by James Howard Kunstler, Kunstler:
My favorite moment in the Wednesday night “B” Team installment of the Democratic primary debates was Julian Castro’s “defense” of transgender abortion rights. Say what…? I almost dropped my bag of Dinamita Mojo Criollo Doritos. Did that really come out of Little Julian’s mouth? Apparently so. But how does it actually work?
Like, say, in theory, someone “transitioning” from female-to-male gets inadvertently knocked-up after a (perhaps mistaken) romantic encounter with an actual man and has to, you know, get rid of the little problem zhe has acquired? Could be… but is this a relatively common occurrence down San Antone way? And how might it apply in male-to-female trans cases of merely hysterical pregnancy? Sounds like something that the auteur Guillermo Del Toro might have fun with. Such are the thorny issues of “reproductive justice” that dot the arid terrain of Progressive Thought — like unto the poisonous fruit of the sacred datura bush in the Sonoran Desert.
More insidiously, Mr. Castro’s main immigration reform idea is to repeal Section 1325 of the Immigration and Nationality Act, which is the federal law that makes casual “undocumented” entry to the USA a crime. In other words: an open border. Just pile on in y’all! Makes sense for a political party that has basic boundary problems with every other element of American life (see above). But something tells me it won’t poll so well in the places where misty notions of national sovereignty still linger and English is nostalgically preferred.
Mr. Castro was entertaining for sure, when he wasn’t over-speaking every other candidate on the rostrum, but the prize for pendejo de la noche must go to that other Texan, long-tall Beto O’Rourke of the flapping arms and bobbing head, who virtually serenaded the audience in Español to represent his bona fides as the Party’s official El Zorro. Cory Booker gave the loving tongue a brief workout, too, later on, but he came off more like a broken piñata than Don Diego de la Vega.
Apart from the colorful homage to all things Mexican, the signal event of the night was Elizabeth Warren’s stealth political suicide when the popular question of Medicare-for-all came up and NBC’s Lester Holt asked the candidates for a show of hands as to who would abolish private health insurance altogether. Up shot Liz’s hand. Only New York’s mayor, the feckless Bill DeBlasio joined her. If the contest was a game of “Survivor” both would have thereby voted themselves off the island — except Big Bill was never really on the island, just circling around it like a wayward jellyfish blown hither and yon by Progressive winds.
The only “B” Team figure onstage who appeared to be a serious candidate was Hawaiian congressperson Tulsi Gabbard, a major in the US Army Reserve with tours-of-duty in Iraq and Kuwait — especially impressive when smacking down cretinous Ohio congressman Tim Ryan, who mistakenly asserted that the Taliban were behind 9/11. Uh, no, Tulsi informed him, it was al Qaeda (sponsored by our “friend” Saudi Arabia). I predict Tulsi will make the cut to the “A” team, despite the news media’s desperate efforts to shove her off the playing field.
And, of course, the “A’s” dutifully marched onstage Thursday night for the heavyweight division mouth-off, with Jumpin’ Joe Biden at center so everybody could get a good shot at him, and the two designated wing-nuts, Rep. Eric “Collusion” Swalwell (CA) and New Age swami Marianne Williamson at the left and right margins, to protect against any sound ideas actually entering the arena.
Swalwell touched off the main event by tossing a hand-grenade at Uncle Joe for failing to relinquish the torch that he has selfishly not passed to the next generation (of politicians) — the catch being that said torch may be used to burn down what’s left of the republic. The attack seemed to give front-runner Joe the vapors. He insisted he has more torch songs yet to sing. That cued Sen. Kamala Harris (CA), playing Shiva Destroyer-of-Worlds, to jam the torch right into Uncle Joe’s smiling puss, saying that the ex-Veep’s recent remarks about making nice with the senate’s staunch segregationists of yore was “hurtful” to her personally. For a moment, I thought she was going to belt out a rendition of that old tearjerker, “Feelings.” Uncle Joe will now have to wear the scarlet “R” on his forehead until his campaign whirls down the drain — without even having to answer questions about just how come his son, Hunter, came up with zillion-dollar payments from Ukraine and China well before the advent of Mr. Trump.