I flew out to Texas and back to California last weekend, and boy, are my arms tired and my patience tested. To leave the sordid hellhole that is Los Angeles for the functioning area around Houston (the city itself is a blue stronghold and a failed state, though less comprehensively than LA) is to see a vivid contrast between red success and blue dystopia. If only someone had written a bestselling series of conservative action novels about that scenario.
Also, President Asterisk is getting more senile by the day. He’s recently claimed he was an 18-wheel rig driver; let’s get him a chimp and make a reality show called “JB and the Bear.” At least with a monkey, this appalling fiasco might be amusing.
The pride of the libs, sausage-esqe Alexander Vindman, wrote a book, of a sort, and astonishingly it’s not a cookbook.
Two Americas and One of Them Sucks
The first thing you notice in Houston is that the airport is not a complete disaster. It is a partial disaster, with a lot of construction, but it is not as comprehensively miserable as LAX. Everyone and his brother – excuse my gender assumptions – was flying on a recent Friday morning and I had to drop the family and go find some off-airport parking lot like a sucker. LAX was wall-to-wall with people leaving the Golden State. Houston was civilized, and the luggage was there when we got to baggage claim. Of course, it took a half-hour to walk there, but anyway…
Recommended
There are few bums. I saw one or two, but I did not see the massive collections of shanties, lean-tos, and shebangs that make up the urban villages of the damned you see all over Los Angeles. It could be the weather – there’s this thing called humidity outside of Cali, and it rains in summer if you can believe it – but I think it’s that in Texas you’re just not allowed to be a hobo. Maybe in Austin, but not in the Houston suburbs.
You can carry a gun, like a citizen. That’s cool. And there are a bunch of awesome breweries. Maybe don’t mix those two. The food is good. And people are nice. People in LA are not mean. They just don’t care. They got their thing and you got yours. In Texas, people say “Hi.” They also don’t wear masks like a bunch of sissies. That right there is enough to grant this round of the competition to the Lone Star State. No wonder everyone is moving there.
Convoy!
Breaker, breaker, this is Grandpa Badfinger about to put the hammer down, over. 10-4, good buddy!
I hope CB jokes are not lost on you – producer Duane at the Hugh Hewitt show (where I guest-hosted all last week) described CB radio as the Instagram of the 70s. That seems apt.
But back to our increasingly demented pseudo-prezzy. How long will this charade go on? That paste-eating moron is one Matlock marathon away from pushing the red button thinking he’s calling for his afternoon bowl of mush. Is it the cold, gnawing terror of President Harris that keeps people from shouting the obvious, that homeboy is senile? Or does Dr. Jill just love being FLOTUS so much she’s willing to keep this guy going like that Earth dude they dope up in the Star Trek episode where there are Nazis?
This is unsustainable. He’ll fall over and break his hip, or pee himself, or go on an extended, unscripted rant about minorities wherein he shares the kind of sensitive racial insights that have distinguished him for decades. If you thought his “clean and articulate” groaner was bad, wait until you see * go off before they get a shepard’s crook and tug him offstage.
One way or another, America is going to have a reckoning with the fact we – allegedly – elected a desiccated old weirdo president. And it’s coming faster than the smart set thinks.
Lt. Col. Sausage Has a Book For Some Reason
Every military guy takes a look at LTC Bratwurst and they know him. Maybe not personally, but they know the type. There’s one in every division. He is the assistant to the deputy, the guy in charge of making copies and printing PowerPoint packets. He’s pompous, for no reason, and he’s tiresome to no end. He never gets a command because, well, just look at him. No brigade commander wants to walk into the unit area and see his newest battalion commander hanging from a flag pole by his underpants.
The Army is a mess, but even it had the sense to route him to retirement. No one, not even the wokest of the woke, wants the guy who famously screwed his boss on their staff.
He has a book now, with the title something like “My Sacred Honor: How Only I Had The Integrity to Sellout My Superior.” Liberals will buy it and stick it unread on the shelf next to Hunter’s autobiography. If you want to wade through 250 pages of large type about his heroic struggle to ensure that unelected bureaucrats instead of the guy elected President were allowed to make foreign policy, go for it. Most people with that kind of kink prefer putting on vinyl and a ball gag, as they suffer less.
Vindman’s 16th minute consists of doing the Sunday shows, but after that, he’s off to obscurity. He’s served his purpose like so many other liberal celebs whose stars shown brightly on MSNBCNN for a moment, then faded away.
Henceforth, he shall be known, if at all, as “Fat Cindy Sheehan.”
IT IS FINALLY HERE! My sixth Kelly Turnbull action thriller, The Split, is a bestseller. Check it out and check out Crisis, as well as my other four novels about what happens when America splits into red and blue countries, People's Republic, Indian Country, Wildfire, and Collapse!
My super-secret email address is kurt.schlihter@townhall.com
