The Myth of the Indispensable Man
I never understood the kerfuffle over Rob Porter. For openers, I couldn’t figure out why, if there was a cloud over him, which there was since he couldn’t get security clearance, he was given a job in the White House.
I never understood the kerfuffle over Rob Porter. For openers, I couldn’t figure out why, if there was a cloud over him, which there was since he couldn’t get security clearance, he was given a job in the White House. Certainly, nobody could make a case that he was an indispensable cog in the Trump administration. The only cog who answers that description is Trump, himself.
The whole business of investigating federal employees used to be predicated on the assumption that they might be open to blackmail by hostile forces, lest it come out that they were transvestites, homosexuals or had sex with sheep. Now that such matters are regarded as lifestyle choices, it seems, as Mr. Porter discovered, that only domestic abuse remains a no-no.
As for the members of the media who spent weeks virtue-signaling they were our moral superiors by wringing their hands over Porter’s two ex-wives, I only hope to live long enough to see them exposed as the frauds they are. We have already seen the likes of Bill O'Reilly and Matt Lauer go down in flames after being outed as sexual predators; are we really supposed to believe that all those TV pundits and White House reporters are pure as the driven snow? If all the skeletons in their closets were let out, I suspect they’d fill a football field.
Every time I heard one of those clowns in 2016 demanding to see Trump’s tax returns, I felt the proper response would have been “You first!”
Porter socked one of his ex-wives in the eye. Not nice, but for all we know or are ever likely to know, she’d just told him she’d been having an affair with his best friend.
I’m not calling for more domestic violence or extramarital affairs. I would just like to see less hypocrisy, moral posturing and rushing to judgment by hack reporters.
I’ll even go so far as to say that some wives deserve a black eye.
And so, by God, do some husbands!
I was shocked to hear that the Israeli police have asked that Prime Minister Bibi Netanyahu be arrested and stand trial on corruption charges.
Smart as he is, it seems that Bibi learned nothing from the downfall of Prime Minister Ehud Olmert.
I have a word of caution for every politician: If you accept a gift from anyone you’re not related to, consider it a bribe. Certainly, that’s how everyone else, including the gift-giver, sees it.
For one thing, nobody likes you that much. Why would they? You’re a politician, for heaven’s sake. You’re someone who spends his entire life casting votes and scrounging around for money just so you can keep getting elected and keep casting votes. The fact is, nobody likes you because of your winning personality. In most cases, nobody could find your personality with a metal detector, bloodhounds and a troop of Boy Scouts.
Even if it’s just a necktie or a box of cheap cigars, the donor wants something in return.
I just wonder if Bibi’s successor will be wise enough to pay for his own cigars.
I got really impatient watching the committee hearing when FBI Director Christopher Wray voiced his unquestioning faith in the bureau. I kept waiting for him to at least acknowledge that he understood why, in the wake of the revelations involving the illegal tactics of Never-Trumpers like James Comey, Andrew McCabe, Peter Strzok, Lisa Page and the Ohrs, people might have reason to question his judgment.
Listening to him deliver a series of platitudes without once referring to the reason that so many of us could no longer trust the bureau couldn’t help but cause some of us to wonder if his name didn’t also belong on that tawdry list of traitors.
People like Sen. Dick Durbin keep insisting that we need an endless stream of illegal aliens to pick our fruit. Apparently, he is unaware of the fact that most fruit-picking these days is automated.
The answer, Sen. Durbin, is that perhaps we should be importing more machines. Best of all, we wouldn’t have to provide them with any freebies and they wouldn’t be casting illegal votes.
Speaking of our immigration problem, the Democrats keep insisting the illegal population is a boon to America’s economy, but never explain why, if we’re so lucky in having millions of illiterates streaming across our borders, be it by foot or by visa, their nations of origin are all economic disaster areas.
I enjoy watching Tucker Carlson’s show on Fox, but sometimes it takes all of my will power to keep from hurling a shoe at the TV screen.
He is at his worst when he invites a moron on his show and then allows the goofball to filibuster. All he’d need is a mute button. He could then explain to his guest that he will either answer a direct question or he’ll be removed from the studio. Surely, I can’t be the only person who fast-forwards through these annoying segments.
Sometimes, though, it is even more frustrating when Carlson is debating one of these pumpkin heads and fails to say something so obvious, I find myself wondering if he’s throwing the debate.
For instance, a couple of times in the last week, he has had a guest insist that Carter Page is a Russian agent based on the fact that Mr. Page was paid to deliver a speech in Russia. On neither occasion did Carlson point out that if that constituted treason, Bill Clinton should be up on charges because he was paid a hell of a lot more than Page to give a speech in the Kremlin.
A reader who chooses to be identified as John K said that his father was loath to cast aspersions on people. He remembered his dad, recognizing that some of the moonshiners in his neck of the woods made a lot more money than he did, felt it behooved him not to call them hillbillies, but, rather, hill-williams.
Once, while accompanying his father to the grocery, he asked what they were shopping for, and his dad said: “Charles steaks.” I said: “What’s that?” and he said: “At these prices, I’m sure not going to call them chuck.”
Dick Frohman, the pride of Indian Wells, CA, reports that an Irishman walked into a Dublin bar and ordered three pints of Guinness. He took the three glasses to a table at the rear of the bar and proceeded to take sips out of each in turn.
He then returned to the bar and ordered another round. The bartender pointed out that the beer goes flat after he draws it. “It would taste better if you drank them one at a time.”
“No doubt,” says the Irishman, “but you see, I have two brothers, one in America and one in Australia. When they left home, we promised that we’d drink this way in remembrance of the days we all drank together.”
The bartender admits it’s a nice custom.
The man becomes a steady customer and continues the same routine for several years. Then, one day, he comes in and only orders two pints. It’s noticed by the bartender and the other regulars.
The man takes the two glasses to his table, and when he’s finished, he returns to the bar for another round. The bartender says: “I don’t want to intrude on your grief, but I do wish to offer my condolences on your loss.”
The Irishman looks confused for a moment. Then as the light dawns, he laughs: “Oh, no, everyone’s fine. It’s just that I’ve decided to quit drinking.”
