I can spot a politically liberal woman, inevitably a stout but frequently passed over feminist, from one town away.
Fast heading for the Age of Prune, she is typically middle-aged and haughtily unmarried. She also is sallow-skinned with jealousy of women who are happily wrapped in the arms of their men.
Having memorized the Book of Liberal, she wears an angry streak to the office every morning — for good reason. Because the sun rose. The sun set. Or it didn’t show up at all.
What a perfect answer to yesterday’s slaughter of eight yeshiva students in Jerusalem.
Jewish lives tragically end, and a new one begins, which is one reason why, Jews believe, the Jewish people never will be extinguished.
In a few hours, Yehoshua Dalin, 26 years old, of Venice, will board an eastward flight that eventually will carry him to Jerusalem in time for breakfast on Wednesday morning. If it is possible for one Jew to compensate, in heaven’s eyes, for the loss of eight Jewish peers, Mr. Dalin brings unassailable credentials to the Land of His Fathers to fill the unfillable gap.
In case the news did not leak, like sticky syrup, onto your fluffy pancakes this morning, the Palestinian President of the West Bank has agreed to resume “piece” talks with Israel, the land he and his minions have vowed to destroy.
Mahmoud Abbas, a prominent Arab terrorist best known as a Holocaust denier before the piece-loving Palestinians elected him a couple of winters ago, did not make the announcement.
The un-stunning news came from Condoleeza Rice, who would be regarded as the silliest, most foolish Secretary of State of the past 60 years had she not been preceded by Madeline (The Boob) Albright.
As an intensely sensitive person, I habitually defer to my betters.
This morning, I bow to my teachers in the Democrat Party who encouraged me to confront endemic racism and to confront endemic sexism, no matter the cost to me.
Out, darned racism. Out, darned sexism.
If Barack Obama is elected in November, he probably will make Democrats forget about Jimmah Carter being Worst President of the Last 50 Years.
Upon slightly closer examination than he has been subjected to in his first year on the national stage, young Mr. Obama consistently has demonstrated shaky to abysmal judgment of character, both in the marginalized strictly hard left advisors he has hired to educate him and the slimy personalities he has conducted business with in Chicago.
Since liberals are not embarrassable, we do not have to divert our eyes while the Mexican Crook, the outgoing Speaker of the Assembly, childishly rolls around in the gutter with the greedy Karen Bass, the incoming Speaker of the Assembly, over when she will succeed him.
Being Mayor of Culver City may be more meaningful than being the spoon-fed Speaker of the Assembly.
The Speaker’s position these days of legislative decline is like a cheap plastic toy from China with a crack in it.
For Democratic sissies and other members of the uninformed class, a bevy of gleaming trumpets should sound joyously across Culver City neighborhoods this morning.
Last night, one of our (?) own, Karen (I Feel So, So Darned Entitled) Bass, was elected Speaker of the Assembly.
On the prestige scale, this is the equivalent of being elected fourth vice-president in the second grade. Or fifth vice president of the Bus Riders Union.
If you have nothing else to do around 9:30 this evening, you may want to participate in a candlelight march, “Fidelity to Fidel,” along the gutter on the southern side of Culver Boulevard, starting at Overland Boulevard. The organizer is hoping for company.
The most amazing storyline of the past week has not been The New York Times’s botched journalistic assassination of Sen. McCain but rather the unbroken strand of blinding gossamer tributes to Fidel Castro, coast to coast.
The Los Angeles Times found him to be more appealing than any Republican since Warren Harding the day he died.
Two reasons I love election season in Culver City:
The socialization factor and the immediacy of news.
Mingling with the most involved people in the community several times a week — instead of just on Monday evenings at City Council meetings — is a bonus during political campaigns.
Whether the School Board or the City Council is at stake, it almost does not make a difference.
When the grandfatherly, milk-sipping dictator of Cuba announced the other morning that his strictly-Constitutional 49-year term as Head Thug of the island was toddling toward its end, because he was, I felt a pinch in my heart.
My eyelids drooped. My pace slowed.
Scarcely any moment in public life is more sincerely tinged with black crepe than when a beloved national leader gets his ticket punched for a one-way cruise down the River Styx.
