Soros on the Couch
Soros is worth close to nine billion dollars, but he’s still not a happy man.
For years, I’ve tried without success to figure out what makes George Soros tick, why, unlike just about every other immigrant who has ever come here, he hates this country and is willing to spend so many billions of dollars to destroy it.
I think I may finally have figured it out.
When, as an impressionable teenager, he helped strip his fellow Jews of their valuables before they were herded onto the cattle cars headed off to Belsen and Auschwitz, Soros (born György Schwartz), became a perverted victim of Stockholm Syndrome.
He not only identified with the Nazis, he fantasized he was one. After all, they were the supermen in their shiny boots barking orders at the sheeplike Jews.
He no doubt envisioned himself — an ambitious young Hungarian who felt no connection to Judaism — playing an important role in the New World Order.
But somehow Germany lost the war.
When the allies destroyed the Third Reich only 12 years into what Hitler promised would be a thousand year reign, they destroyed his fantasies of becoming — dare he dream? — a financial advisor and close personal friend of Der Fuhrer.
As young Soros got word that his hero had committed suicide in a Berlin bunker, it’s easy enough to imagine that he committed himself to seeking revenge on the two nations that had done the most to trample on his dreams: Britain and the United States.
So he first went to London, where as a cunning manipulator of currency, he not only made his fortune, but he became known as “the man who broke the Bank of England.”
But he was only getting started. Long before the Muslims were chanting that Israel was the Little Satan and America was the Big Satan, Soros felt that way about England and our nation.
So, here he resides behind the walls of his upstate New York fortress, financing our enemies.
He has the riffraff of Antifa and Black Lives Matter on salary and he finances the elections of district attorneys whose mission it is to turn a blind eye to criminals and to release as many felons as possible from jail, using any preposterous excuse, including overcrowded accommodations, Covid-19 or a racially-biased legal system. All in order to get them out on the streets where they can resume turning our cities into warzones.
Soros is worth close to nine billion dollars, but he’s still not a happy man.
Like George Foster Kane, who even on his deathbed dreamed of a sled named Rosebud, Soros longs for that long ago vision of himself marching down the street decked out in jack boots and a black uniform with the death head insignia, while men and women bowed and curtsied to the ubermensch who could pull out his Luger at any moment and shoot them if he felt like it.
I read with mixed emotions that after Simon & Schuster had deep-sixed Sen. Josh Hawley’s book deal because he supported Donald Trump, Regnery stepped in with a book contract of their own. Being a fan of Sen. Hawley, I was happy to hear the news. But it reminded me of the time that I had approached Regnery with a book of my own.
One of the editors wrote back to say he had enjoyed reading the book, but they had decided to pass because I was an unknown.
He explained that it was because I didn’t have a radio or TV show, and didn’t, like Michelle Malkin and Ann Coulter, appear on other people’s shows so often it seemed like they had their own.
He said that Regnery would have to spend a lot of time and money making me better-known, and that it wasn’t worth it when there were already so many well-known Conservatives writing books or, I would suggest, having them ghost-written.
It was one of the nicest rejections I have ever received.
Clearly, if I had set my sights on becoming a best-selling author, I would have been wiser to have pursued a career in politics.
How is it, you well might wonder, that the same jackasses who yammered about how unconstitutional, not to mention reprehensible, it would have been to deploy military troops at our southern border when we were being invaded by caravans of Latin Americans mobs, are suddenly just fine with several thousand armed soldiers being stationed in the streets of our nation’s capital for the foreseeable future?
Are we to believe that American citizens are more dangerous than foreigners — including murderous gang members, drug smugglers and sex traffickers — who have no stake in America, who don’t pay our taxes, speak our language or respect our sovereignty?
I, for one, hate the very idea that we have all those soldiers protecting Nancy Pelosi’s place of business, but we didn’t see even a single cop protecting the businesses of regular people in Portland, Minneapolis, Chicago, Atlanta, Seattle, Kenosha and even Washington, D.C.
In his attempt to live up to the boast of having the most diverse administration in history, Joe Biden has appointed a 64 year old transgender named Rachel Levine (born Richard Levine) to be his Assistant Secretary of Health. She/he has been the Pennsylvania Secretary of Health. One has to assume that mental health didn’t come under his/her purview.
Apparently, Levine never underwent the surgical procedure, so he is basically a transvestite. He even had to take voice lessons so he could learn to speak like a woman.
In case you haven’t seen him, he went from being a very homely man to looking like that man’s very homely mother.
In fact, he looks a lot like one of my late uncles. Or would if Uncle Lou had gone in for female clothing and cheesy wigs.
God knows Joe Biden is trying his best to satisfy every segment of the population that voted for him. Unless I’ve missed something, the only ones he hasn’t checked off the list thus far are albinos and hermaphrodites.
When Rudy Giuliani was still being referred to as “America’s Mayor,” people would point out that it was his “broken window” policy that led to New York City’s renewal.
It was his belief that if a broken window wasn’t quickly repaired, it led to more broken windows and the inevitable decline of a neighborhood. It also applied to police not enforcing the law.
I think the nation’s broken windows involved the closing of mental institutions and the getting rid of vagrancy laws.
It didn’t help that the language police stopped people from referring to the human flotsam as bums and crazy people. Suddenly, all those people on Skid Row, boozing and shooting up and hearing voices, were being referred to as the homeless.
They were only homeless because they were either insane and couldn’t hold a job or so devoted to the needle and the bottle that they didn’t want to take time off to get a job. Once the ACLU got involved, arguing in courts that these derelicts had the right to sleep on the street and to use the sidewalks as their toilets, Skid Rows expanded to include entire cities.
The virtue-signaling creeps who argue that as Americans, the bums have the right to live any way they wish are simply too dense to understand that something has to be done with broken people as well as broken windows.
Lack of money isn’t the problem. The problem is that the money required to house these people in the appropriate institutions is being squandered on illegal immigrants who simply have no right to be here.
Ed Rolanty shared a meme that read: “If Twitter can do whatever it wants as a private company, then every single business in America should be open right now.”
Anyone who can’t see that what the Silicon Valley oligarchs are doing by censoring conservative speech is worse than the health risk of opening up American businesses is a simpleton.
John Sarantos passed along one of my favorite jokes. It’s rather long, but I will try to shorten it without ruining it.
Just as a guy is leaving his apartment, a taxi appears and he hops in.
The passenger comments that he’s not usually so lucky, and the cabbie mentions that, when it came to luck, nobody could compare to Frank Feldman.
As they drive along, the cabbie goes on and on, praising Frank Feldman. It seems the guy was a great athlete, a superb singer, a graceful dancer and was extremely witty.
When the passenger asks whether Frank Feldman had any shortcomings, the cabbie assures him that Frank Feldman had none. He had a mind like a computer, could remember everybody’s birthday, knew every shortcut in the city, dressed like Fred Astaire, always knew what wine to order and never uttered a cuss word. He was, in a word, perfect.
Finally, the passenger wonders how the cabbie had come to meet this paragon.
“Well,” said the cabbie, “I never really met Frank Feldman. He died and I married his widow.”
