Occasionally I do like to slip on my anti-bacterial floaties and my best Vera Wang one piece, and wade into the piss-scented and vaguely warm kiddie pool that is the Corner.
Currently, Michael Walsh is standing in the shallow end, screaming his lungs out like a toddler who dropped his lollipop in the water and had it land on a turd floater, and doing a fine variation on that old favourite, “Wimmins is not birthin’ enough and we’re all going to die”.
On the one hand — as NRO’s resident demography bore has been tirelessly pointing out — the Western world is facing an unparalleled demographic crisis brought on by a feminist-inspired modern twist on Lysistrata (showering sex but withholding children), while at the same time, the West’s vaunted “safety net” is collapsing because the system has been turned upside-down and a bevy of great-grandparents now coos over a single child.
Surely, this is the ultimate expression of the suicide cult that is the modern Left, a subset of libertine takers that so loathes itself that it will dragoon the makers into underwriting the chalices of tasty hemlock it’s so eager for everybody to quaff in order to put itself out of its misery. If, as long as it doesn’t hurt anybody, it feels good, do it! Alas, it does hurt somebody — it hurts society, by robbing it of its future and burdening those lucky kids who make it through the contraceptive/abortifacient gantlet with an unpayable debt to the very people who tried to get rid of them.
Self-centered Baby Boomer liberalism emerged from the “sexual revolution” of the sixties, and for the past half century Boomers have been trying to escape the consequences of no consequences, which now threaten the underpinnings of the Left’s beloved, bankrupting welfare state. And yet, at the same time, women of child-bearing age demand that somebody — insurance companies, Washington, the pope in Rome — pay for universal contraceptive and abortion services in the name of “women’s health.”
If this is not the definition of a suicide cult — one driven by the leftist insistence that sexual license be, well, licensed by the state, non-judgmentally and consequence-free — it’s hard to know what is. The Shakers had nothing on these people; at least they made furniture. But it’s what comes from treating pregnancy as a preventable disease, and viewing people as carbon-based pollutants instead of beings created in the image and likeness of God.
You left-wing sluts out there are trying to kill us all, with your desperate need to control your own birth cycles, with your libidinous concupiscence and your filthy backroom orgies (often, I am told, involving the wanton use of abortifacients and condoms), and your pathetic reliance upon government handouts because you have failed to produce enough children to look after you when you are old and have been brought low by syphilis and the other deservéd wages of your sin.
The trick will be restoring what, in the days of family-owned farms and small businesses, was once true: that babies are an asset rather than a burden. Imagine a society in which parents get to keep more of the human capital they form by investing in their children. Imagine a society in which the family is no longer just a consumer unit, but a productive enterprise. The society that figures out how to restore the economic foundation of the family will own the future.
“A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” That was the witticism that passed for cleverness back in the day. Who needs men in the Brave New World? We’re about to find out.
Of course. All you lefty women need to do is stop it with your baby hatred and remember that kids are exploitable labor. If nothing else, you could get good prices on the organ market. Do you know what a baby kidney goes for today in Marrakesh? Imagine how many hip replacements that could pay for. Worst comes to worst, we can always eat the little fuckers. Read the rest of this entry »
Warning: Many links are to Kathryn Jean’s Fluffy Pink Womb of Zygote Love.
Kathryn Jean thinks that Mitt Romney is a man of principle because he vetoed a section of legislation which would have required all Massachusetts hospitals, including Catholic ones, to provide emergency contraception to rape victims – or as she puts it:
would require Catholic hospitals to provide abortifacient drugs
thus managing both to include the word “abortifacient” and entirely exclude the words “emergency”, “rape” and “victim” – even though Romney vetoed it for entirely political reasons, knew at the time his veto would be overturned, even said that “in his heart of hearts,” he believed that rape victims should have access to emergency contraception, but now believes that a similar rule “tramples on religious freedom”.
President Obama, on the other hand, is a big scary blah man who wants to take away, in turn, our liberties, our virginal innocence and the little blah babies he fathered upon us with his heathen lusts.
Also, Kathryn Jean is preparing for the inevitable day when she will need to snuggle up next to Mitt’s special undies and worship at the temple of the Mitt. I bet Mitt’s pubic hair looks just like the hair on his head.
Also, defunding Planned Parenthood was a “business choice“. Italics in the original.
The “Editors” think that Susan G. Komen for the Cure is (or at least was, and probably still is) an organisation of principle because Planned Parenthood doesn’t do mammograms, all they do is do breast checks and refer people for mammograms. So there. After all, finding out how to check your own breasts and then obtaining a referral to a mammogram clinic when you find a lump is easy-peasy when you are poor and/or illiterate and/or don’t have insurance. I think they offer them at McDonalds, with a side of fries and a free home pap smear kit. Besides, this is great because it lets us talk about abortions some more and donate our usual three bucks a month to a charity that doesn’t fund child murder and then feel smug about it. Read the rest of this entry »
I give you due warning – the sight of cute Russian boys in their undies is not adequate compensation for the boyband/Christmas acoustic horror that will overwhelm you if you press that play button.
I suspect Poe’s law may also apply to bad europop.
Sometimes the youtubes take me to scary places.
I’m trying to understand.
I managed to put my back out somewhere in Portugal, then picked up a dread lurgy in Amsterdam, and have therefore spent the last week making my way home to Shady Pines, swathed in a haze of Tiger Balm, vaIium, codeine and champagne, while alternately lying on the floor of hotels and groaning, lying on aeroplane seats and groaning, or sitting on toilets and groaning while squirting from every orifice. It was like a Katharine Hepburn movie, except one where Katharine knees Tracy in the balls in the first five minutes and is handcuffed to her seat for the rest of the film. My fond regards to the staff of KLM and Singapore Airlines for their sterling service and their heavy hands with the gin.
Having arrived home, I have been appropriately cleaned and medicated, and now the world is like a big, warm ball of pink marshmallow with me in the middle like a particularly unpleasant (although exquisitely perfumed) jammy filling.
I know there are important events going on outside. I’m reading my blogs and trying to take it all in but, with the bucketsful of painkillers I am on, my brain has self-deported.
As far as I can tell, lots of people are complaining because the President made a speech in which he talked about creating jobs and improving education and the unremarkable (yet rarely spoken of) idea that the rich should pay at least the same rate of tax as the non-rich, while sounding like a calm, responsible adult.
This after a week which the chosen exemplars of Republicaniness (a morally-compromised blowhard, a rich herbert with the likeability of a sanitary napkin full of blue ink, an insane gnome and an obnoxious wowser whose name is inextricably linked to lubey, shitty suds) spent flinging poo at each other, fellating the rich and otherwise saying dumb shit, while arguing about how little tax they all pay.
President Obama clearly has no idea what he is doing.
Also, Nancy Pelosi. No idea. Why on earth would she say of Newt that:
I think he’s done plenty of dumb things and there’s stiff competition for what is the dumbest thing he’s done, of course, including his violations of the ethics rules of the House of Representatives.
when she knows that it will make the 27 percent squeal at her for the next week like piggies in a sack about how unfair it is for Nancy to mention stuff for which God has personally forgiven Newt?
I tried reading Mitch Daniels’ reply but as far as I can tell he just went “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Why won’t you do what we want you to?” for ten minutes, crapped his pants and fell off his chair.
None of it is making sense.
Perhaps I need another drink….
Anne Laurie at Balloon Juice has already mentioned the Pets on Newt 2012 (#maynotbeitsactualname) website.
You may not know it is now up and running. I stumbled upon it today and need to share it with you, because I am a vengeful old cow. I will excerpt the relevant parts, for those of you who don’t want to give Newt the hits.
The very first thing you see is this:
If someone could tell me what species of lemurs those are on Newt, I’d be delighted. I couldn’t find the information on his website, presumably because latinate binomial nomenclature is the work of Satan and his helper Darwin – although it may be because I have been in Amsterdam for three days. Draw your own conclusions about my mental state.
I could go to wikipedia to identify the furry little fuckers, but frankly I can’t be fucked.
I do feel sorry for the poor, adorable things. The one perched on Newt’s hand is clearly working out how to get the fuck off the Gingrich bandwagon as soon as possible, while the one on his shoulder has given up entirely and is refusing to do anything but show its arse to the world. Meanwhile, Newt (depending on what music you play in your head) looks either:
(a) terrified that the rat-thing he holds in his hand is going to piss on him, then claw its way up his arm and scratch his eyes out; or
(b) like Benny Hill eyeing off a particularly juggulous pair of boobs two seconds before being sprung by a policeman with an inflatable hammer, two half-naked nurses with blond bobs and a man in a polar bear suit. Wackiness ensues.
You are going to have to draw your own analogies with the Gingrich campaign. See above, in re “can’t be fucked”.
Of course, you will recall that:
Gingrich doesn’t have any pets at this time, but he told ABC News today he and his wife Callista want a dog in the White House…
There is a section called “Newt’s Favorite Zoos” – with a flash gallery I cannot describe to you because Steve Jobs said I’m not allowed to – which makes it clear why a great animal lover like Newt has never found the time to buy a sodding dog.
Newt has liked animals and zoos since he was a little boy. His relatives used to take him to the Hershey Zoo, the Philadelphia Zoo and the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. When he was ten he went to the Harrisburg City Council and made an appeal for a zoo for Pennsylvania’s capital city. As a teenager, Newt wanted to be either a zoo director or a vertebrate paleontologist. As a young college professor, he coordinated the Interdisciplinary Program on Environmental Studies at West Georgia College. Newt and Callista visit zoos and museums everywhere they go. Newt has visited nearly 100 zoos around the world. Callista is catching up.
It all becomes clear. Newt Gingrich is a ten year old boy who is still stamping his feet and holding his breath because he didn’t get a zoo, and if he can’t have a zoo, then no mere mutt will do. Except if it was the President’s dog, because that would be cool. And maybe, if you’re President, you could have a White House zoo with pandas and elephamps that only the President gets to see (and maybe Callista, if she is good), and maybe they’d keep the Smithsonian open for you late at night so you could go and laugh all the fossils that God put there to fool the atheists.
Callista is catching up.
almost makes me feel sorry for poor Callista as well, as I imagine her trailing along behind Newt, trying to stop the grandnewts falling into the lion enclosure or inserting their entire hands up their noses, all the while smiling like a jack-o’-lantern on crack, but knowing that all the future holds is the occasional consolation of a pair of ten carat, marquise-cut Tiffany earrings or perhaps something with emeralds this time.
Thence follows a lovely list of Newt’s favorite zoos, notable mainly for this:
My daughters were first zood (if that is a word) at Audubon Park ….
which, frankly, sounds like something that should have resulted in a call to the police and ongoing visits from a child protection agency.
The highlight of the entire site, however, is on the front page, where punters of the kind that would vote Newt fucking Gingrich for President of the United States have submitted pictures of their furry and/or feathered anthropomorphic children, such as this:
Holy tapdancing fuck, that’s depressing.
My dear Olsen family – forgive me if I use you as an example. It could just as easily have been the adorable Harley and his dad Hamoun, or Gisele, Bailey and family in their simply darling Christmas outfits.
You seem like a nice, if maniacally misguided, family. Gidget looks like a happy doggy, even though it does appear in her photo that you have stuffed her into a christmas sack and stuck a cigar in her mouth.
However, no matter how much you may wish to believe it, Gidget doesn’t give a shit about putting America back on track or any of that other twaddle, because she is a dog. She cares about you, food, pats, other dogs’ bottoms, chasing crap, chewing crap, sleep, weeing and poo, in about that order.
I suspect you and I don’t agree on much politically. I’m a sweary, fictional, 93 year old drug-fiend, while you (if your picture is to be believed) are not.
However, I hope we agree about each other’s right to freedom of speech about our polity and its politics, and the importance of exercising that right and defending its exercise by others, no matter how much we may disagree with them.
Politics (despite the best efforts of most of our actual politicians) is important.
Pets are also important, as well as loving and loyal and a source of joy for many.
A campaign website that, without a hint of jest, inserts your political views into the mouth of your dog, especially as part of a cynical campaign to make a slimy bottom-feeder like Newt Gingrinch look like a human being, is demeaning to you, to me, to Gidget, and to our democracy.
We should all feel shame that this is what we have come to.
Now, where did I put that drink?
Hello, kiddies. I’ve finally recovered from a New Year’s Eve which involved several thousand happy Portuguese dancing in the streets of Porto, a visit to a gay bar where I was plied with champagne while watching buxom naked ladies swinging on swings to the music of Boney M., and the inhalation of veritable drifts of good cocaine. I hope yours was of a similar nature.
I have been reading the National Review. After a big weekend, one sometimes needs a little purge, and there’s no finer emetic than spending fifteen minutes reading anything by that vile Goldberg putz. After I had wiped my face clean and tottered back from the bathroom, I found myself reading an article by John Yoo.
Now, I admit that much of the last decade is a blur, but I was quite sure that Mr Yoo had been tried for war crimes years ago and locked up in a prison near the Hague somewhere, where he was denied access to writing implements and where two stern Dutch women waterboarded him and beat his testicles with golf clubs every morning.
No such luck, apparently. Instead he is free to tout that the Republican presidential candidates should all be preparing for military action against Iran:
President Obama has done more than merely delay the inevitable day of reckoning with Iran. He has left the public uninformed about the nature and possible consequences of military action, which must be serious and sustained enough to destroy complex, protected, and dispersed facilities — pinpoint bombing of a single facility will not end Iran’s nuclear program. Iran might respond by attacking Israel, Arab allies such as Saudi Arabia, and oil shipments in the Persian Gulf. President Obama has also failed to explain the heavy costs of containment, which would involve a constant, significant conventional and nuclear military presence on Iran’s perimeter. …
Military action need not go so far as an invasion or even a no-fly zone. Our forces would have to destroy Iranian air-defense sites, but otherwise, thanks to precision-guided missiles and drones, they could concentrate on a few links in the Iranian nuclear chain: the centrifuge facilities where uranium is enriched, the assembly points for weapons, and perhaps missile and air-delivery systems.
The surgical nature of such strikes would make them proportional to the military objective, which would be not the overthrow of the Iranian regime but the destruction of its nuclear capability. Nuclear-weapons infrastructure is a legitimate military target, even if some strikes may kill civilians. If casualties result because facilities are located beneath cities, the fault rests with the Iranians for deliberately using civilians to shield its military — a move long forbidden by the laws of war. Unlike Iranian-supported terrorist groups, the United States will assuredly do everything possible to keep civilian loss of life to a minimum.
The United States has assumed the role, once held by Great Britain, of guaranteeing free trade and economic development, spreading liberal values, and maintaining international security. An attack on Iranian nuclear facilities, though it would impose costs in human lives and political turmoil, would serve these interests and forestall the spread of conflict and terror. The Republican presidential candidates should begin preparing the case now for this difficult but unavoidable challenge.
John Yoo and psychopaths like him will not be satisfied until the world is a smoking ruin.
I, for one, will not be happy, not least because those chain mail dresses that Tina Turner wore chafe like a bitch.
Warning: Adult (and extremely immature) Content.
I’m somewhere in the mountains in the west of Portugal at a health spa. There are extended families everywhere looking virtuous after their appointment with the hotel nutritionist and a cleansing dip in the healing waters.
I am celebrating by sneaking outside for a smoke and drinking as much red wine as I can.
Given my drunken state, I don’t remember who to blame for referring me to the torrent of pompous guff that is Bill Fucking Kristol’s most recent article in the Weekly Standard.
To the Republicans of the states of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida:
I imagine Bill, as he types with one hand, slowly drawing aside his robe to reveal his wrinkled old todger. It stirs vaguely as he spits on his other hand and gives it a quick buff.
At this moment of great peril for our nation, you have the privilege of beginning the process of selecting the 2012 Republican presidential nominee—the individual who will save us from the ghastly prospect of an Obama second term, and who will then have the task of beginning to put right our listing ship of state, setting our nation on a course to restored solvency, reinvigorated liberty, and renewed greatness.
His excitement is rising now at the thought of the usurper being thrown out, of that glorious day when he can again call a spade a spade. He is half hard, with perhaps a first glistening drop of precome to moisten things up.
Your responsibility is great. Your votes will affect which candidates survive January’s electoral gauntlet, their likelihood of ultimately prevailing, and even whether others will feel impelled to enter the race. You, the voters of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida, will shape the range of choices for your fellow citizens elsewhere in the nation in this crucial year.
How should you decide for whom to vote?
Now his mind turns to the candidates and his hand begins to quiver up and down those few inches. He thinks of Michele Bachmann and her crazy-sexy eyes; of that delicious hunk of manhood that is Rick Santorum, and of his oh-so-perfect helmet hair; of Gnoot’s quivering jowls and Rick Perry’s firm and masculine chest; even (perhaps for a moment) of sweaty forbidden gnome-sex with Ron Paul.
Vote for the person you think would be the best president of the United States. Ignore the proclamations of the pundits, the sophistries of the strategists, and the calculations of the handicappers. Ignore the ads, the robocalls, and the polls. Be skeptical of those who would seek, whether from national stage or local perch, cavalierly or presumptively to instruct you how to mark your ballot. That ballot is yours alone to cast.
Here the people rule. So you, the Republicans of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida, can step back, consider the individual candidates in the totality of their public lives, study their records and platforms, judge their abilities and views, imagine each of them in the Oval Office making major decisions for the nation . . . and choose the individual who you think should be our next president.
His hand is a blur. His eyes are glazed. The keyboard is a little sticky. The moment is near – the moment to drop in mention of the Federalist Papers – and then surely he will have the sweet release he craves.
As Hamilton puts it in Federalist #1:
The subject speaks its own importance; comprehending in its consequences nothing less than . . . the safety and welfare of the [Union], the fate of an empire in many respects the most interesting in the world. It has been frequently remarked that it seems to have been reserved to the people of this country, by their conduct and example, to decide the important question, whether societies of men are really capable or not of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or whether they are forever destined to depend for their political constitutions on accident and force. If there be any truth in the remark, the crisis at which we are arrived may with propriety be regarded as the era in which that decision is to be made; and a wrong election of the part we shall act may, in this view, deserve to be considered as the general misfortune of mankind.
And his heart is going like mad and yes he says yes I will Yes.
The crisis of 2012 isn’t the crisis of 1787. But it is still a crisis. It is not a moment to be swayed by capricious accident or compelled by political force to a wrong election of the part we shall act. It is a moment for reflection and choice.
A moment of doubt. Little Bill wilts slightly, and Bill fwaps harder to try to keep the buzz. He calls up image after image in his mind, but now the doubt has taken hold and all he can see is Rick Perry saying “oops”, Herman Cain suspending his campaign, Ron Paul denouncing Israel, Gnoot saying anything at all, and Romney, always Romney.
And it is a moment, as you prepare to cast your vote, for others to reflect on whether they don’t owe it to their country to step forward. As this is no time for voters to choose fecklessly, it is no time for leaders to duck responsibility. Those who have stood aside—and who now may have concluded, as they may not have when they announced their original decision, that the current field is lacking—will surely hear the words of Thomas Paine echoing down the centuries: “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.” Now is not a time for leaders to engage in clever calculations of the odds of success, or to succumb to concerns about how they will look if they enter the fray and fall short.
Oh god. Oh god. Not even Thomas Paine can save his hard-on now. Sadness washes over him. His tackle has shrunk down to a limp noodle which he clutches between his fingers. He milks it desperately, but the joy has gone. Will no one bring the light of hope back to Bill’s eyes, the flush of blood to Bill’s loins?
Now is a time to come to the aid of our country.
No. No one will come, least of all little Billy Kristol, as we leave him, curled on the carpet, clawing at his groin, with not even a little spurt of semen to soothe the dry, dry and futile friction, or to fill the yawning crevasse of despair that has opened up inside.
Warning: All links are to Kathryn-Jean’s Bedsit of Solitude.
Maggie Gallagher thinks Ron Paul is an evil supporter of gay incest, but she would quite like to be the fourth Mrs Gingrich when Callista gets cancer or wrinkles or otherwise wears out her welcome.
Rudolph Giuliani quite likes Newt, because Newt has consistently acted like a suppurating arsehole, just like Rudy and the sainted Ronnie.
Christopher Hitchens is going to be royally pissed off when he gets to heaven and finds out just how wrong he was.
The Iowa debate was a sexy conserva-love-in where all the candidates did a naked liturgical dance and rubbed up against each other while shouting “Obama is the suxxors”.
Bono may be an enormous tosser, but conservatives who write about U2 wank so hard they take off several layers of skin:
Still, I submit that the songs of U2 betray a state of mind, a type of character, a way of looking at the civil social order that is undeniably conservative.
Santorum and Bachmann would be winning if only people didn’t have to listen to them or see them:
If we were to read transcripts of the debate and not watch or listen to TV, both would be at or near the top.
Somewhere in Massachusetts, a cold shiver just ran up Tom Levenson’s back, for Megan McArdle has published her “Holiday Gift Guide 2011: Kitchen Edition“.
Now, I love cooking (my old English Fruit cake with propofol icing has won several awards) and I love gadgets (particularly the sort that are made by Germans out of latex and make the lights dim in three states when I turn them on), but McMegan’s list is truly terrifying.
Megan says that “Space is somewhat limited in our kitchen“, and given that she appears to own every piece of crap that has ever been flogged to the gullible and the taste-free, I’m not surprised. I have visions of her dessicated corpse being found some day, trapped between the piles of old copies of the New York Times that line the walls of her apartment, smothered beneath an avalanche of chicken-shaped spoon holders and fish spatulas, all liberally lubricated with rancid butter (salted and salt-free!) that has spilled out from her (now water-depleted) butter boats.
It’s hard to pick favourites from her list, but I’m particularly enamoured of the Salt Pig, which may be the ugliest piece of kitchenware I have ever seen:
At least it matches the colour of her salt.
Helpfully, Megan suggests several solutions to those global problems which bedevil us all, including the Kuhn Rikon Egg Separating Set because:
Separating eggs by hand is not hard, but it’s tedious…
and the Swivel Store Spice Rack because:
Like most people who like to cook, I am obsessed with finding a solution to The Spice Problem.
Thankfully, this last apparently flouts the laws of physics by holding all her spices:
happily (and neatly) over the microwave, where they’re paradoxically easy to get at, and safely out of the way.
If only Zeno had known about that he wouldn’t have had to do all that messing around with tortoises and arrows.
Megan even recommends not only a gravy separator, but also a warming gravy boat. Starving children in Eritrea can rest easy now, knowing that Megan’s guests will never be exposed to cold, fatty sauces.
She (of course) triples down on the fucking Thermomix, in its third mention in as many weeks. I’m pretty sure she’s angling for a freebie, so she can wedge herself between two of them and have them rhythmically whirl, whirl, whirl her towards orgasm.
The thing that stands out most of all for me, however, is this:
I’ll frequently make a pot of rice at night and melt some cheese on top, eat some for dinner, and the rest for breakfast.
Despite all Megan’s crapping on about her fantasy world of “shiny chocolate glazes” and custards and foams and perfect bechamel, buried in the middle of the article we get one solitary glimpse of the truth – sad, pathetic Megan, surrounded by her shelves and drawers and hills of tat and rubbish, shovelling cheese and rice into her face in a futile attempt to fill the aching void in her soul.
I do love Michelangelo Signorile, perhaps most because he manages to be civil with people who would reduce me to a spluttering bundle of rage and/or have me breaking out the Ex-lax, and he therefore has the opportunity to slip in the knife so politely that I suspect many of his interviewees don’t realize how badly they have been cut until a long time afterwards.
I’ll let Michelangelo tell you the tale:
Today I interviewed North Carolina GOP state Sen. James Forrester (below is full audio, as well as a video clip), who sponsored a bill that put a measure on the ballot in that state for May that if passed would ban marriage for gays and lesbian in the state constitution. Forrester, who is also a doctor, had made outrageous, defamatory claims in a town hall weeks ago, saying that gay people die 20 years earlier than other people because of their supposed “lifestyle.”
This interview has to be heard to be believed: Forrester not only could not back up his claims with any evidence — after first trying to source the Centers for Disease Control, only to be debunked by me — but he actually acknowledged that he could be wrong. He eventually credited a Christian activist named Frank Turek (who is associated with Maggie Gallagher and the National Organization for Marriage) as his source of this bogus public health information. Forrester had said in his town hall some of his patients were gay men who died early deaths, yet didn’t seem to know anything about public health, including that, on a global level, AIDS drastically affects heterosexuals more than gay men. Later, he couldn’t answer why he wasn’t proposing a divorce ban if his goal is to save marriage, and couldn’t explain why gays harm marriage. He accused me at that point of trying to “trip” him up, after I asked some basic questions, and even said he wasn’t going to answer any more questions — though he stayed on the line when I said it would be cowardly of him to leave.
“Well, I want to thank you for speaking to me. I’m sorry that you couldn’t answer the questions. I think it speaks to your own lack of education about this and your lack of answers, which is pretty appalling for a legislator, and I think the entire country is now seeing you embarrass yourself and embarrass the state of North Carolina. Thankyou for coming on today.”
These people are appalling. Read the rest of this entry »