Trump’s faults. It is, instead, a mash letter to Hillary; an open declaration of adoration for a woman who has transcended the limitations of mere humanity and become a political goddess.

You think I’m exaggerating. I’m not. But before I get there, I hope you also appreciate the way the writer castigates herself for ever being kind and patient to mouth-breathers who worship at the altar of evil when they’re not actively engaged in hunting down blacks, gays, women, etc. Now that I’ve set the stage, gird your loins and read on:

When people told me they hated Hillary Clinton or (far worse) that they were “not fans,” I wish I had said in no uncertain terms: “I love Hillary Clinton. I am in awe of her. I am set free by her. She will be the finest world leader our galaxy has ever seen.”

I wish, in those exchanges, I had not asked gentle, tolerant questions about a hater’s ridiculous allergy to her, or Clinton’s fictional misdeeds and imagined character flaws. More deeply still, I wish I had not reasoned with anyone, patiently countered their ludicrous emotionalism and psychologically disturbed theories. I wish I had said, flatly, “I love her.” As if I had been asked about my mother or daughter. No defensiveness or polemics; not dignifying the crazy allegations with so much as a Snopes link.

Maybe “I love her” seemed too womany, too sentimental, too un-pragmatic. Not coalition-building, kind of culty. But people say with impunity they love Obama, the state of Israel, their churches, Kurt Cobain. In the end, I wish I’d said it because it’s true.


Usually a legend is made by men and media — the legend of Kennedy, say, or Jim Morrison — and then, much later, a biopic, pretending to evenhandedness, reveals the legend’s shortcomings, his “human” side. The shortcomings are almost always something exactly no one actually believes compromises his heroism. His problem drinking. His mistreatment of women. Well, takedowns of Hillary were always already written. She has somehow made the time to hear out each dead-end line of reasoning about her fake mortal sins, and often she has also thanked everyone for sparing her further moral lashings, as if that were a kindness. Under cover of “humanizing” the intimidating valedictorian, reports and investigations and media clichés vilified her. But the feminist hero never got to be a legend first. And yet she is one, easily surpassing Ben Franklin, Henry Ford, Steve Jobs.

I’ll stop now. Having come this far, I’m torn between uncontrollable laughter and a desperate urge to shower to rid myself of the slime.

Even Reagan’s most impassioned supporters will never go further than wishing that we had today a man who was an excellent communicator, told jokes with a smile but a sting, and believed in the Constitution, the American people, and the principles of liberty and self-governance. You may disagree with that Reagan supporter, but you won’t have to go off and take a shower. (Also, after reader that love letter, you’ll probably you’ll want to brush your teeth too. I know that I threw up in my mouth a little bit when I read that Hillary is greater than America’s own polymath, Ben Franklin.)

And now, for the third in the trilogy, one that walks us through a Leftist’s mental breakdown in the wake of Hillary’s failure to be the first vagina to become president. (You see, I haven’t forgotten that this was always Hillary’s main qualification. Even her most fanatic supporters, when pressed, can’t point to an actual accomplishment other than being a basically anonymous one of many who worked on a government bill to help insure children.)

For this gal, whom I call “Lonely Mommy,” there is no future anymore, and her multiple daddy-less kids (she confesses to raising kids on her own for a decade, one of whom is only 2-years-old) will have to grow up forever trapped with a crazy lady:

In August, I went on six dates in one week. I had decided that I was ready to look for a partner. Enough of this dating unavailable men a half-decade younger than me. They’d never seriously consider a relationship with me, my two children and our needy dog. No. I wanted to find an equal. A man who wouldn’t feel the need to step in and rescue me. I didn’t need rescuing.

But I knew deep down that was only partially true. I often felt the sort of loneliness that settled in my stomach, starting from a chaotic afternoon with my children, lasting well into the night when I pulled covers tight around my chin.

Two of the dates seemed promising, but Lonely Mommy didn’t know at the time that her world was about to end. Why have a relationship when there is no future?

Once it was clear that Donald Trump would be president instead of Hillary Clinton, I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to gather my children in bed with me and cling to them like we would if thunder and lightning were raging outside, with winds high enough that they power might go out. The world felt that precarious to me.

After the now-ritual statement about how her children are traumatized (because Lefty parents never shield their children from parental insanity), we get a little insight into precisely how Lonely Mommy managed to traumatize those poor kids:

I didn’t start crying until I had crossed the street to walk home. We had a few miles to go, so I carried my daughter. I didn’t mind carrying her; I still had that urge to cling to her and keep her close. It was cold that morning, but the sun started to warm us enough to remove our hats. Halfway home, my tears stopped, and my despair grew to appreciation.

Lonely Mommy figures out that she can make it on her own (so Mary Tyler Moore, right?) — but she can only do it by making an emotional commitment to the crazy people already in her life. There’s no room for anyone else:

I’ve lost the desire to attempt the courtship phase. The future is uncertain. I am not the optimistic person I was on the morning of Nov. 8, wearing a T-shirt with “Nasty Woman” written inside a red heart. It makes me want to cry thinking of that. Of seeing my oldest in the shirt I bought her in Washington, D.C., that says “Future President.”

There is no room for dating in this place of grief. Dating means hope. I’ve lost that hope in seeing the words “President-elect Trump.”

I will quote again, as I did before, Oscar Wilde’s pronouncement on Dickens’ The Old Curiosity Shop: “One must have a heart of stone to read the death of little Nell without laughing.”

Honestly, the above three examples of Progressive crack-ups have left me more entertained than I can remember being in . . . well, a very long time. Seeing these arrogant, narrow, ill-informed, bigoted, race-obsessed neurotics reduced to this level is intensely satisfying. Long may they continue to collapse.

Image of Picasso’s Weeping Woman from the Tate Gallery’s online archive.