Speaker of the House. Looks like a serial killer. Gives Obama his idiotic budget. Willing to be drafted as presidential nominee..
Let me ask. Let’s say, just for the purpose of argumentation, that you’re a Republican and would like to win a legislative battle with the Democrats, once anyway.
Uh, why would we want to do that? Do you have any idea how much money we can make as lobbyists even if the people somehow manage to throw us out of office? When the congressional majority dutifully acts like an impotent rubber-stamp minority, the federal funds jet through DC like a fire hose. Nobody in his right mind would ever want to stop that. Why we’re inexorably committed to NeverTrump and AlwaysHillary.
All the lonely people, where do they all belong? In McTammany Hall the answer is clear.
Iris and Raven do lots of ripping and tearing in the morning. Chasing each other down the stairs, thundering back up the stairs, and occasionally knocking stuff over. But then comes the midday timeout, when all that’s necessary is being close.
Can’t live with hounds for a generation without turning into one. Problem is, I’m not a nice one. I bite.
I’m not a nice guy. I have many Irish friends. Yet I wrote this. A satire of Jimmy Breslin and Pete Hamill, the brawny hairy chested alcoholics in remission who beat up average Joes and win acclaim for their authenticity from The New Yorker and the Times. Great life if you can get it, right? But every year, every single year, there’s a day when even the brawniest hairy fingered lout who thinks he can write has to walk by an Irish pub and not go inside. Voila! (And if you don’t pronounce the V as a V, the Jersey Latin squad will be coming for you.)
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March 17, 2000
The Tough Guy
It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
I was going to say something there. Hold on a sec.
It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
You know, the thing about these support groups is what a bunch of stuffed-shirt, killjoy, bigoted, anti-Irish, English-ass-kissing, boring sumbitches they are. Did you know that? Did you?
You hold their hand, and listen to all their dull, dull stories about their dull, dull problems, and you all sit there not drinking, and forcing down all that bad coffee, which is even decaf for God’s sake, and do they appreciate it? Do they come around on St. Patrick’s Day to say, “Thanks old man. Erin go bragh. Top o’ the mornin’ to you. And by the way, this is one day when you really should take a break from all this dull no-drinking bullcrap crap you usually do.” Do they do that?
No. They don’t. Here’s what they do. They call up that little fairy intern who works in the office next to you, and they tell him to go hunting
through all your desk drawers for the bottle of fine old Irish blarney you’ve filed away for this one extremely special, wonderful day of the year, and they order him to steal that bottle like some little damn fairy thief AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.
DAMN.
But I wasn’t born yesterday. My old man didn’t raise no fool. He was Irish. He was a cop. He was in the big one. He knew all the tricks. And I know’em too. I wouldn’t leave no bottle of genuine fine old Irish blarney in my damn desk drawer where some little fairy intern could get at it AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.
I wouldn’t do that. What I would do, if you’re asking me, is this. I would replace the genuine old Irish blarney in that bottle with some cheap, lousy, made-last-week- in-New-Joisey crap, and I would make sure that I had the real blarney in my briefcase, right where I could get at it if some little fairy thief decided to listen to a bunch of stuffed-shirt support-group Republians and take my blarney AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.
That’s what I would do. If you’re asking.
By the way…
It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day! How the hell are you today?
I’m fine. I really am.
There was something in particular I was going to write about in the column today. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I’ll have it in just a moment. Hold on. Gun control? Maybe that was it. Hold on a sec.
It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
Hold on.
I think it was about this Charleston Heston Republian stuffed-shirt bigoted anti-Irish support-group killjoy… Hold on.
It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
Hold on.
I’ve got it. Hold on.
It’s St. Patr
The Tough Guy is a regular Star feature contributed by columnist Jimmy Bricker.
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Being Scottish gives you lots of cover. But even I have to admit that this is a 15 year old microaggression that deserves a safe space. Good thing I know where that safe space is.
A mantra with two different meanings. On the Democrat side a mantra of fear, Type 1. On the Republican side a mantra of fear, Type 2.
Type 1 is genuine fear, akin to panic. The Dems know Hillary is an incredibly weak candidate. She’s awful on the stump. When she isn’t faking black or southern accents, or simpering little woman fake humility, she turns into a banshee, a braying, shrieking, bitter harridan whose voice is worse than chalk on blackboards. She’s got the sword of Damocles hanging over her head, investigations in the FBI and the DOJ proper that could or at least should land her in prison.
Type 2 is the fear that lies will be found out. The Republican leadership, its congressional majorities, and its politician enriching donors don’t care if Hillary is elected president. In fact, if they can’t have Jeb, they’d prefer Hillary. Their sweet deal will continue. Boundless funds for their reelection campaigns and boundless riches for the lobbying careers they will enjoy after they end their legislative careers. Absolute corruption on a scale not seen since Tammany Hall. Or Ancient Rome. Everyone for sale. Every issue and bill for sale, no matter what lies have to be told barefacedly to their party faithful. Run on border control, immediately propose amnesty. Run on fiscal responsibility, immediately ratify the Dems’ bloated budget whole hog (pun intended). Pretend you’re against ObamaCare, then do nothing to repeal, fix, or replace it.
Type 1 and Type 2 have one thing in common. At this point they both want to do whatever it takes to prevent Trump from becoming the Republican nominee. Why? Well, the George Wills and Chris Matthews and Charles Krauthammers and Anderson Coopers and David Brooks of the world don’t know much about boxing metaphors, but they can sense the excitement, danger, and unpredictability of a heavyweight prizefight. And the very thought of it terrifies them to death. Why they tell us we’re stupid. You know. If you’re David Brooks or George Will, might as well have rape enabler Hillary instead of a guy who probably pinches bottoms in Italy. Something, no doubt about canapés in the Hamptons and NR cruises with Kevin Williamson.
What a Trump-Clinton electoral campaign would be. It would be slugger against slugger, which is relatively rare even in the prizefight world. Nobody’s tried to handicap the contest as it would really unfold. There is reason to do so. Both fighters have records, both have been penalized points and rounds for unsportsmanlike conduct, but in this case they are in the ring together. Who has the edge?
Let’s pick a couple of avatars. First, Hillary as Mike Tyson. (Incredible cheap shot at 6:47 in.)
Second, The Don as Rocky Marciano.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=c6Qv4_oKx6U Tyson had a soundtrack. Marciano should too.
Because that was the day and the life of Rocky Marciano. For all you hedge fund managers who don’t know what it’s like to fight to the death for anything.
RELATIVE STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES
Both aggressive punchers and counterpunchers. Tyson the more controlled on the attack, well prepared, planned, expert at ducking and weaving, comes in willing to take a punch or two to get in some savage body body blows and head shots. Tremendous and balanced power in the overall attack, and always waiting for the inside uppercut to bring it to an end. Only sign of wildness is a practiced left hook, designed to pulverize the opponent. Weakness? Violent felony convict, sexual predator, and dirty fighter.
Chew my way to victory if necessary.
Marciano. The only ever undefeated heavyweight champion of boxing. He was a wild swinger without much of a jab. The Brockton Bomber, they called him. He fought more champions in his division than anyone but Muhammed Ali. Fabled names. Joe Louis. Jersey Joe Walcott. Ezzard Charles. What was he famous for? Taking a lot of punishment to land one telling blow. He frequently finished fights with his face a bloody mask. But he won by knockout 87.5 percent of the time. Simple arithmetic. Hit him and be prepared to be hit back harder by a factor of ten. Sledgehammer, canvas time. He won in early rounds and late rounds. Unlike Tyson or Foreman. He won when he was behind on points, as Ali was late in his career. The champion rises as his energy seems to fall. A law of physics MIT hasn’t yet explained. Weaknesses? A bleeder. Easy to cut him. Today’s referees might have stopped fights he won. Should they have? That would be a PC matter, wouldn’t it?
CAMPAIGN IMPLICATIONS
Hillary knows how to hit hard. She has teams of morlocks working day and night to compile her ammunition. But there are two factors her dimwit Yale advisers should take into account.
1. Trump has already survived the greatest prolonged assault of negative advertising in the history of televised and otherwise mass media-driven presidential campaigns. He has been called every name in the book, every nasty adjective in the book, every obscenity, every repulsive historical epithet, had his character assassinated by both snipers and organized commando teams, and there he still is, leading the pack for the Republican nomination. What’s left to throw at him? Some personal foible you’ve been hiding under your skirt, Hillary? Which brings us to Point Two.
2. Hillary’s first and only impulse, in the absence of real experience, accomplishment or policy prescriptions that aren’t mere jargon, is to go for the jugular with her famed Clinton factory for oppo research. But the sad, pitiable fact is that no matter what Hillary accuses Trump of, he can respond instantly, in her own words, on video, that she is guilty of worse. Hit him for a loose and sybaritic lifestyle, will you? Think again. He can hit you for committing felonious acts against Bill’s girlfriends. Hit him for shaving corners on construction projects, and he can demand that you lay out the whole financial history of the Clinton Foundation. Trump says stupid things. Quote them in ads. Then wait for Rocky Marciano to bludgeon you with your email server, Benghazi, and Lewinski lies. He doesn’t have to do research. You’ve revealed the reality a hundred times in a hundred on-camera lies.
In what round will she fall? Every time the Clinton machine strikes like a cobra, the Trump mongoose can take her head off with barely a hundred dollars of research. That’s how exposed and vulnerable they are. A once formidable counterpuncher actually needs to learn a defensive crouch.
Before he even gets to the question of why you keep walking around bumping into things, coughing through tiny campaign events, and braying like a donkey at everyone who asks you a question.
Trump can do all this without saying anything anti-woman to you in person. You’ve provided all the ammunition. On film, digitally available, immediately viral on command.
Champions fall. Especially would-be champions who never were.
HOW THEY FELL.
Tyson.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rt8LZ8FjGN8 Guy comes out of nowhere and knocks you on your ass.
Marciano.
He didn’t. Died in a plane crash. Don’t think about it, Hillary. You heard it here first.
AND THERE’s that little something extra. Who has it? You know.
I’m the Greatest. Best at Everything. Ever heard that before? He kind of was.
Sonny Liston was the Mike Tyson of his day. Cassius Clay, considered a lightweight amateur, beat him up to win the title. Liston got his second chance though. People thought he’d win, what with all his experience and power and whatnot. He went down in the first round. They called it a phantom punch because the camera angles couldn’t catch the blow that did it. All you had to see, though, was the ripple in Muhammed Ali’s chest muscles to understand the impact that occurred in fact. The amateur took down the invincible monster, in a single round.
Okay. We admit it. What with all the horrific political news of late, we’ve been watching Netflix reruns of CSI Miami. This Caruso guy. Actually a pretty decent actor. A little creepy sometimes but good in his role.
On the creepy side, I put on my old super expensive sunglasses and tilted my head at my wife, who threatened to run me through with a steak knife. If anyone subsequenly runs me through with a steak knife, please ask the Salem police to ask my wife about steaks, knives, and dead husbands and so forth.
I like to think my impression was pretty good or she wouldn’t have been so creeped out by it.
Anyhow. The show itself is better than we remembered. Delco is a useless male slut. Emily Procter is a walking advertisement for not having plastic surgery while you’re still alive. Jonathan Togo is a study in not acting for fun and profit. The fat old white guy cop is your standard fat old white guy cop. I think his name is Bill or Frank or something. Like it matters. But the ME played by Khandi Alexander is as terrific as Caruso. She calls her corpses baby, and talks them through the trauma of autopsy. Everybody else is just a pain in the ass.
Got a long letter from my sister. 17 pages typewritten. I had asked her what she as a professional academic was doing to fight back against the antisemitism that has taken over the two places where she built her academic resume over a decade, Vassar and Cornell, both of which are listed in the top ten antisemitic campuses in the United States.
She sent me a hummingbird card and professed, as professors do, that she had no knowledge of antisemitic behaviors on campus.
I do not recall. I have no recollection of that. Not remembering that. And “What difference does it make at this point?”
Hasn’t read my books but pats me on the head for my cleverness at satire. Mildly upset that I don’t read her academic papers on gender studies.
So here, in the graphic above, is the interior of the card she sent me, absent the 17 pages. And in the interest of full disclosure, here’s the front of the card. I’m so touched. You?
Hummingbirds have no legs. They fly all the time. Wings almost faster than time itself. Flying. All. The. Time.
Thinking Buckley’s pretty proud in his grave of the nasty slanderous rag his brainchild has become. No more brain. Just child. Time to put the slavering neutered beast down.
A quick and necessary end.
Yeah. NR was born in a war, the deadly battle against Soviet communism and parallel totalitarian impulses at home. The USSR was defeated and destroyed, which removed the original purpose. But if you’re a warrior you need an enemy. “We have always been at war with Eurasia.” We have always been at war with Trump because no one here can last long without the daily two minutes hate. We have always been at war with Trump because all animals are equal, only some are more equal than others, especially if your name is Napoleon Williamson.
Does she pose? Does she Vogue? Oh yes she does. “I’m Art Deco, dahling.”
I think about Madonna almost never. Love Camille Paglia but have always brushed aside her infatuation with the Material Girl. Which is why it’s significant that our new Iris reminded both me and my wife of this old video.
Hard to prove because like all cats she closes her eyes when the flash goes off. All we can offer is a hint of how she Vogues her ass off except when she wants more soft cat food.
I’m here. Take my picture. Stash that flash.
Hard to catch her poses. Quick quick quick.
Don’t touch me. I’m thinking up my next pose.
She knows you know she knows you’re looking at her. Fascinatedly.
The Good. Killed two mice so far. Shot them down. She is fast, fast with a mouse. And getting faster with the ugly.
Iris is the Angel. Raven is the devil with great big eyes. She’s been afraid of me until tonight, when I held her for ten minutes. She doesn’t know I’ll beat the devil out of her. Not kidding. We got both because I hate what people do to black cats. Seen too many of them squashed on the road. Won’t happen on my watch again. Raven started purring in my lap. She might be getting it.
Raven. Coal black. Why we did this whole thing: can’t stand seeing black cats mutilated deliberately on the road by old boys who think they’re bad luck. For me they’ve always been great luck.
The Bad. Raven killed a mouse too. She ate it.
And then there was The Ugly. Who was the guy like the guy in Road Warrior who had to be chained in front of the big truck with a face mask on him. That would be Elliott since the little ones arrived. Monster. Barbaric. But if I call him he does respond.
He’s the king. Fastest, most aggressive, most difficult, most loyalty to me.
We used to have to go to chapel at Zero-Dark-Forty-Five.
1969. I was sixteen. Or almost sixteen. I was the editor-in-chief of a nationally esteemed prep school publication called the Mercersburg News. I had watched my school fall apart in about two years. There were two jock dorms when I arrived in 1967. In 1969 there were two drug dorms.
Then came the chapel walkout. A huge, life changing event. Half the school walked out of the Mercersburg Chapel during a Thursday 8:45 am service. The headmaster, who used to have a box of Gettysburg musket balls on his desk for awards to good students, called a school meeting. My best friend and roommate was one of the ones who walked out. Life had been riven.
You know. My best friend. He’s dead now. At forty. I’m alive. 62. He did meth. I didn’t. Or cocaine. Ever. We were both Harvard, don’t you know.
But the world cleaved in half that day.
I published the only extra in the history of the Mercersburg News. In a day and a half. Linotype.
So. I didn’t die. He didn’t die that day. But in reality we both did.
Never heard how lovely the voices are.
You had an idea, did you?
Went there. I really did. You try surviving four years in a place that tries to kill you every single day.
What do you do for the next forty-five years? You write and write and write and write and write and you wake up in the morning as I did today, saying only two things I’m grateful for. My ability to write and my love for my wife. That’s it. The total.
When you’re ducking the news because it’s too awful to look at, somehow you can wind up watching the endless syndicated episodes of CSI shows, the one in Vegas, CSI Miami, CSI New York, NCIS, and all the others that show dead naked women on the stainless steel table of the pathologists. They blur this and cover that, but it’s all a peekaboo show and makes us closet necrophiliacs simply by watching well paid actors talking about rape kits and vaginal and anal smears and torn perineums and DNA, DNA, and DNA.
So, channeling my inner William Burroughs, I wrote a poem about this bizarre phenomenon.
My CSI Sonnet
A dead woman is the saddest thing.
She still has eye makeup and painted fingernails.
Her feet are deformed by years of high heels.
Her breasts are flaccid and inert on the morgue table.
Have I ever owned a real gun? No. Have I ever shot anyone? No. Am I a Privileged White Male who’s played with guns? You bet your ass.
Got me a hat and some cowboy boots pretty young.
Then I got me my deerskin jacket. Fringe and deer smell and all. Buttons I could barely do. But I did’em.
With the boots and the hat I was way cool.
Then I got me some six guns. When you’re young, or really little, you need two to get the equalizer effect.
I know I wasn’t fast on the draw, but two guns kept you from toppling over to one side.
And then you get older. Daddy gets you a long gun for Christmas…
Boy, did I kill some imaginary Indians and Brits with this beauty!
…but he doesn’t let on it’s a BB gun with no BBs in it. He doesn’t want you to put your eye out.
Still, stupid and backward as you are, you keep getting faster on the draw. Till you’re ready for a real gunslinger single rig, with bullets capped one by one by Mattel.
I was fast and getting faster.
Then I got to be an adult, ten going on eleven. Started wearing ties and jackets and this discreet shoulder harness. In my off-school hours I was Napoleon Solo when I wasn’t James Bond.
Yeah. Snub nose .38. Shoulder holster. $4.00 and worth every penny.
Ah, but then the world tipped over into closet underground espionage. You couldn’t even wear your shoulder holster anymore.
Most of the time it was a camera that couldn’t take pictures. Then it was a gun that could only shoot Mattel caps.
About the time I retired from gunplay and went to the real world hell of hand to hand combat with other privileged white male idiots. Who mostly still rule the world, no matter how much you losers hate it.
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