They tried to get me to hate white people, but someone would always come along & spoil it. ~ Thelonious Monk (Monk’s Advice, 1960)
As against our gauzy national hopes, I will teach my boys to have profound doubts that friendship with white people is possible. ~ Ekow N. Yankah (New York Times, 2017)
Though the question seems naïve to some, it is in fact perfectly valid to ask why black people can get away with behavior that white people can’t. The progressive response to this question invariably contains some reference to history: blacks were taken from their homeland in chains, forced to work as chattel for 250 years, and then subjected to redlining, segregation, and lynchings for another century. In the face of such a brutal past, many would argue, it is simply ignorant to complain about what modern-day blacks can get away with.
Yet there we were—young black men born decades after anything that could rightly be called ‘oppression’ had ended—benefitting from a social license bequeathed to us by a history that we have only experienced through textbooks and folklore. And my white Hispanic friend (who could have had a tougher life than all of us, for all I know) paid the price. The underlying logic of using the past to justify racial double-standards in the present is rarely interrogated. What do slavery and Jim Crow have to do with modern-day blacks, who experienced neither? Do all black people have P.T.S.D from racism, as the Grammy and Emmy award-winning artist Donald Glover recently claimed? Is ancestral suffering actually transmitted to descendants? If so, how? What exactly are historical ‘ties’ made of?
We often speak and think in metaphors. For instance, life can have ups and downs and highs and lows, despite the fact that our joys and sorrows do not literally pull our bodies along a vertical axis. Similarly, modern-day black intellectuals often say things like, “We were brought here against our will,” despite the fact that they have never seen a slave ship in their lives, let alone been on one. When metaphors are made explicit—i.e., emotions are vertical, groups are individuals—it’s easy to see that they are just metaphors. Yet many black intellectuals carry on as if they were literal truths.
One such intellectual is Michael Eric Dyson, who recently shared the stage with Michelle Goldberg in a debate against Jordan Peterson and Stephen Fry. Though the debate was ostensibly about political correctness, it ranged everywhere from Marxism to ‘white privilege.’ Around halfway through the debate, Dyson said:
If you have benefitted from 300 years of holding people in servitude, thinking that you did it all on your own…”Why can’t these people work harder?” Let me see…for 300 years you ain’t had no job! So the reality is for 300 years you hold people in the bands…you refuse to give them rights. Then all of a sudden, you ‘free’ them and say, “You’re now individuals.”
Taken literally, Dyson’s claims make no sense. No person has ever suffered 300 years of joblessness because no person has ever lived for 300 years. Of course, Dyson wasn’t speaking literally. His ‘you’ refers not to identifiable, living humans, but to groups of long-deceased individuals with whom he shares nothing in common except a location on the color wheel. But by appropriating a grievance whose rightful owners died long ago, and by slipping between the metaphorical and the literal, Dyson was able to portray himself as a member of an abstract oppressed class and Peterson as a member of an abstract oppressor class. In his reply, barely audible over Dyson’s sanctimonious harangue, Peterson put his finger on this rhetorical sleight-of-hand: “Who is this ‘you’ that you’re referring to?”
Many black progressives use the myth of collective, intergenerational transfers of suffering to exempt themselves from the rules of civil discourse. Dyson, for instance, responded to Peterson’s criticism of the concept of ‘white privilege’ with the finger-wagging rebuke: “You’re a mean, mad white man!” Despite hurling this racialized insult, Dyson will likely face no consequences. The question naturally arises—what would have happened to Peterson if he had called Dyson a “mean, mad black man”? I think it’s fair to say that Peterson would have received something less pleasant than the round of applause with which Dyson was rewarded.
The celebrated journalist Ta-Nehisi Coates provides another example of the lower ethical standard to which black writers are held. In his #1 New York Times bestseller, Between the World and Me, Coates explained that the policemen and firemen who died on 9/11 “were not human to me,” but “menaces of nature.”1 This, it turned out, was because a friend of Coates had been killed by a black cop a few months earlier. In his recent essay collection, he doubled down on this pitiless sentiment: “When 9/11 happened, I wanted nothing to do with any kind of patriotism, with the broad national ceremony of mourning. I had no sympathy for the firefighters, and something bordering on hatred for the police officers who had died.”2 Meanwhile, New York Times columnist Bari Weiss—a young Jewish woman—was recently raked over the coals for tweeting, “Immigrants: They get the job done,” in praise of the Olympic ice-skater Mirai Nagasu, a second-generation Japanese-American. Accused of ‘othering’ an American citizen, Weiss came under so much fire that The Atlantic ran two separate pieces defending her. That The Atlantic saw it necessary to vigorously defend Weiss, but hasn’t had to lift a finger to defend Coates, whom they employ, evidences the racial double-standard at play. From a white writer, an innocuous tweet provokes histrionic invective. From a black writer, repeated expressions of unapologetic contempt for public servants who died trying to save the lives of others on September 11 are met with fawning praise from leftwing periodicals, plus a National Book Award and a MacArthur ‘Genius’ Grant.
The Rihanna incident; the Dyson-Peterson debate; the Coates comment—the thread running through all three examples is that modern-day blacks are permitted to employ language and behavior for which whites would be condemned. And wherever these racial double-standards show themselves, appeals to historical oppression, and to a metaphorical ‘we,’ follow close behind. After all, it is argued, how can Dyson and Coates be expected to abide by a so-called ‘politics of respectability’ in a country that routinely humiliates and subjugates them. Indeed, all demands to uphold colorblind standards ring hollow in view of America’s foundational plunder of ‘the black body,’ we are told. The ‘black body’? Such abstract claims are rarely met with the concrete question: to whose black body are you referring?
I am currently being visited by the woman who saved my life when my heart stopped. Besides being wonderful and witty and wise, she pulls no punches when she points out what a curmudgeon’s curmudgeon I have become in the dawn of my dotage. In this, she is correct since I find my patience with, as Mark Twain put it, “the damned human race” grows shorter with each passing
year, month, …day.
Still, it’s hard to accept her wry insights and sage observations since I spend most of my time without the benefit of a woman’s civilizing point of view. On top of this, since most of the time I argue with myself, I am not used to losing an argument. This makes me cranky. Being cranky I actually (can you believe it?) endeavor to “win” arguments with her. This is always a mistake on my part since bluff and bluster cannot prevail over brains.
Fortunately, I have come across this set of rules that many men have collaborated on and set down as eternal guy wisdom. Finally, the guys’ side of the story. I plan to present these rules to her later today secure in the knowledge that she will, at last, see things from the sane guy point of view. If I live I will report back.
And yes I am wearing my surge protector.
We always hear the “rules” from the female side. Now here are the “rules” from the male side. These are our “rules”! Please note… these are all numbered “1” ON PURPOSE!
1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You’re a big girl. If it’s up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don’t hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
1. Sunday sports. It’s like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.
1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.
1. Crying is blackmail.
1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!
1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.
1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That’s what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
1. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a problem. See a doctor.
1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 days.
1. If you won’t dress like the Victoria’s Secret girls, don’t expect us to act like soap opera guys.
1. If you think you’re fat, you probably are. Don’t ask us.
1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.
1. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.
1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.
1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions and neither do we.
1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color.Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.
1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.
1. If we ask what is wrong and you say “nothing”,we will act like nothing’s wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle!
1. If you ask a question you don’t want an answer to, expect an answer you don’t want to hear.
1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine … Really.
1. Don’t ask us what we’re thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as sports, the weather, or hunting.
1. You have enough clothes.
1. You have too many shoes.
1. I am in shape. Round is a shape.
1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight; but did you know men really don’t mind that? It’s like camping.
“Is this the mouth that launched a thousand leaks?”
NY Times Reporter and Senate Staffer Caught in Sex-for-Leaks Scandal : Veiled threats were never my style, but I know a thing or two about the behavioral patterns of herd animals, and the universal contempt for Our President among the left-wing hacks of the D.C. press corps is hardly a secret, unlike the classified information that James Wolfe was handing over to Ali Watkins in exchange for sucking his middle-aged penis. Heckuva job there, Miss Watkins.
Affirmative action means hiring people because they can’t do the job well. Near-synonyms are “diversity,” meaning groups that cannot do the job well, and ”inclusiveness,” which means seeking people who you know cannot do the job well.
America still maintains reservations for Indians, but that’s only because no one knows how to get rid of them.
The “Peanut Worm” and its pals… Scientists Share The Terrifying Creatures They Found In 16,000 ft Deep Ocean, And We Almost Wish They Hadn’t
Who says there’s no good news? You’re Fired: Mick Mulvaney Fires Entire CFPB Advisory Board
It used to be daily, and then it was weekly, and now it’s down to around once a month when, no matter what I am doing, my mind jolts to a halt and I think, in all caps, HOLY MOLY, DONALD TRUMP IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES! I can only imagine how this thought festers like a suppurating chest wound inside the skulls of all the leftists and the progressives and the socialists and just plain treasonous so-called citizens in the media and in their audience.
To them it is still:
To which one can only say, more in sorrow than in anger, “Yeah. Right.”
He could slide the “wog” word past his Hollywood audience in 1972 but in 2018 Randy Newman’s got some ‘splaining to do ’bout all that monkey business.
In America you’ll get food to eat
Won’t have to run through the jungle
And scuff up your feet
You’ll just sing about Jesus and drink wine all day
It’s great to be an American
Ain’t no lions or tigers, ain’t no mamba snake
Just the sweet watermelon and the buckwheat cake
Ev’rybody is as happy as a man can be
Climb aboard, little wog, sail away with me
Sail away, sail away
We will cross the mighty ocean into Charleston Bay
Sail away, sail away
We will cross the mighty ocean into Charleston Bay
In America every man is free
To take care of his home and his family
You’ll be as happy as a monkey in a monkey tree
You’re all gonna be an American
Sail away, sail away
We will cross the mighty ocean into Charleston Bay
Sail away, sail away
We will cross the mighty ocean into Charleston Bay
HT: The Immortal MOTUS A.D.: Bye, Bye Ms. American Pie
In response David Warren asks, Have women peaked?
I doubt that I am the only person who wonders what the ladies will be judged by, now. Strictly cooking and knitting? Perhaps a spelling bee? Or will it be spiritual depth, in which case, we might hope to see some nuns for a change. But instead there might be a row of Social Justice Warriorettes vying for the prize, by uttering the most asinine, politically-correct remarks. If so, I would vote for the blonde with the longest hair and the biggest boobs.
Except, I’ve never been asked to judge such a competition, even in a Third World country, where Miss National contests are taken very seriously, and the principle of selection seems to be the whitest-looking girl they can find. (The West opts for the most obvious visible minority.)
Today your job is straightforward. First you must load 40 to 50 pounds on your back. Then you need to climb down a net of rope that is banging on the steel side of a ship and jump into a steel rectangle bobbing on the surface of the ocean below you. Others are already inside the steel boat shouting and urging you to hurry up.
Once in the boat you stand with dozens of others as the boat is driven towards distant beaches and cliffs through a hot hailstorm of bullets and explosions. Boats moving nearby are, from time to time, hit with a high explosive shell and disintegrate in a red rain of bullets and body parts. Then there’s the smell of men near you fouling themselves as the fear bites into their necks and they hunch lower into the boat. That smell mingles with the smell of cordite and seaweed.
In front of you, over the steel helmets of other men, you can see the flat surface of the bow’s landing ramp still held in place against the sea. Soon you are within range of the machine guns that line the cliffs above the beach ahead. The metallic death sound of their bullets clangs and whines off the front of the ramp.
Then the coxswain shouts and the klaxon sounds and thenyou feel the keel of the LVCP grind against the rocks and sand of Normandy as the large shells from the boats in the armada behind you whuffle and moan overhead and then the explosions all around increase in intensity and then the bullets from the machine guns in the cliffs ahead and above rattle and hum along the steel plates of the boat and the men crouch lower and then somehow together lean forward as, at last, the ramp drops down and you see the beach and then the men surge forward and you step with them and then you are out in the chill waters of the channel wading in towards sand already doused with death, past bodies bobbing in the surf staining the waters crimson. Then you are on the beach.
It’s worse on the beach.
The bullets keep probing along the sand digging holes, looking for your body, finding others that drop down like sacks of meat with their lines to heaven cut. You run forward because there’s nothing but ocean at your back and more men dying and… somehow… you reach a small sliver of shelter at the base of the cliffs. There are others there, confused and cowering and not at all ready to go back out into the storm of steel that keeps pouring down. And then someone, somewhere nearby, tells you all to press forward, to go on, to somehow get off that beach and onto the high ground behind it, and because you don’t know what else to do, you rise up and you move forward, beginning, one foot after another, to take back the continent of Europe.
If you are lucky, very lucky, on that day and the days after, you will walk all the way to Germany and the war will be over and you will go home to a town somewhere on the great land sea of the Midwest and you won’t talk much about this day or any that came after it, ever.
They’ll ask you, throughout long decades after, “What did you do in the war?” You’ll think of this day and you will never think of a good answer. That’s because you know just how lucky you were.
If you were not lucky on that day you lie under a white cross on a large lawn 74 long gone years later.
Weak princes and fat bureaucrats and traitors mumble platitudes and empty praises about actions they never knew and men they cannot hope to emulate.
You hear their prattle, dim and far away outside the brass doors that seal the caverns of your long sleep. You want them to go, to leave you and your brothers in arms to your brown study of eternity.
“Seventy-four years? Seems like a lot to the living. It’s but an inch of infinite time. Leave us and go back to your petty lives. We march on and you, you weaklings primping and parading above us, will never know how we died or how we lived. If we hear you at all now, your mewling only makes us ask, among ourselves, ‘Died for what?’
“Princes and bureaucrats, be silent. Be gone. We are now and forever one with the sea and the sky and the wind and the steel rain. We march on.”
Normandy Today. From the Comments– Chris:
“I took the image on the link at low tide in Normady in 2006. This is literally at the edge of the water looking back to the bluffs where the American cemetery is. Look how damn far that is… it took a good 20 minutes to walk down from the cemetery to the water’s edge. I cannot imagine having gone the other way wet, seasick, with a 60-pound ruck on my back, a rifle that weighed a friggin ton unloaded, and with bullets and mortar shells raining down on me.
It could not be done by the men of today.
Imagine that it is now summer 2024. A 78-year-old lame-duck President Trump is winding down his second term, basking in positive polls. His dutiful vice president in waiting, Mike Pence, is at last getting his chance to run for president. Imagine also that Pence is a shoo-in, facing long-shot, hard-leftist, and octogenarian Senator Bernie Sanders. Polls show an impending Pence landslide.
Team Trump is nevertheless horrified about the slight chance that the nation could conceivably elect an ossified, self-proclaimed socialist. It accuses Sanders of wanting to turn upside down free-market capitalism, and to nullify the entire eight-year Trump agenda.
Think of some of the many ways the left is at cross purposes with itself: it wants more immigration to America, even though this will (according to their theories) result in catastrophic global warming; females have an absolute right to abortion, and therefore no right to live to exercise the right; racial discrimination is wrong, and the state should do more of it; don’t judge people by their immutable racial characteristics, but White Privilege!
Russiagate was always a toxic cocktail of pre-election dirty tricks and post-election sour grapes. Its central theory has never been adequately explained or justified because even its proponents are unable to explain just how the election was rigged or why Trump would turn to the Russians, instead of his own wildly successful messaging team, to run Facebook ads. If there’s one thing that everyone ought to be able to agree on, it’s that Trump has never lacked for marketing savvy.
Go away, Miss America They have re-invented the “GE College Bowl.” Bring on the transgendered. And the men. You cannot discriminate. And why not a married Miss America? And an illegal alien one. Hold it in the bathroom at Starbucks with everyone kneeling when they play the national anthem.
When all Earth’s seas shall Levitate,
Dark shawled above the skies,
For our new eyes will Starfish dance
Their waltz of Blind surprise.
The sun will Rise within Wine Dark
As Argonauts imbibed,
Whose drunken arms embraced that sleep
Where Phaeton’s horses Stride.
Upon all Earth’s wind-sanded shores,
As dolphins Learn to soar,
All we were upon the land
Shall be sealed behind the Door
Of Ivory and Chastened Gold,
That the Mystery solved complete
Shall never till the seas’ Long fall
Wake mariners from their Sleep.
“Evacuate Mountain Park! Here he comes!”
A man for this season and coming ones.
“Marvin John Heemeyer (October 28, 1951 – June 4, 2004) was an American welder and an automobile muffler repair shop owner most known for his rampage with a modified bulldozer. Outraged over zoning disputes, he armored a Komatsu D355A bulldozer with layers of steel and concrete and used it on June 4, 2004 to demolish the town hall, the former mayor’s house, and other buildings in Granby, Colorado. The rampage ended when the bulldozer got stuck in the basement of a Gambles store he was in the process of destroying. Heemeyer then killed himself with a handgun.
Heemeyer had been feuding with Granby officials, particularly over fines for violating city ordinances and a zoning dispute regarding a concrete batch plant constructed opposite his muffler shop”
HT: Western Rifle Shooters Association | The battle is for the hearts and minds of Norm the Normie and his family. Never forget that both sides are fighting for that ground. Do your part every day. [click to continue…]
“A life on the ocean waves,
A home on the rolling deep…”
— Sea Shanty
In travel, I once thought there were only three levels of tedium that overtake one between departure to destination. If you go by car, your tedium level is light. You have the power to interrupt your journey at any point as well as a changing view and a task, driving, for diversion. Travel by rail or bus introduces you to the second level of tedium when only scheduled stops enable you to break the journey, but the scenery remains in the middle distance as a diversion. Should you go by air, your despair and terror are lessened by the knowledge that, except for extreme distances, your powerlessness and lack of view will at least last no more than a day.
The three levels of tedium. Each more or less equal to the others and each part of what you pay for wanting to indulge in the mindlessness of modern travel. But I have, this week discovered, a fourth level and this level contains all the horrors of travel plus the horrors of actually being there. This is a level of tedium previously unexplored by me, but rumored to exist by sensible travelers who have gone and returned to tell the tale. I should have believed them but, like the fool I have always been, I had to experience it myself. Right now I am still trapped within the confines of the experience but it isn’t too soon to send out a warning in the hopes that there are others out there who will not be the fool I was; who will turn back before committing themselves to this constantly renewing fresh hell on the ocean waves.
But should you have a taste for tedium, should boredom be like mother’s milk and daily bread (lots of it) to you, you will be surfeited by this otherwise antiquated mode of travel. Indeed, for sheer, mind-obliterating tedium, for the kind of vacancy induced only by event horizons with no events and fewer horizons; for a feeling that arises in no experience other than incarceration, there is nothing that can beat the tedium induced by that modern masterpiece of torpor, stupor and pointlessness, the Cruise Ship.
This marvel of contemporary capitalism — a hotel that takes its patrons far out of reach of any competition — has no peer when it comes to simultaneously suspending and extending time. At sea, the ship”s clock is all there is and its pendulum pulses exceedingly slow. After a day or so, you exist in this world with either way too much time or outside of time altogether. Either way the first thing to leave is your mind and judgment. This is hardly noticed by most since management has arranged for a host of activities so mindless that you will be convinced for days that you are actually in possession not only of your mind, but your right one at that. It is only when the credit card bills arrive long after you are at home that you will realize what you have done to yourself.
The sane reaction to a cruise, once one has trapped oneself on board and has perceived exactly what sort of fresh and renewing hell one is in, would be to wait until midnight and throw yourself off the ship in the hopes that the props would convert you to chum before the sharks found you.
But since you are obviously so insane as to actually get on the cruise ship in the first place, this blissful option is closed to you. Besides, the small pattern of looping dots on the map in the main lounge that lays out your trip to nowhere gives you the hope that, when all the little red dots have changed to green, you will be released and returned to life. Since the ship only moves at a piddling four dots per day, and since the dots are many, you try not to peek too often lest despair absorb you and you hear the chimes of the starboard rail at midnight.
“As several of their senior friends began to spend more time on cruises than on land, my grandparents became aware of an elite cabal of sorts within the cruising subculture: passengers scattered across different cruise lines who choose to live at sea permanently. One such passenger was Mario Salcedo, or “Super Mario” as the crew of the Enchantment of the Seas affectionately calls him. For the past two decades, Mario has been a full-time resident on Royal Caribbean Cruises, accumulating over 7,300 nights at sea.”
“I wish I had my own private elevator.”
Reader DeAnn points us to the always sane Bookworm Room’s My “Trump’s America” movie looks as if it will have a happy ending saying “Some of this little essay had me laughing right out loud. Maybe you’ll enjoy bits of it too.” And I did, so here’s the start of it for all of you.
I wake up happy every day in Trump’s America because I’m convinced that I’m watching a wonderful documentary in which America and Americans are thriving.
One of the points Scott Adams makes repeatedly is that reality is an essentially fluid concept. In order to make sense of the world, we run everything through filters, kind of like our personal 3-D glasses.
Some of these filters are obvious. If you were Japanese, December 7, 1941, was a good day; if you were American, it was not. Same thing in reverse for August 6, 1945 — if you were Japanese, that was a very bad day indeed, while it was a great day for Americans, especially those American troops who would no longer have to fight every step of the way to achieve the inevitable victory over mainland Japan. Perspective matters when we view events in our lives.
Adams’ favorite analogy (or, at least, I think it’s his favorite analogy) is to say that Progressives and conservatives in America are watching two different movies. I certainly see that in my own life as a conservative living in a Progressive enclave. For the last year, my movie has been a wonderful documentary about a revitalized America. Meanwhile, my friends think I’m in a crazy fantasy and that their dystopian horror movie about a chaotic, hate-filled world is the real documentary.
Of late, and with Adams’ in mind, when I talk to Progressives, I’ve taken to telling them about Adams’ two movie theory. I then say, not that my movie is the one true documentary, the reality that history will affirm, but that “I hope that future events reveal that my movie is the correct one because it will be a better world for our children and grandchildren.”
Because I’ve phrased my optimism as a “hope,” not a “fact,” Progressives can’t argue with me. After all, they’ll sound pretty mean-spirited, almost evil, if they say they prefer that their horror movie, the one in which their descendants suffer, ends up proving to reality.
Once I’ve established that my movie is just that — a filter coloring my understanding of events in Trump’s America — I then proceed to list to Progressives all the things that give me hope. Again, because I’ve already acknowledged that this is simply my perspective and I respect theirs (so I lie a little), I don’t get an argument. They actually listen.
I thought I’d share with you the many reasons that I am watching a very happy movie and am more confident with every day that my movie will prove to be the real-time documentary, not the lunatic fantasy:
1. The economy is wonderful. Don’t listen to me on that point. Listen to — gasp! — an article in The New York Times:
The real question in analyzing the May jobs numbers released Friday is whether there are enough synonyms for “good” in an online thesaurus to describe them adequately.
So, for example, “splendid” and “excellent” fit the bill. Those are the kinds of terms that are appropriate when the United States economy adds 223,000 jobs in a month, despite being nine years into an expansion, and when the unemployment rate falls to 3.8 percent, a new 18-year low.
“Salubrious,” “salutary” and “healthy” work as words to describe the 0.3 percent rise in average hourly earnings, which are up 2.7 percent over the last year — a nice improvement but also not the kind of sharp increase that might lead the Federal Reserve to rethink its cautious path of interest rate increases.
And a broader definition of unemployment, which includes people who have given up looking for a job out of frustration, fell to 7.6 percent. The jobless rate for African-Americans fell to 5.9 percent, the lowest on record, which we would count as “great.”
From where I stand, that’s a movie that’s making me smile. Anyone who wants a horror movie filled with poor people instead of a happy economic documentary movie is mean.
2. Things are improving for America’s minorities. Again, don’t listen to me. I’ll just repeat a sentence from the above quotation: “The jobless rate for African-Americans fell to 5.9 percent, the lowest on record, which we would count as ‘great.’” I think it’s great too.
I also happen to think American minorities are benefiting from more than just the good economy. I think it helps that Trump has put up a “no trespassing” sign for those in the country illegally or those contemplating coming into the country illegally.
Face it: Illegal aliens are not taking away my job as a lawyer. Illegal aliens are taking away Mr. Black Person’s job as a gardening entrepreneur or Ms. Hispanic Person’s job as a housecleaning entrepreneur. I love entrepreneurship. I just think those in this country legally, especially those with deep roots in the country, should get first dibs.
3. The Left is revealing its true self and it’s not pretty. Ignore the unfortunate Roseanne tweet, which is anomalous. I genuinely think that Roseanne didn’t realize consigliere Jarrett was black. She’s not a highly educated, informed woman. She was also coming from a place of Ambien and mental health issues. Most significantly — and this gets to my point about the Left revealing itself red of tooth and claw — Roseanne forgot that, now that she’s identified with Trump, she can no longer get away with the vulgar, insulting fare that’s common currency in Hollywood…
READ THE WHOLE OF THE REST AT My “Trump’s America” movie looks as if it will have a happy ending