Today the usually perspicacious folks at Powerline showcased what they called a clinic for Republican candidates when Carly Fiorina answered a persistent Jake Tapper who kept demanding to know about her support for a ban on abortions after 20 weeks gestation. Would she, the gimlet-eyed, steely-voiced Tapper demanded, support exceptions in cases of rape or incest?
This is a classic example of the magician distracting your attention by getting you to focus on his left hand, which is repeatedly shuffling a deck of cards, while his right hand makes a tray of daiquiris and serves them to the people in the first row, leaving you puzzling about why the first row seems to be enjoying the show more than the rest of the audience.
The Powerline folks applauded Carly Fiorina for throwing the question back in Tapper’s lap and telling him to ask, instead, questions about abortion to Hillary Clinton.
Fiorina’s performance was, undoubtedly, a competent politician’s performance, which may be sufficient for now because she isn’t, after all, a politician.
What she missed, and what Powerline missed her missing, was an historic, epochal, sound-barrier-shattering moment:
Every time somebody, anybody, tries to restrict abortions in any way it takes less than a millisecond for somebody to say
What about in cases of rape or incest?
We’re not talking about abortion per se here. We’re talking about abortion after 20 weeks gestation. 20 weeks is about 5 months. Close to Herman Gosnell territory. So why, Carly might have said, is that even a question? She might have continued,
Who gets raped by anyone or snuggled by a close relative and takes five months to figure it out? And if someone does, does it happen often enough that we need to use our time hashing out the fine points? What’s next? Angels on the head of a pin?
And that might have been the last time we’d have to listen to the media’s version of Row, Row Your Abortion Boat.
Is HBO really trying to censor a fighter’s boxing trunks because they sport an ammo company’s logo? That seems to be the message the folks at Hot Air are taking away from HBO’s contract negotiations with one of the top pro boxers, Sergey Kovalev.
Normally I would leap on this like white on rice, as they used to say in St. Bernard Parish when it still existed, but as both the Hot Air blog post and its source from the National Shooting Sports Foundation seemed just a wee bit u-r-g-e-n-t and as neither blog post addressed what was actually said I couldn’t escape the suspicion that the real issue might just be a general ban on turning boxing trunks into billboards, just like Pete Rozelle’s banning Jim McMahon’s Nike headband for Superbowl XX.
But if the issue was really that HBO didn’t want to be associated in any way with guns then they have raised the hypocrisy bar so high that the word had better be retired because nobody will ever again deserve it.
On the day my daughter was born the superstar of the neo-natal ward was one Caitlin Finn. A beautiful, happy, hearty girl. Hearty might be the operative word. Caitlin was 13 pounds.
For comparison, that same day my own daughter was born. Accompanied by noises I didn’t know the human throat could make. She was an ounce under 7.5 pounds.
So, Caitlin, as you are all starry-eyed about being a real woman, and we are all rooting for you, let’s go! Have at it. We are all sure you’re just itchin’ to be delivered of a baby at least that robust!
Heather McDonald has a new article out about Micro Aggressions.
When I first heard about Micro Aggressions I thought they’d work something like this:
You bump into somebody who was recently made a Viscount and you say, “Pardon me” instead of “Pardon me, Your Lordship.”
Then I thought it was something like my mother used to tell me was fun:
You go to a concert, sit where the flute players can see you, make eye contact with the flute players and, then just when their one big passage is coming up, suck on a lemon slice.
Recently I thought it might be to go to a meeting of the ACLU or the NAACP, something with initials, anyway, and, when there was a lull in the conversation, hum the themesong from The Dukes of Hazard. Just a good old boy, …
But, no. Heather informs us that the greatest latest Bushitler-Chimpy-Seinfeld is… wait for it …
Attendees at the seminar were subjected to an “interactive theater scenario” called “Ready to Vote?” that showed white male computer-science professors on a fictional hiring committee belittling females and failing to “value diversity.”
Ah. Computer Science Professors. Yup. That’s a pretty rum lot. It is even rumored that a few of them are terrified of an alligator with a ticking alarm clock in his belly because they are convinced the clock isn’t digital. Keel-hauling is too good for them. Aarrrgh!
You really have to be careful in Academe. A few years ago some wag at ASU typed up a Sexual Harassment Consent Form which listed a bunch of items next to little boxes you could check. Items like: It’s OK to stare at my breasts when you’re talking to me.
Well, the people who write the new rules on the Animal Farm barn each night do not cotton to ribaldry. So the entire staff of the ASU physics department was fired. If they had things like rent to pay, kids to feed, or second-hand VW’s needing gas, tough! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Just try and get a job in another physics department in a state with a total of 37 physics department employees!
These are, after all the Archons of Academe. Where we all need surely be. No short-lived enthusiasts they! Just ask ‘em. Today: Caitlin Jenner is the bravest
man woman being life form Large Butt (LgBt?) on the planet! And we care about he she him her it what? Because Darfur was so yesterday. Likewise #BRING BACK OUR GIRLS.
Because Tranny is Tympani! (drumroll, please).
Now, let’s hear more about those Micro Computer Science Professors. Are they now, or have they ever been DENIERS?