The New Democrat Male — Barefoot and Pregnant

It’s increasingly difficult to understand why any straight white male could remain a Democrat. Happily, there are fewer of these as time goes by, most being nimble enough to recognize aggravated misandry when they see it. But the remnant doesn’t seem to understand that the donkeys blame straight white males for every bad thing that’s ever happened or is happening on Earth. History’s scofflaws.    

Or perhaps these remaining clueless schlubs do understand and this is simply an example of masochism in its purest form. A kind of political self-flagellation for those who enjoy feeling guilty. BDSM without the black leather.    

Today’s Democrat Party (I can’t bring myself to call it the Democratic Party as there’s nothing democratic about it) is increasingly dominated by what The Washington Times’ esteemed opinion editor, Charlie Hurt, calls macho feminists. These harridans are well along in their campaigns to have “In God we trust” on the coins replaced by “Yes, dear,” and to have testosterone added to the federal list of toxic substances. Some, enchanted by the anti-scientific transsexual delusion, believe they can now, at long last, keep us barefoot and pregnant.

No wonder guys who prefer their Sunday afternoon with a football game, consider beer to be the game’s natural solvent, and watch Steve McQueen’s Bullitt (the best real-guy movie ever) at least once a year, celebrate the Democrat’s decision to offer free vasectomies at their recent convention. These being provided by the spectacularly misnamed Planned Parenthood. (Should it not be called Planned Non-Parenthood?)

I don’t know how many got the “Big Snip” in Chicago’s mendacity rally and sob-fest. There couldn’t be that many candidates available. The sessions I saw resembled a very big girls’ night out. But every bit helps in this cleansing of the shallow end of the gene pool.

I very much regret the children who were deprived of life in the adjoining abortion tent. But two thumbs up on the vasectomies. I hope the procedures came with a warning: Keep this bunch in power, Sunbeam, and they’ll soon be back for the rest of it. (If you have to ask, “rest of what?” then you clearly dozed through sex education class and I won’t draw you a picture.)

Most of the coverage of the four-day Chicago séance focused not on these medical procedures, but on substance-free presentations from the podium by the usual suspects.

Okra Windbag set the tone, retailing what we are learning to call good vibes. We’re to feel warm all over at the prospect of electing a woman as president who’s dumber than a bag of hammers and a #2 who is thoroughly in touch with his feminine side and is at least as economical with the truth as the current occupant of the Rehoboth Beach White House. Put these two hairballs up against the apex predators of our very dangerous world, and they’ll be eaten alive.   

Speaking of Tiny Tim, after more than a half century as a writer, editor, and teacher of writing, I can tell you with absolute confidence that saying you’re a combat veteran when you aren’t is NOT an error in grammar. It’s a ball-faced lie, and one of the most despicable. Only men, and an increasing number of women, who’ve been in combat know what this crucible is like. And their valor should not be stolen by pathetic creatures who run for the hills when combat is a real prospect. (Those awful guns — they’re soo loud.) (READ MORE from Larry Thornberry: Will Wearisome Kaepernick Ever Leave?)

To the extent policy was mentioned at all in Chicago it was the two principals backing away from their bat guano leftist political positions of the past. On these they turned on a dime, giving us nine cents change, and presenting themselves as the very definition of political moderates. The new Democrat definition of moderate now seems to be someone who doesn’t actually wear a Mao jacket to work more than two days a week and has removed the portrait of Che Guevara from the office wall.  

There was much retailing of the idea that the Democrat Party is the party of freedom. As near as I can make out though, in watching and talking to Democrats, this only extends to the freedom to kill unborn children and the freedom to smoke weed.

As for the rest of our traditional freedoms, Democrats consider them so 20th Century. This includes freedom of speech, the lynchpin of any free society, which Democrats seem to consider little more than a fount of “misinformation” (anything a Democrats disagrees with or considers a threat to Democrats power) or hate speech.  

At least Democrats are occasionally allowing themselves to use the word abortion these days. More often though, they style this barbaric practice “reproductive health.” The late, great writer Florence King called euphemisms “verbal stool softeners.” Rim-shot please! And reproductive health is one of the finest examples of the form. (For a treat, consult our authors section and read some of Florence’s columns and reviews. You’ll be glad you did. It’s spicy and high-protein stuff.)

By and by, the Democrat convention ended, neither with a bang nor a whimper. And that’s how America will end if we install a pathetic woman who’s not competent to serve on the East Nowhere City Council at 1600.  The only way these two clowns should be allowed into the White House is if they get in line with the rest of the tourists.

Finally, on a personal note, I wouldn’t want to leave the impression that I’m opposed to the idea of a competent, tough, patriotic, conservative person of the female persuasion as my president. I’d vote for such a woman any day over a leftist squash-bag like Tampon Tim. To illustrate, please indulge an anecdote from my past.

In the eighties, when the Gipper was dozing in the White House and the Republic’s arrow was pointed up after the depredations of President Malaise, I was press secretary to a Florida congressman.

As conservative as my guy was, some of the lower level functions of the office were performed by young, energetic, and comely women, all of whom held black belts in feminist indignation. They considered me, almost 40 then, to be a mustache Pete with all the old and benighted views of social arrangements. (READ MORE: Flags Unlimited — Zebras on Steroids?)

One day the office conversation centered on who would replace Ronnie when his second term expired. I told them I had considered the question and they would be happy to know that my choice was a woman. They brightened. Perhaps I wasn’t such a dinosaur after all. I took a beat and added: “But we’d probably have to give the Brits several high draft picks to get Maggie Thatcher.”

The smiles disappeared and they threw stuff at me. But as they all threw like girls, I wasn’t badly injured. 

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