Tag: POTUS

Ilana Mercer: Motormouth Megyn Kelly & The Mad Matriarchy

It’s “R & R for Megyn Kelly,” the Fox News channel announced last week on its website, followed by a gooey note from Kelly herself. Why was FNC broadcasting the vacation schedule of the Golden Goose that henpecked Donald Trump? Had Kelly been licked into shape by Trump? Was she off to lick her wounds?

Since the testy exchange between Trump and Kelly, at the first prime-time Republican debate, in Cleveland, Ohio, the anchor’s eponymous TV show, “The Kelly File,” has covered the meteoric rise of Mr. Trump sparingly. Perhaps Kelly has come to view herself as a kingmaker. Perhaps she thinks that should she choose not to report about a newsmaker; he’ll somehow fade into obscurity.

Full disclosure: At first blush, I was impressed by the quality of Fox News’ journalism, in Cleveland, writing too exuberantly that “the true stars of the debate were the ruthless, impartial, analytical” reporters. Better that Kelly be the one to ask foolish, fem-oriented questions of The Donald than future Dem moderators. It neutralizes the latter. Or so I reasoned.

Moreover, it’s indisputable that compared to previous presidential debates overrun as they were by Democrat journos—Kelly, Bret Baier and Chris Wallace did a good job.

No presidential debate should, however, be gauged by how it departs from debates in which questions such as these are posed:

“Senator Obama, how do you address those who say you’re not authentically black enough?”

“Senator Dodd, you’ve been in Congress more than 30 years. Can you honestly say you’re any different?”

“Congressman Kucinich, your supporters certainly say you are different. Even your critics would certainly say you are different … What do you have that Senators Clinton and Obama do not have?” [Wait a sec. I know the answer: a trophy wife.]

And how about this intellectually nimble follow-up?

“Senator Clinton, you were involved in that [how-am-I-different] question. I want to give you a chance to respond [to that how-am-I-different question].”

“Senator Obama, you were also involved in that [how-am-I-different] question, as well. Please respond.”

The final crushingly stupid question to the 1-trick donkeys debating, in the 2007 CNN/YouTube Democratic presidential debate, was this:

“Who was your favorite teacher and why, Senator Gravel?”

The “journalist” pounding the presidential candidates was jackass Anderson Cooper of CNN.

Before she beat a retreat, Kelly had assembled a studio audience of Republican establishmentarian, to whom she directed another leading question: She herself knew nobody who’d call a woman a pig or a dog. Could they say the same? Kelly was alluding to the litany she had directed at Trump during her Cleveland performance (where she had cast herself as leading lady).

Kelly: “You’ve called women you don’t like, ‘fat pigs,’ ‘dogs,’ ‘slobs,’ and ‘disgusting animals.”

Trump [in good humor]: “Only Rosie O’Donnell.”

Megyn [bare-fanged]: “No it wasn’t. For the record, it was well beyond Rosie O’Donnell. Your Twitter account has several disparaging comments about women’s looks. You once told a contestant on ‘Celebrity Apprentice’ it would be a pretty picture to see her on her knees. Does that sound to you like the temperament of a man we should elect as president?”

Still under the brain-addling spell of the Cooper-Candy Crowley brain trust, I thought no less of Kelly for that dumbest of questions. Her anti-individualist, collectivist feminism is news to her fans, but not to me. Kelly’s vocabulary is of a piece with the nauseating vocabulary of third-wave feminism.

More irksome was the allusion to the dignity of The Office. A while ago, fancy pants Kelly joined Don Lemon (CNN), Cooper and Rachel Mad Cow to editorialize angrily at Obama for damaging the dignity of The Office. These celebrity journos were, in fact, green with envy over GloZell Green, a YouTube sensation to whom president Obama granted an interview. Good for him.

Our TV narcissists—they live not for the truth, but for a seat at the Annual White House Sycophant’s Supper, or alongside the smarmy Jon Stewart (or his unfunny South African replacement), or next to the titillaters of “The View,” or on the late-night shows—were jealous. Dented was the vanity of the egos in the anchor’s chair.

Besides which the American presidency was pimped out a longtime ago—well before the current POTUS and FLOTUS held soirees sporting disco balls and the half-nude, pelvis-grinding Beyoncé.

Kelly herself has fast succumbed to the female instinct to show-off, bare skin, flirt and wink. She now also regularly motormouths it over the occasional smart guest she entertains (correction: the one smart guest, Ann Coulter). At the same time, Kelly has dignified the tinnitus named Dana Perino with a daily slot as Delphic oracle.

Trump, on the other hand, has proven he can be trusted to beat up on the right women.

Exhibit A is Elizabeth Beck, a multitasking “attorney,” who once deposed Donald Trump while also waving her breast pump in his face, demanding to break for a breast-pumping session.

“You’re disgusting. You’re disgusting,” the busy billionaire blurted in disbelief. And she was. Still is. Accoutered for battle, Beck recently did the rounds on the networks. In addition to a mad glint in the eye, Beck brought to each broadcast a big bag packed with milking paraphernalia.

Had she cared about boundaries and propriety, Kelly would have asked Trump how he kept his cool during a legal deposition, with an (ostensible) professional, who insisted on bringing attention to her lactating breasts.

Writes Fred Reed, who regularly tracks our malevolent matriarchy’s “poor sense of social boundaries”:

The United States has embarked, or been embarked, on a headlong rush into matriarchy, something never before attempted in a major country. Men remain numerically dominant in positions of power, yes, but their behavior and freedom are ever more constrained by the wishes of hostile women. The effects have been disastrous. They are likely to be more so. The control, or near control, extends all through society. Politicians are terrified of women. … The pathological egalitarianism of the age makes it career-ending to mention that women in fact are neither equal nor identical to men. …

Not quite in the league of Elizabeth Beck yet, Megyn Kelly was, nevertheless, in need of a dressing-down and a time-out.

**
Ilana Mercer is a paleolibertarian writer, based in the U.S. She is a fellow at the Jerusalem Institute for Market Studies. Her latest book is “Into the Cannibal’s Pot: Lessons For America From Post-Apartheid South Africa.” Her website is www.IlanaMercer.com. Follow her on Twitter. “Friend” her on Facebook.

Dining with POTUS

Order one with mustard, and cross your fingers

The golden age of political poisoning has largely come and gone. POTUS, however, still eats the way a ruler of an Empire did.

We know Saddam Hussein, for one, had people on the payroll to sample his dinner. His son Uday apparently incurred his wrath by having a favorite food taster killed.

Figureheads seem to have let their guard down a bit. Royals in the UK and imperials in Japan have reportedly been eating taster-free for some time now. But others a finger on the reins of world power consider the possibility that he or she might get poisoned.

Which is why, though there may not be anyone who puts down “presidential food taster” under “occupation” on his 1040, there are definitely mechanisms in place to ensure that the U.S. president doesn’t eat anything dangerous. How these mechanisms work in practice, however . . . well, the White House, as one might imagine, plays the topic exceedingly close to the vest, and writers’ requests for details (even mine) tend to go unheeded. So we’ve been left to piece things together as best we can from the occasional news account or memoir.

What seems clear is that when the president eats somewhere other than 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., tasters — in the form of Secret Service agents or military personnel — are likely to be involved. According to a Washington Post article from July 1990, George H.W. Bush ate out at Washington restaurants a lot by presidential standards, about once a month, and when he did he brought along his own condiments, bottled water, and a taster. On at least one occasion the taster was seen to personally wash all of George and Barbara’s tableware before use and subsequently monitor its whereabouts, sample the food, supervise its service, and uncork and taste the first couple’s wine.

Reports from early in Bill Clinton’s first term suggest inconsistent taster use: a March ’93 Post account of an impromptu dinner with the Gores at a restaurant in Alexandria, Virginia, has a trio of Secret Service agents scrutinizing the preparation of Clinton’s food but not actually trying any. But an “official” food taster (described as a “veteran of three presidencies”) turns up in a local paper’s feature on a Clinton get-together with Silicon Valley types in Los Gatos, California, a month earlier. And lest you think tasters are deployed only when the president ventures off government turf, a detachment of navy culinary specialists did the tasting (per the New York Times) at a congressional lunch held at the Capitol during George W. Bush’s inaugural festivities in 2001. One presumes security has gotten tighter since (a) the 9/11 attacks and (b) the descent of W’s approval ratings to depths previously plumbed only by hostage-crisis Jimmy Carter and athlete’s foot.

The presidential food safety team’s responsibilities go well beyond packing up a squeeze bottle of Horsey Sauce if the POTUS indicates that he’s thinking Arby’s. In his 2005 book Standing Next to History, former Secret Service agent Joseph Petro — who spent 23 years in the suit and shades — writes, “In principle nothing edible gets near the President unless we know where it comes from and who has handled it.” When the president digs in at a state banquet, Petro informs us, he’s eating basically the same stuff as everyone else in the room, but his helping has been prepared specially by White House stewards, who suit up to match the other servers at the event and carry his plate out themselves. For events in foreign countries, it’s the same thing but more so. Petro writes: “Stewards find out what’s being served at the banquet and bring the ingredients with them from the United States.”

OK, but try this one. The president (Reagan) is at a baseball game (opening day 1984, Baltimore), and his handlers decide they need a photo op of him eating a hot dog. You’re the Secret Service guy. What do you do? According to Petro’s account, you do the only thing you can: you pick a vendor at random, order one with mustard, and cross your fingers.

Vladimir Putin brings his own salt, pepper, bottled water and napkin along with him, it is rumoured. Just to be on the safe side when dealing with the Empire.

Obama raps to ‘Hell on Earth’

rapperobamaPresident Obama was with Archbishop Desmond Tutu at the HIV Foundation Center in South Africa, where a 15-year-old “rapper” performed “Hell on Earth”.

Potus entered a classroom type building with Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who was wearing a pink cassock and a large silver cross. About six young boys sat in front of screens.

The program offers after school support, which includes English conversation, and computer learning.

Tutu said “We have a staff that is very, very dedicated.”

After shaking hands with everyone, Potus squatted down on his haunches between two boys looking at computer screens.

“What are we working on right now?” he said.

Tutu said “The other guys will be jealous.”

Potus then went to the back row of the class and saw someone had his book for children “Of Thee I Sing.”

“They were wise to buy my book,” he joked and said he would sign it.
“You can go and sell it,” Tutu told the boy with a cackle.

Then another guy said he was a rapper. And Potus persuaded him to perform.

His name was Aviwe Mtongana, aka Katmeister, 15.

Potus looked on with a smile as he rapped away with a rap entitled “Hell on Earth.”
Here it is transcribed as best as I can understand it.
“What you gonna do
Watching TV, you watching Scooby Doo.
Saying the punch line, he’s not cool.
Having the party with the funny (koo)
Until you realize that …. Doom
Now come and smile with the puma system
Until you check again the work is missing
………………….
That’s the spirit ……
Heading to the goal with something failing
Now you face the hardest living
Getting out there is not pimping
The real way is through rapping.”
Then it ended with some language I couldn’t understand.
Asked what it was like to rap for the president, the boy said “cool.”
“It is a big thing and I am really proud I have met him and to do my song for him”

Then Potus called for a picture and left the room with Tutu. – The Weekly Standard