Flukt. Learning how to fight is sometimes a life and death issue.

You thought I’d have wisdom about the conservative SCOTUS rulings? No. The beltway shell game continues. If you want more than that, inquire in the comments.

But I’m taking this opportunity to announce that I’ll stop seeking comments. Doesn’t matter. I’ll post what I think is of value and you can all make of it what you will, with no prejudice against silence. Silence has been my own inclination for a while now. How can I hold it against you?

We’ve reached the point where there is no news or commentary more insightful than Drudge headlines. Two out of three of the network newscasts couldn’t be bothered to cover the 1Q decline of 2.9 percent in GDP. Republicans remain in their longstanding circular firing squad. Democrats are stone crazy — Pelosi welcoming TB-infected children across the blown up southern border like a pro-abortion Mother Theresa, and foreign policy officials nattering about Global Warming, increasingly faint redlines, and the utter meaninglessness of Benghazi. While the world is exploding under their very noses. Which are still too much up in the air to detect the whiff of death.

Even the luminaries of National Review are gasping, literally, for breath. There is no more fuel for their intellectual fire. Absent passion, they’re reduced to repeating themselves, mumbling twice, thrice, about matters entirely moot — the IRS, the VA, the case for, and impossibility of, impeachment, the precise legal definition of lawlessness in umpteen instances NBC deems less important than the World Cup, the dire consequences of destroying the American economy and foreign policy at the same time, the ridiculous choice between creepy Rand Paul and creepy Chris Christie, etc. Thing is, they either made or refused to make all these arguments long ago, and what’s left is filigree on the funeral statuary of the nation.

Which is where Netflix comes in. Diversion, distraction, restorative retreat, whatever you want to call it. It’s not trivial. Most entertainment from the old sources has been taken away from us, bit by bit. ESPN used to be a haven from increasingly naked political agendas exemplified by dozens of Dick Wolf Law & Order spinoffs that have become cause of the week items of lefty propaganda. Now ESPN can’t go five minutes without lecturing us about Redskins, the N-word, gay athletes, Redskins, guns, domestic abuse, the sickening violence done by concussions to the great brains of NFL wide receivers, and did we mention Redskins?

Even the back channels are now devoted to reeducating us. We’re Honey Boo Boo, they’re the Logo and Bravo Channels, where us trogs are supposed to learn the high points of culture from homosexuals. The Discovery Channel is in the Global Warming business and the Thanatos of end of humanity fantasies, and the History Channel is endlessly inventive in finding new ways to attack the Judeo-Christian tradition. A forensically speculative reconstructed Jesus looks like a Palestinian terrorist. The supposedly rediscovered Gospel of Mary is run and rerun despite having been conclusively debunked. And, hey, look at these idiots who are STILL searching, like the complete idiots they so obviously are, for the Arks of both Noah and the Covenant. While Joan Rivers advances the cause of promiscuous feminism by using every obscene word you know, and some you may not, in the longest-running routine of vagina and penis jokes you could possibly imagine. She keeps raising the stakes waiting for someone to stop her but no one does. They just snigger at her latest whore/cunt/cock/anal-sex one-liner. Not to mention the gutter double entendres that constitute the script of every single sitcom on the air. I won’t. And have you looked at all at the “family fare” being produced by Disney and the ABC Family Channel? Don’t. You’ll never let your pre-teen daughter out of the house again. On second thought, look.

As I said. Where Netflix comes in. The streaming service has gems that take you away from all this if you know how to find them.

I’m not saying this is Netflix’s mission. They are building a library. Two out of three of their homegrown productions are strictly in line with what I’ve described above. Do I seem angry? I am. Conservatives who profess to be disapproving of the coarsening of American culture continue to shock me, as they did with their adoration of The Sopranos, with their confessions of binge watching Breaking Bad (now available on Netflix), House of Cards, and the new kid on the block, Orange is the New Black. Really? I’ve made two attempts at Orange. I lasted five minutes the first time, enough to see eight boobs, a fairly explicit sex scene and a pee scene, complete with discreet female wiping afterwards. Really?

That was before I read one of Hotair’s hard line conservative contributors announce his bingeing on the show as a prelude to a market argument as to why Netflix shouldn’t make a whole season available at one time. So I tried again.

Sorry. After the initial flash of tits and pee, it turns into a standard prison melodrama, one I’ve seen a hundred times before, fear and alliances and missteps and grudges and complete bullshit. I’ve even seen the female version before, way back in the post punk era, when the infamous Wendy O (of the Plasmatics) played the villain and told the heroine she was a “shit stain on the panties of life.” {Hey, kids. Whatever you think you’re breaking through with your crappy millennial music, we wuz there long before yas.}

House of Cards is a vile wallowing in the most cynical view of politics, cribbed (as usual) from a much better Brit series of the same name. Unspeakable. So I will speak no more of it.

Breaking Bad is tragedy as long-running soap opera. Only without the tragedy. Innate evil that surfaces and mutilates the lives of everyone around him is not a tragic flaw in a tragic hero. It’s the masturbatory fantasy of people who pretend to be good because pretending is all they know. That’s not just a flaw. Their fascination is a fatal triple failure — of imagination, true moral understanding, and courage.

I liked Lillehammer. Because it’s actually novel, funny, and a double satire on both instant gratification us (as in U.S.) and the strange Scandinavian disconnectedness from the immediacy of consequences. Everyone involved is a joke. The cultural divide just makes for different punchlines. Redeemed by the fact that it never once presumes to be a serious commentary of any kind. The timing is usually impeccable. In that regard it’s a comic masterpiece akin to Dylan Moran’s comedy series Black Books.

I know, I know. Why explore Netflix, then? I’ve taken up enough of your time. So for now I’ll give you a handful of examples of what you can find there you won’t find anywhere else.

Salamander (a series worth bingeing on)

You think you’re paranoid about government? Try being Belgian. HQ of the EU. Jack Bauer never knew he had it so good.

The Imaginary Witness (a documentary about Hollywood and the Holocaust)

Surprisingly honest and even-handed. And illuminating.

Escape [aka Flukt] (see the trailer above. Makes Hunger games look like the twaddle it is)

An Unreal Dream (another documentary that might remind you of the blessings of a belief in God, whether he exists or not.)

Horrible as it is, it’s still inspiring. Honestly.

Lore (a beautiful, terrifying movie that will remind you what life, and film, is or can be)

Her name is Hannelore. Is there forgiveness? She’s sixteen. But you’re never too young for trial by ordeal.

I promise I’ll come back later and give you thumbnails on each of them. But look them all up on IMDB.com. If you’re going to use Netflix for your own edification, you’ll have to learn how to find the needles of gold hidden in the haystack. It’s a huge haystack, though. And the needles can pierce your heart.

In the meantime, ponder this: I continually ask you to rediscover your American roots. Why would I recommend works by Australians, Belgians, Germans, and Norwegians? Regardless of all that has happened, would you rather be us or some other?

Feminist Icon…

You might recall this, which cited an essay at RealClearPolitics by Carl Cannon that trashed Hillary but promised a sequel that would explain why she will still be elected president. It’s out. Here’s the payoff.

Eight years later, voters will have the chance to put another iniquitous legacy behind them. I think they will take it. The polls show Hillary leading all the likely Republican nominees, and I think that support is solid, particularly among women. Millions will demur to their husbands or more conservative colleagues, fib to pollsters and quietly fill out their ballots. America will find that its women have long memories.

It was in 1897 that Susan B. Anthony wrote, “There never will be complete equality until women themselves help to make laws and elect lawmakers.” More than a century later, Nancy Pelosi had those words — and the words of others — in her mind when she became the first female House speaker.

In a story she has told many times, Pelosi recalls going to the White House as speaker for the first time. She felt her chair “getting crowded” as though others were sitting in it with her.

“I swear this happened,” she said. “And then I realized Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucretia Mott, Alice Paul, Sojourner Truth — you name it — they were all in that chair…and I could hear them say: ‘At last we have a seat at the table.’”

Some conservatives made fun of Pelosi’s ghost story. I don’t think this was a good idea. I think Pelosi’s allegory means that American women have unfinished business in politics, along with the right flesh-and-blood candidate to complete their dream.

Please tell me. How many women out there are NOT grossly offended by this kind of argument? You’re going to vote with your ovaries? For another rank, unscrupulous incompetent?

I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it.

…though somewhat blonder now. Otherwise exactly the same.

Hee hee hee…

…hee hee hee.

Pretty funny. The Republicans thought the IRS Commissioner might express some regret or remorse for the flagrant flouting of congressional authority by his agency. They thought wrong:

IRS Commissioner John Koskinen said Friday there is no need for his agency to apologize amid accusations of a cover-up in the targeting scandal of conservative groups after claims surfaced that ex-official Lois Lerner’s hard drive was destroyed and emails from several other officials also have gone missing.

I could have told them that.

Can’t wait for the 200th pledge drive rerun!

It would be kind of sad if it weren’t so perfect somehow.

On cable, we have at least four channels representing various PBS outlets. Always the same thing. 20th century political pundits ranging from the antiquated News Hour to the downright saurian Bill Moyers, spinning and respinning the New Deal of the 1930s, followed by NOVA warnings of Global Warming and Frontline discovering new kinds of minority oppression. As well as five year old rebroadcasts of BBC shows like Foyle’s War, Midsomer Murders, and what’s the new one? Squiggly Manor? Uh no. Downton Abbey. Beautiful retread of Upstairs Downstairs, which funded PBS during its glory years. Yeah. Sigh.

Until the pledge drive season. When suddenly it’s time to rally the check writing troops and we get a spate of Great Performances reruns featuring Streisand from 1968, Bob Dylan tributes from 1992, and of course retreads of Sarah Brightman and the Blind Tenor, who was never quite in the same class with Domingo and Pavoratti, just close enough to tickle the generosity of pseudo intellectuals in Darien, Lake Forest, Beacon Hill, and Grosse Point.

Stuck in time. That’s my point. PBS is supposed to be the shining light of quality television, the TV that the best educated watch when they watch, presumably only so they can support the most intellectual and culturally polished aspects of the culture.

What a crock. PBS is actually a mirror of the ossified state of liberal/progressive mentality in America.

Watching PBS in any of its venues is akin to being pinned to your grandmother’s couch in the sixties watching the Lawrence Welk Show. It’s all for old people who don’t want anything to change. Yesterday’s news, yesterday’s opinions, yesterday’s entertainment, and constant reruns. Call it the Hillary constituency.

Without abundant government subsidy, the jig would already be up. PBS is being squeezed to death from three different directions. Forget the doddering pledge drive guys with the cultured voices and grey toupees. Forget the outrageous offers to buy DVDs for three times the price they’d be at Best Buy. Forget even the nerve of taking 15 minute chunks out of programming the octogenarians presumably want to see in favor of wide shots of young Marxists answering telephones while you wheedle your dwindling audience for more money.

Here’s the thing for all you hyper-intellectual progressives to take note of. The game is over. Done.

First. BBC America shows every sign of being a capitalist, profit-seeking network. PBS ain’t going to get a shot at Orphan Black or even the later versions of Doctor Who. BBCA haven’t even tried to show Downton Abbey. That tell you anything? They seem perfectly happy selling ads for shows people want to watch. Odd, eh? No sententious introductions listing foundations, trusts, and other nonsensical phantom sponsors of their programming.

Second. Netflix doesn’t have all the good stuff, but they have a lot. All of Midsomer Murders, most of Inspector Morse, all of Foyle’s War, and more Miss Marple than you can shake a stick at. And the biggest hit BBC1 has had in 10 years, Call the Midwife. Oh. And almost all of Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect. Without pledge drive interruption. And show after show after show that never turned up on Masterpiece Theater. Did American intellectuals ever actually have anything to contribute to television? Except Dick Cavett, of course. You know. The lofty view.

Ah. The third and most deadly source of squeeze. A living, breathing example of what public television could and should have been lo these many years. The Ovation Channel.

I’ll give the conservatives a breather here. Right wing as I am, I love the Ovation Channel. I’m sure most of its producers and creative lights are leftist as can be. But I don’t care. They sell ads and they are purveying art in every possible form. They roam the country looking for talent. They spotlight aspects of artistic endeavor you’d never think existed, and they make the creative, intellectual aspect of life vital again. They make it live again. What PBS should have been doing during my lifetime and never did.

I won’t run down the list of their programming, some of which is cheap fill in the blanks stuff but much of which isn’t. It’s new. I’ll direct you only to a surprisingly wonderful three part series called Big Ballet.

It’s a perfect microcosm of the channel’s mission. A diminutive former professional ballet dancer decides to stage Swan Lake with dancers who never got their chance because they were too large, too, well, fat. His partner is a former successful ballerina who was considered too tall. Together, they undertake this mission.

Reality TV schlock, right? No. It works. This isn’t about kicking people out a week at a time. It’s about the delicate balance between being demanding and kind. What should be the best in us. Three episodes. Spoiler. The finale, the performance, will bring tears to your eyes. Art should be accessible to everyone. It doesn’t belong only to the bluenoses of PBS.

Why the squeeze will probably finish off the mummy of government subsidized culture TV.

There’s always a recipient.

This won’t take long. Every email Lois Lerner sent was received by someone else. The files will still be on their systems or backups, regardless of how much criminal skulduggery occurred at the IRS.

The NSA has been collecting “metadata” all this time. They have the capability to determine who Lois Lerner was emailing. They don’t have to produce the actual text, even if they have it. They just have to produce the names and email addresses of her correspondents. Then subpoenas can be issued for all of her email correspondents.

Why has no one, on either side of the aisle, brought this up?

What kind of evil kabuki is being performed before our glazed eyes?

We soccer “haters” need to sit out the next round. Apparently.

This time, even conservatives are ganging up on Americans who don’t care for soccer.

Including right wing Breitbart, which ran a piece titled WORLD CUP: American Football is a Sign of the Nation’s Decline:

Every four years, large swaths of the world pause to enjoy the World Cup, a tournament of the 32 best national teams in soccer. Like clockwork, American sports writers and fans mark the occasion with loud commentary about how “stupid” they find the sport. Barrels of ink are spilled and vocal cords strained assuring everyone that our “football” is better than soccer and, more American. Project much?

Setting aside whatever Freudian motivations necessitate such screeds, perhaps the question merits consideration. Is our “football” more American? I wish it weren’t true, but, sadly, I’m afraid these writers and fans are probably right.

Professional football in the US is, after all, a government-protected monopoly. A rapidly growing city can’t just field its own team, but must first get approval from the cartel of football team owners. These cartel members can also usually count on taxpayers to foot the bill for building their stadiums. This cartel also ensures that teams can enjoy staying in the league regardless of performance. In the English Premier League (soccer) and most other leagues, the worst performing teams get thrown out of the league every year, until they can earn their place back. Americans of an older generation will remember this concept as a meritocracy… Et cetera, et cetera, harrumph.

And Hotair, currently featuring the essay Conservatives shouldn’t hate soccer just because Europeans like it:

World Cup 2014 is upon us, which means you can count on two things: First, Team USA will lose to Ghana. (Oh, that didn’t happen this time?) Second, some conservatives will argue that soccer is a socialist game and they want nothing to do with it.

Of course soccer is socialist. There are … teams! They’re … Europeans! And the announcers even use the collective plural — as in, “England are playing well today.” Which is just wrong.

But soccer reflects conservative values better than baseball or football — two games I personally love and watch far more often than soccer. Here are four reasons why…

The body of the piece enumerates the reasons, which are cleverly done to be sure, but the more interesting part is the comments section here. Read it for fun. There are lots of reasons people don’t like soccer, but in aggregate it would seem to be more about the game than the politics.

Why I’d remind you that I have some credentials of at least longevity on the subject. I wrote about the World Cup beginning in 2006. I slightly updated my perspective in 2010. That year, I even invited hockey fanatic Puck Punk to live blog a soccer game. Plenty of laughs. Not much of what you’d call hatred.

Don’t think I’ve ever hated the game for reasons political or otherwise. For example, I wrote about the 2008 Euro Tournament and offered suggestions about how to make the sport better.

Mighty ESPN also sank as low as devoting hours and hours of its precious airtime to the 2008 European Soccer Tournament. Worse, we actually watched some of it. Mrs. CP got a modest kick out of watching the hated Orangemen of Holland lose in the closing moments to Russia while I was mostly busy grilling burgers outside. And, then, on Sunday, out of a pitifully unfounded hope that something interesting would happen in the Italy-Spain quarter-final, we actually watched our second soccer game in one weekend.

The shame of it. What can I say? I am personally fond of Italy. There was nothing else on. The weather map insisted we were under imminent threat from severe thunderstorms all afternoon (which never came). And, yes, I should have known. As Instapunk regulars know, this site has assessed the appeal of soccer in some detail. But I, personally, had never sat there and watched an entire game of world-class soccer.

You’ll never know. Words are inadequate. They played the entire 90 minutes of regulation with no score. Then they played two 15-minute overtime periods with no score. For the math-challenged, that’s two full hours of “sport” in which nothing whatever happened. There are no ‘plays’ to speak of. One team starts out kicking the ball down the field, passing it to one another as if they have something in mind. But the other team always takes it way from them before anything can happen, and then they do exactly the same thing. Every once in a while two players make contact, one of them falls down and begins shrieking as if he’s just been hammered into the turf by Brian Urlacher (no f’ing way, Jose) and the ref gives the guy who touched him a ‘yellow card.’ Then there’s a ‘free kick,’ which is about as free as all other things European; the kicker faces a solid wall of opposing players between him and the goal. So he kicks the ball over their heads, over the goal, and into the crowd. Then they start again.

The only entertainment value is a kind of expanding wonder. What do they use for highlights on TV news/sports coverage? Crowd shots? Clips of players rolling around on the ground pretending to be hurt? Refs dealing yellow cards as deftly as Vegas poker sharks? All those kicks that go way left or way right or way o-o-o-ver that gigantic net? What statistics do the soccer encyclopedias compile? There’s nothing to count or keep track of that might be a finite accomplishment or ‘play.’ Number of pointless steals of a ball from the opposition? Number of pointless losses of the ball to the opposition. The ratio of pointless steals to pointless losses? And what do their career statistics look like? A Hall of Famer like Beckham makes history by scoring, like, uh, three goals lifetime? And, uh, he played 19,000 hours of goal-free time in regulation?

I don’t know. I don’t know why the rules are systematically designed to prevent scoring. I don’t know why players and teams are disqualified in the next game for routine fouls committed in this game, thus preemptively destroying the purity and fairness of tournament competition. I don’t know why the rules deliberately remove the suspense of a down-ticking clock by adding unknown quantities of penalty time after regulation play, thus ensuring a built-in, premeditated anticlimax. I don’t know why hundreds of thousands come to watch and weep and wail and sing and cheer. I don’t know why I watched.

Somebody eventually won. On penalty kicks. Which, as far as I’m concerned, they could have done without wasting 120 minutes of running around futilely on the field beforehand.

Of course I do have some suggestions. I honestly believe, having watched, that there is a good game rattling around somewhere inside the boneheaded bore the current rules mandate. Adopt hockey’s penalty box/power play format (pay now, not tomorrow), jettison the yellow card/red card bullshit, and penalize fakers just as sternly as those who commit fouls. (Who really wants to watch professional athletes making deliberate pussies of themselves? Not even Europeans should get off on that…) Quit adding penalty increments at the end of regulation. And, for God’s sake, allow the fast break that makes basketball such a volatile and momentum-driven game. Let the lone superstar go one-on-one with the goalie in the heat of play on the field, as opposed to the artificial stasis of the post-game penalty-kick snore. If your game can’t be decided by being played with all players on the field, it’s not much of a game. It may be a kind of theater. But it’s not a sport.

I understand why ESPN is pushing it so hard. In the past couple of years, they have become unwatchable.

Although the network was coming off of rating highs in the early parts of 2011 and 2012, 2013 brought multi-year lows in the ratings department. In the second quarter of 2013 ESPN was down 32% in primetime and 20% in total day average viewership compared to the year before.

They used to cover sports. Now they repel sports fans with blather about gay basketball players, gay football players, big guys being bullied by big guys, concussions, N-word controversies, and fiery editorials about the (yawn) Washington Redskins. In this context, the World Cup is comparatively more interesting.

But please remember, this is not really a metaphysical issue to most of us. People are allowed to not like soccer. It’s as simple as that. If you think there’s some kind of political incentive or cultural lesson involved in what we sports fans decide individually, here’s your red card.

A few years back.

My wife isn’t a big fan of the Brit motorhead show Top Gear. Mostly for good reasons. The three co-hosts share the arrested development of many many men, seemingly stuck at age nine, despite gray hairs and creeping paunches. Also, the car thing doesn’t fascinate her, which is acceptably common among women. I know her eyes glaze over when I start talking about internal combustion engines, etc.

But we had an exception last night. A standard Top Gear segment is “Star in an Average Priced Car,” which is exactly what it sounds like. TV and movie stars show up, receive some training from the show’s resident racing driver (“The Stig”), and then try to turn in the fastest lap they are capable of on the show’s tricky home track. The car is the constant. Everyone drives the same vehicle.

The results of their efforts are revealed to them in the Top Gear studio, where they and the most acerbic of the TG co-hosts, Jeremy Clarkson, are perched on car seats surrounded by an active studio audience. There is a permanent running record of the times recorded by all the stars, and there are a lot of stars. Whether you know it or not, this test is a rite of passage for a very large number of both British and American actors. Where action stars in particular have to prove their mettle in real life.

So. On the episode we saw last night, Jeremy Clarkson, notoriously anti-American except when he has American stars in the studio, was clearly star struck by having both Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz on hand. They were obviously promoting their movie Knight and Day, which Clarkson may have shown a clip of. Mostly, though, he was interested in Cameron Diaz, Cameron Diaz, and the Hollywood glow of the two of them together.

The man who continually asks Brit stars why they live in New York or Los Angeles when they could live in the one true kingdom went so far as to declare that Cameron and Tom looked like the genetic future of the human race, when all the defects had been eradicated from the species.

He asked Cruise about the reporting that he does most of his own stunts. True. He asked if that was hard and if it ever hurt. Cruise said yes, it often hurts; he’d broken his nose twice, most of his fingers and toes, a leg, and multiple ribs. Oh. How about Cameron? Well, not because of stunts but she’d broken her nose four times, beginning at age eleven. “Shit just has a way of finding my nose,” she said.

Talk about personal cars. Cruise rides motorcycles mostly these days. He has a 1934 Indian once owned by Steve McQueen. Cameron has a Prius. Clarkson made a face. She gave him a nasty grin.

Then to the laps they both did. There’s in car video of these laps. Cameron was obviously taking the competition seriously. While Jeremy was asking how anyone could actually look that good in a helmet, she was setting a TG record for most uses of the F-word in a Top Gear lap. Which is not easy to do. The stars are very colorful in their language while driving. She also mentioned in passing the real handicap American stars are under in the competition. Right hand drive means you do all your shifting with the left hand, not how Americans have learned to shift. “Damn English gears,” she said.

After they’d shown the video, Cameron wanted to know her time. Clarkson gave his Cheshire Cat grin and said it was time to see Tom Cruise’s video. He was also clearly committed, so much so that his line was at times on the verge of loss of control. On the final curve, he actually managed to come so close to rolling that both left hand wheels visibly left the ground. He was shaking his head at his own performance when the video ended.

Clarkson’s big moment in this segment always. He has the times and he tortures the stars, asking them how they think they did, who they’d like to beat on the long board of star times. Cameron didn’t know. She just didn’t want to be humiliatingly bad.

With painful slowness, Clarkson revealed her time. She had beaten everyone on the long board. The top star time.

Cruise immediately embraced her, laughing and cheering her accomplishment.

Clarkson fixed him with a beady stare and said, “That’s a nice show, but you’ve got to be crapping yourself right now.” Cruise smiled and leaned forward, waiting, which all the stars do, no matter how big and famous.

Cruise’s time was doled out even more slowly than Diaz’s. But the end result was worth it. Cruise bettered her by a full second. Cameron squealed, they embraced again and then both stood up and received a standing ovation from the studio audience.

“You Americans,” said Jeremy Clarkson. “You Americans.”

In case any of you needed a bright moment today.

CORRECTION: I overstated my wife’s lack of interest in cars. Lately, she was the reason we watched the Monaco Grand Prix and the Canadian Grand Prix. She was riveted. And she’s waiting for the next one. I think a fan has been born. If that’s not a rush to judgment.

The compleat argumentation of the progressive perspective.

I did the most accurate post about who the left is and what it wants you’ve ever read.

No comments. Do you wonder at my scorn and escalating uninterest in anything but private hells?

What we call background. In case you start feeling superior to your friendly neighborhood Instapunk. Don’t ever do that.

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue;
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr’d; 50
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
Dissolv’d, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries—
So rainbow-sided, touch’d with miseries,
She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf, 55
Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar:
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete: 60
And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air.
Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love’s sake, 65
And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay,
Like a stoop’d falcon ere he takes his prey.

Left to herself, the serpent now began
To change; her elfin blood in madness ran,
Her mouth foam’d, and the grass, therewith besprent,
Wither’d at dew so sweet and virulent;
Her eyes in torture fix’d, and anguish drear, 150
Hot, glaz’d, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,
Flash’d phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.
The colours all inflam’d throughout her train,
She writh’d about, convuls’d with scarlet pain:
A deep volcanian yellow took the place 155
Of all her milder-mooned body’s grace;
And, as the lava ravishes the mead,
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede;
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,
Eclips’d her crescents, and lick’d up her stars: 160
So that, in moments few, she was undrest
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,
And rubious-argent: of all these bereft,
Nothing but pain and ugliness were left.

*************

Short version: Keats is very long winded. In this case by design. Long ago, Instapunk was nearly killed by a beautiful mythical monster. Instapunk is still alive because nothing can kill him. Whatever comfort you can take, take from that.

Easy to say it’s all show business. But it’s worse than that. Nowadays, it’s the politicians who are paid actors with remarkably little script approval. After all, their jets are waiting. It’s the media who are desperate hangers-on, hoping for an invitation to the correspondents dinner.

Nothing that transpires in national politics is real. Everybody false, everybody a polished performer. Turn on the cameras, make it happen, dude, and tell the women and horses to stay out of the way. If you don’t know who I am, you better learn quick.

Except that it’s all horsecrap. None of these guys knows anything. Everytime John Kerry speaks as Secretary of State I want to throw up. That bad. The Cabinet, agency heads, and other federal bosses are a row of idiots. A complete gallery of malicious morons. I don’t even know if Obama thinks he can play chess, and I know only the moves of the pieces, but I can still kick his ass. Contrary to seven years of effusive PR, I can state with confidence he’s not all that smart. There’s no intellect or learning of any kind in the O realm.

Governing in this administration is only about whose ass you should be kissing. Nobody knows anything, nobody reads anything, nobody ever thinks about anything. Nobody is ever accountable for anything.

But the pundits and the new media keep pretending that John Kerry knows how to change a tire. He doesn’t. His wife doesn’t care. She has a filipino houseboy to do that for her. Why rich people are so happy. Why incredibly stupid rich people do incredibly stupid things in public. Like being Secretary of State when you have no idea what just happened in the world, why, or how it could possibly be your responsibility. All of this on the off chance some chick might sleep with you before your cock falls off. Which the reporters from NYT and WAPO have been just dying to do. There’s nothing they find sexier than an old, wooden, botox-deadened face in a corpse-like body which is almost certain to give women as much pleasure as a splintered oak firelog. Not to mention a firelog’s exquisite powers of conversation. From France, of course. Sad, pitiful, stupid old man. Even sadder, some of them will offer a nest to his ancient dwindling twig.

After they do, of course, he will simply add another mark to the competitive wall he set up with Teddy Kennedy. For real men, such competitions don’t end because a rival kicks the bucket. They end when you have nailed everyone on the political reporting staff of the major newspapers and the major news networks.

Was it good for you sweetheart?

It was great for me. We call it acting. The only thing we fucking do. Can you get me a latte?

All right. You progressives hate America. Enough of this death by a million cuts. Just go ahead and do it. Kill America dead. The most effective policies aren’t hard to figure out, even for us righty troglodytes.

Every major agency of the federal government, and increasingly every municipal police department, has its own SWAT team. Turn them loose to carry out your fondest wishes.

Find and burn every copy of the U.S. Constitution in the land. You know you’ve always wanted to. Forget rewriting it. The idea of a law you can’t remake in accord with your newest post-modern whim has never been your long suit, has it? Enjoy the bonfire. Bring marshmallows. Vegan marshmallows, mind.

Round up all white heterosexual males registered Republican or Independent under the age of 60. Put them in a reeducation camp. Castrate them. End the Conservative War on Women (and such) once and for all. Enough with the speech codes, the micro-aggressions, the talk of triggers, the endless blather about marriage, the bullshit contraception controversies, the end of any more need for angry homosexual and transgender exhibitionism and the resultant hysterical tantrums. Just cut their balls off. All done. Then women and such will be free to be women and such. uh, mostly.

Round up all the pro-life Christians and put them in a reeducation camp. Import thousands of Jihadists to behead or crucify them all. No need to instruct them on how to handle the nazi Palestinian-holocausting zionists. Just point.

Bronze the Congressional Black Caucus. That way you’ll always have them the way they are now, photogenic and compliant, and as perpetual as a gerrymandered district in congress.

Will that accomplish all your goals? By no means. You’ve got this sense of mission about reducing the carbon footprint. You don’t just hate America. You hate humanity. So. Do it. Make abortion compulsory for all white women. Or just tie their tubes. Margaret Sanger knew everything you need to know about sterilizing the undesirables. Don’t stop there, though. Round up all the scientists who are climate change deniers, put them in a reeducation camp, and lobotomize them all. Then castrate them too.

Use ObamaCare to perform compulsory euthanasia on all white people 60 and older. That’ll make a dent, eh?

Who have we got left? Your treasured, persecuted minorities. They can do what they like, given the confines of the 100 percent tax rate, which ensures a continuation of the fine living enjoyed by your legions of government bureaucrats who nominally serve dependents by ignoring their needs utterly and devastating the urban areas where the majority of them presently live. Important exception though. Remember your fiery convictions about gun control? Anyone caught owning a firearm must be executed immediately by firing squad. Including all members of the evil U.S. Military.

Now we’re starting to get somewhere. It’s called thinning the herd. The carbon footprint will be cut by two thirds. All inconvenient dissent will be silenced. There can be no possible future for the racist patriarchy of this ill begotten nation because there will be no children, at least none that long survive. The great Mother Earth will be far better off.

Details. Shut down the Internet completely. (Yes, you progressive luminaries can keep your cellphones, as long as they keep working.) Shut down all newspapers but the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Chicago Sun-Times, and the L.A. Times. Shut down all broadcast and cable television except for The Glorious Presidential Golf Channel. Something the newly green laborers in the agricultural fields — er, everyone who doesn’t work for the government once the cities collapse — can enjoy after a long day of growing organic vegetables fertilized by human excrement. Once a week they can see an informative message movie starring Matt Damon or George Clooney. As long as they hose off the human fertilizer first. Oh. Forgot. No more domestic animals either. Time to end the patriarchy’s tyranny of animals too.

The Hispanics who survive the gun executions can mow your lawns and take care of the president’s golf courses. Also, maybe, if they have the time, manicure the campuses of the elite prep schools and universities where you send YOUR children to do drugs, hookups, and no critical thinking or learning of any kind. Good progressive kids are those with hostile porridge for brains. Otherwise they might figure out how much you despise them too. The Eloi only you are willing to protect from us morlocks. The Betas you sired at great expense and inconvenient time out from your Alpha careers. You must be so proud. Here they are. And for only fifty grand a year through eight years of Groton and Princeton, they emerge like butterflies, only half as dim-witted as you have always been. No threat. Because no future. You will see to that, which is your infallible way.

Sound like heaven? Of course it does. Everyone will finally be equal, except for you ones who are more equal than the rest. The last generation of the astonishingly gifted who have the right to rule the rest of us. Granted, it doesn’t solve all the problems in the rest of the world, but they’ll take care of themselves pretty handily. Everyone knows America has always been the source of all their problems. They’ll do fine from here on in. Most everyone knows they’ve been in love with death a lot longer than Americans, and they’re just dying to follow your lead. And you’ll be the ones who get to watch it all happen.

Unless you forget to kill the imported jihadist killing squads. But you wouldn’t make a mistake like that, would you? Of course not. You’re the smartest people who ever lived.

Who is she, really? You know who she is.

She’s been dipping in the personal popularity polls lately. A few unguarded remarks about what it’s like to have momentary cash flow problems while you’re in debt to lawyers defending your husband’s impeachment crisis and the losing effort to keep him from being disbarred in Arkansas. Plus a curious inability to articulate any single actual accomplishment she’s had in her high profile career as a carpetbagging U.S. Senator from New York and a do-nothing, go everywhere Secretary of State for the worst foreign policy president in our history. You know. Little stuff like that. Nits and picks.

Apparently it’s not supposed to matter. An article yesterday at Real Clear Politics is typical:

Not “If” Hillary Runs for President, But When — and How

Yes, let’s get that out of the way: Hillary Rodham Clinton is not deciding whether to run for president; she’s already running for president. If she doesn’t make it to the starting gate for the 2016 Democratic primaries, she will have quit running. When has a Clinton ever quit anything?…

The feigned indecision is part of the 2016 Clinton campaign rollout, as is the new autobiography, “Hard Choices,” and its accompanying book tour. Legendary literary editor Michael Pakenham referred to such volumes as “unbooks.” Like all Washington memoirs, its unofficial subtitle should be “If They Had Only Listened to Me.” Their purpose isn’t to entertain, educate, or enlighten. It’s to keep the author’s name in the news, make some money, and pave the way for the next gig. “Hard Choices” does all three, which is nice work if you can get it, considering the project is a ghost-written campaign manifesto…

This week, she lashed out at liberal interviewer Terry Gross for having the temerity to ask if the Clintons had changed their minds about gay marriage or if they had changed their public position when it became expedient. It’s an interesting question, actually, and one I’ve wondered about since the night during Bill Clinton’s 1996 re-election campaign when he signed the Orwellian-named Defense of Marriage Act into law. Hillary also fudged on the date in the Gross interview, citing the year 1993, a reminder that another trait she shares with Bill is a willingness to bend the truth…

So she has flaws, yes, but tremendous strengths as a candidate, too. I’ll go into them next Sunday when I explain why HRC is almost certain to be the next president of the United States.

Let me repeat that phrase “tremendous strengths as a candidate.” Let’s see. She’s a do nothing phony who has a record of lying, vengeful personal attacks, and represents a mirror of her husband’s say anything corruption without his political skills. Yeah. What would the strengths be?

She’s a woman. She has name recognition. The Democrats have nothing like a credible candidate to be president of the United States. And she’s a woman.

That’s it. The Dems are planning to parlay their fraudulent War on Women meme to another presidential election based on the idea that it’s this minority’s turn to occupy the Oval Office.

It’s just possible that eight years of Obama will have convinced people that demographics aren’t sufficient reason to hand the keys of power to an incompetent of the politically correct victim class.

More than that, Hillary’s qualifications as a gender warrior in the War on Women battle for equality and respect, etc, are even thinner than Obama’s claim to be an African-American.

Exhibit I in the campaign to come. A new revelation about Hillary’s early legal career. In 1975, she agreed to defend a 41 year old man who was almost certainly guilty of having raped a 12 year old girl. She chatted jocularly about the details of the case with a reporter, on audiotape, and laughed about both her friendly relations with the judge and the technicality on which she managed to acquit her client. At no point did she express the slightest concern for the victim.

You can read the whole story here. Please do.

The victim of that assault is not inclined to forgive:

Now 52, the victim resides in the same town where she was born.

Divorced and living alone, she blames her troubled life on the attack. She was in prison for check forgery to pay for her prior addiction to methamphetamines when Newsday interviewed her in 2008. The story says she harbored no ill will toward Clinton.

According to her, that is not the case.

“Is this about that rape of me?” she asked when a Free Beacon reporter knocked on her door and requested an interview.

Declining an interview, she nevertheless expressed deep and abiding hostility toward the Newsday reporter who spoke to her in 2008—and toward her assailant’s defender, Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Being pro-abortion might have been enough cover for her husband’s shoddy if not criminal behavior toward women. I’m inclined to think, though, that women will not be as willing to overlook the indulgence of child rape by Bill’s wife.

What do you think? Inevitable? Maybe a comeuppance for a life of unscrupulous and convenient decisions, accompanied by a uniquely voracious thirst for power. Obama ain’t the only one, and maybe Americans won’t fall for it yet again.

One can only hope.

It’s wonderful.

If you’re me, everything is arranged for you. In advance.

Have you ever watched the show “Numbers”? A math prodigy named Charlie has a big brother who’s an FBI dude who needs him to chase down crooks. I’m Charlie. Everybody, especially big brother, feels an urge to protect the vulnerable prodigy. Because he had it so rough as a kid.

My youth was difficult. Dad thought I was just a kid for a while. My sister knew I wasn’t, just a kid I mean, which created some problems.

Afterwards, things changed. An informal protective network followed me for the rest of my life. It was loose and nearly undetectable early on. It has become tight and nearly foolproof in recent years. Nobody has ever called me on my inability to play chess, for example.

Think about it. If you’re this great brilliant genius, shouldn’t you be forced at some point to play chess?

Sorry. I’m just playing with you now. I have an iPad that weighs about four ounces and my wife figured out how to fix it for me. It’s like a feather in my hands. Checkmate. A term I learned from my grandfather, the smartest person on earth I ever knew, who knew no more about chess than the rules on the box. That may have been our greatest wink-wink with each other. Chess is not a smartness contest. It’s a dumb game played by mostly dumb people. Smart people have more interesting things to do.

I’m still just talking. What it’s like to be me. You wake up every day like Stephen Hawking, only not quadriplegic in a wheel chair. Are you grateful? Absolutely. Can’t stress this part enough. Everybody has protected me through the years, but no one more than my beloved Boudica.

You wake up every day. You look at the state of the world. You remember there’s a trench knife in the drawer. Then you start on the daily calculus. If I die, she’ll be alone. It would be far worse if she dies first. I’d be alone, which has always been the great unthinkable. And since her, I can’t even imagine life as life without her beside me. Why I can’t think about leaving without her.

But I hurt. In every possible way. Talk all you want about the wages of sin. Think of them in the context of needing to stay around for the best person you know. Years of smoking and drinking have taken their toll. I know I should apologize. Won’t. John Updike said he looked into the ashtray and realized there was a cigarette butt for every paragraph. So he stopped. It didn’t help his writing. He also went on record calling out John Cheever for being too drunk to recognize him. “I know John Cheever’s in there somewhere,” he said. Truth. A much better writer than Updike was in there somewhere.

So I am feeble these days. My mind is not going. It’s changed. It was always waiting for the Internet. I now follow so many of everything you wouldn’t believe it. Athletes, movie stars, composers, philosophers, musicians, and, unfortunately, pundits. I know what Charles Krauthammer had for breakfast and it isn’t pretty.

I wake up every day and try to think what to write. My beautiful wife props up my fragile ego and tells me I will think of something. Usually she’s right, because I am me after all, but sometimes she’s wrong. Which is when she forgives me without a word and brings home whatever we decide on for dinner.

Lake is presently mad at me because he doesn’t understand his role in the protective network that surrounds spoiled geniuses. Spoiled geniuses like me.

I can be contrite all day long. The graphic has it right, though. A unicorn is a once in a lifetime thing. You think unicorns don’t know they’re unique?

We do.

I still am who I am.

The rules have changed. But I have my own rules.

Don’t use race as a weapon.

Don’t use sex as a weapon.

Don’t use class as a weapon.

Don’t use wealth as a weapon.

Don’t use the earth as a weapon.

And don’t forget the Prime Directive.

Except that everybody forgets everything all the time. Why I act so mad so much of the time. Everybody has a window of right now consciousness. Yours is the size of an iPhone screen. Mine is the size of an IMAX screen times ten.

You have no idea how much I can hold in the forefront of consciousness at the same time. It’s killing me. Pretty quickly.

So pay attention while I’m still here.

And remember the Prime Directive. The Smithsonian Channel just did a bio of Isaac Newton. Asperger’s sufferer. Like Einstein and Darwin. Genius is a disease. Newton was focused on three separate obsessions. Math, alchemy, and theology. I have three obsessions too. The Rolling Stones, the life of the United States, and women’s bodies.

Greatest music video ever. (Surpassing this one.) A woman telling the truth.

Do we understand one another now?

More rules will follow.

Journalism used to be about looking up skirts and enjoying it.
Now it’s about looking up skirts and lying about what you saw.

Follow-on to the previous post.

Despite The Five’s Andrea Tantaros and Kimberly whatever her last name is these days, I know that Fox News thinks blondes should rule the world. Megyn Kelly is their boldest thrust in that direction, and to the extent that it sends Bill O’Reilly into retirement, I’m on board.

On. The. Other. Hand. Blondes should not rule the world. Why? Blonde is more often than not a state of mind. The carpet rarely matches the drapes. And the brain is rarely there.

I wouldn’t bring this up as a rule because I’m usually a tactful fellow. But it looks more and more as if Hillary is planning to be anointed president. You know. A vintage blonde is still a blonde, and we all want a blonde telling us what to do. Unless we don’t.

I don’t.

Women don’t belong in politics. Not because they’re dumb or treacherous or corrupt or generally awful, which they all are, like most men. They don’t belong in politics because it’s so much harder to see who they are.

Megyn Kelly seems like a natural heir to Bill O’Reilly’s throne. He’s a goof and a buffoon and a pretentious Long Island wannabe who got where he is by never taking no for an answer. A filter we can use when he mounts his digital throne and tells the rest of us what to think.

Megyn Kelly is a lot scarier. Makeup does not conceal shark eyes. She insists she has children. Then go be with the children. Don’t queen yourself over the rest of us with almost nothing to back it up. SUNY Albany Law School. Seriously?

O’Reilly’s on-set chair is designed to put him at a level with the people he bullies. He’s 6’5″. Megyn’s chair is an elevated crystal throne, designed to reinforce her dominion over everyone who might come under her scrutiny. O’Reilly we can trust ourselves to see through, a fatuous old jerk. Who knows anything about Megyn?

Me. Hate to break it to you, ladies. After 50 years of feminism, the results are in. Women are still second rate. They excel at having fantastic legs and sometimes glorious breasts, but intellectually they are also-rans.

The war on boys is nothing new. Feminists have been on that patrol for a good three decades. Men are increasingly not allowed into the best colleges, etc. Thing is, they’re still in charge of almost everything. Why is that? The horrific conspiratorial patriarchy? Or the simple way of things?

Women compete by being more sexually alluring. If you believe in Evolution, you hyper-rational babies who can’t figure out that life begins at conception when it so obviously does, you must also accept that women were not evolved for their brainpower. Tits. Legs. Childbearing hips. And, thankfully for all us men, lust.

But not brains. Those are always an anomaly. Men won’t tell you this, girls. They don’t listen to you. You think it’s their fault. They don’t listen to you because you have nothing to say. Never have had. Since the beginning of civilization.

There are very (very) few exceptions. Got one here. Good luck to the rest of you.

As for Fox, I congratulate them for letting Gretchen Carlson be a size 14. Isn’t that nice?

“Lifeless eyes, like a doll’s eyes…”.

I know. Last night was huge. Eric Kantor got defeated in a primary. Never in history has a sitting House Majority Leader been evicted in a primary. It’s bound to reenergize all the grass roots resistance to Washington DC the professional pundits have been determined to write off.

If you want the politics of it, go to Laura Ingraham’s website or radio show. There was an interesting tableau, though, on Megyn Kelly’s FNC show last night. Four old white guys pooh-poohing the loss in order to defend the Republican establishment. But Megyn had arranged call-ins from Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham.

The two of them trounced the dismissive conventional wisdom just spouted by the old white guys. Ann and Laura were both impassioned and smart. Contrary to the Fox News line, the entire Republican Party had just been up-ended, out of the blue, so to speak.

So, being the astute politically obsessed observer I always am, I turned to my wife and said, “I have two questions about Megyn Kelly.”

She said, in her usual verbose way, “Shoot.”

“Is it considered a good fit if a thirtyish woman has a kind of pleat going on in the top between her breasts?”

“No. It isn’t.”

“And don’t Megyn Kelly’s eyes look as dead as shark’s eyes?”

“Yes. They do.”

I dunno. Just saying. I don’t think of Fox News as an ally in the grand fight to save the nation. I think of them as Switzerland, a boring neutral with a bunch of money in the bank.

When I think of their journalism (sorry, imagine me putting air quotes over that word), I have an immediate image of Peter Doocy, son of the channel’s resident weatherman and arch morning bore. Peter has nice hair. No doubt why he’s the Fox News Channel’s chief White House correspondent, foreign correspondent, and investigative reporter.

Peter seems a nice boy. But… Sorry.

I have a whole other post to do on this subject. Give me a few hours. Please? The data gods are not being kind today.

She’s too friendly with the beltway libs who pretend to be journalists. Other than that I mostly like her. She’s good, no, excellent at demolishing immigration idiots.

Laura Ingraham made a claim on her radio show today that I found not credible. She’s famous for her love of pop music from the fifties, sixties, seventies, and eighties. Her knowledge, according to informed sources (mostly her), is encyclopedic. She also loves country music, for which I credit her. But she went a step too far in my opinion this morning claiming that George Strait’s farewell concert the other night “smashed the attendance records set by the Rolling Stones.” She cited a figure of 105,000, which aroused my suspicions immediately. I attended the Stones concert in 1981 at JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, which had a nominal football capacity of 100,000, and on that day the stands were filled and the entire football playing field was too. All of us paying customers. Nothing I could prove.

90,000? Really? I was all the way at the back. Jagger looked like an ant. Journey had the No. 1 album in the country. Nobody paid them any attention. The venue was too gigantic. The Stones ripped the joint apart.

So I looked up the attendance figures for the notorious Hyde Park concerts in London. Guess what I found.

AEG Live is the promoter of the Rolling Stones’ 2013 tour, which is named “50 and Counting” in honor of the band’s 50th anniversary. Mick Taylor, who was the Rolling Stones’ lead guitarist from 1969 to 1974, is a guest on all of the tour dates.

Mick Taylor’s first-ever live show with the Rolling Stones was a free concert at Hyde Park on July 5, 1969. The attendance at the show was an estimated 250,000 to 500,000 people. The show was filmed by Granada Television and released on home video under the title “Stones in the Park.”

I have nothing against George Strait. I just find it necessary to contend with Laura Ingraham’s occasional looseness with facts.

On a lesser matter, Rush Limbaugh returned from vacation yesterday boasting that he would make sense of a week’s worth of events nobody but he could suss out. He proceeded to do a three hour monologue recapitulating points I had already made here about the difference between incompetence and deeply malevolent intent.

He also was clamorously seeking credit for the dire prophecy embedded in his “I hope he fails” broadcast the day after the 2009 inauguration. Which I had also preceded him on here.

I’m not accusing him of stealing ideas. Pretty sure he’s never heard of me. But maybe he shouldn’t be quite so sure that he’s the only one of us flyover Americans who can figure out the dark truths of the left.

Especially now that his facade of constant jovial optimism is starting to crack like a badly boiled egg. He’s as lugubrious as I am, but on handling that turn of mind without losing the faith I have him beat by a mile.

All the king’s horses, all the king’s men…

These are just trivialities. If you want the serious, look a couple posts further down. Instapunk has finally pulled the long scriver back out of its scabbard, and it’s time to resume the old ‘debates’ of the Metalkort.

It’s called Gardermoen, which is an airport in Oslo. Whither Valhalla?

Did I say punk? If Mstislav Rostropovich and Patti Smith had a love child, who would she be? This one.

Suited my mood today. The woman behind the music is Julia Kent, a Canadian cellist. Don’t know anything else about her except that she was once a rocker and is now ranked as one of the top ten female cellists in the world.

All I need to know today.

Maybe you know how this particular 24 hours end. I don’t. That’s all for now, boys.

Tools of a cold-blooded, illegal strategy for ramming amnesty through congress. Click pic to enlarge.

Come on, everybody. Call them what they are: internment camps for children. At military bases all over the southwest. Children without their parents, many infected with measles, scabies, TB, and the MRSA virus. How many we don’t know because the resources aren’t available to care adequately for a sudden influx of thousands of illegals.

Who thinks people aren’t going to blame the federal government for the inevitable casualties?

Who’s in charge anymore? Who’s an adult capable of taking responsibility? Apparently no one. They’re probably dreaming up a slogan. Something like “Work Makes Free.”

So, can we impeach the president for setting up concentration camps on American soil? No? Why the hell not? How in the hell can we not?!

Everything I’ve said is already on record. I post the cover of the Instapunk book because it had everything right the soonest and you could send it to your friends.

There are new books. Buy these three as they become available.

The heavyweight of the bunch is attorney Andrew McCarthy’s explanation of impeachment issues.

Faithless Execution: Building the Political Case for Obama’s Impeachment.

The second is by Breitbart’s new top gun, Ben Shapiro.

The People Vs. Barack Obama: The Criminal Case Against the Obama Administration.

The third is by John Fund and Hans Spakovsky.

Obama’s Enforcer: Eric Holder’s Justice Department.

Be mad at me all you want. Read these books.