He grits his teeth until the enamel cracks.
He knots his shoes together.
He convinces a friend to blindfold him and to handcuff him to a huge mahogany desk the size of Rosie O’Donnell.
Being an inventive type, though, our friend wiggles free. He hobbles out the front door, rolls down the short set of carpeted steps from his porch, and pogo-sticks his way all the way down the block to the corner bar.
Liberals are similarly afflicted.
To those of us maintaining the books, it seems as if liberals have been swallowing magical cures for grossly offensive social behavior most of their adult lives.
I Will Never, Never… Well, One Time
Out of habit, they swear on a stack of Clinton/Rodham family Bibles that they will try to emulate the behavior of sensible people. But like the town drunk, liberals are addicted. They keep falling down, totally unable to help themselves.
They engineered their latest crime against those of us who value good taste just last month in the bucolic, stiffly politically correct university town of Davis.
Look Where the Bad Girls Work
Not surprisingly, the offenders were the historically troubled ladies and gentlemen of academia, professors by trade, summa cum laude grads of the University of Special Adults.
You would know them anywhere. They are perpetually angry, preferably about something specious. They hate all religion, except Islam. And they dress alike so they will recognize each other when they mingle with sensible people.
You may recognize the gargling tone of their rhetoric because you have heard it before. Right here in Culver City. Hometown liberals utter the same words the balmy U.C. Davis academics invoked in mid-September:
Free Speech for Everybody (Who Agrees with Us).
Except for fair-minded persons, who could possibly disagree with such a generous impulse?
Devastation, Destruction in Davis
Here is what happened in Davis.
The rarely attractive, typically unmarried, bone-thin, man-hating West Coast branch of the fiercely frosty feminist fraternity marshaled their extremely plain-looking forces to get an after-dinner speaking invitation to Lawrence Summers rescinded.
Three hundred special-needs adults, including 150 members of the U.C. Davis faculty — brawny women and flabby men — signed a stingingly worded protest. The petition, in truncated form, said how dare Davis besmirch the university’s virginal name by inviting a politically incorrect, bigoted weasel such as Mr. Summers.
Maureen, Baby, Whose Are You?
Permit me to share my favorite clause in the petition that these clowns dreamed up.
Prof. Maureen (Baby, I’m Yours) Stanton, who teaches ecology to lucky Davis students, said the invitation to Mr. Summers “was not only misguided but inappropriate” coming in a season when Davis is trying, by golly, gosh-darn, durned hard, to diversify its community. (It was later disclosed that the dolls of Davis daintily defined diversity as welcoming liberal students over the age of 30 as well as under the age of 30.)
What Kind of Yom Kippur Fast Is This?
The U.C. Board of Regents, who were to hear Mr. Summers at their meal on Sept. 19, two days before Yom Kippur, caved in to the sobbing girls and went on their morality fast early. Meekly, they surrendered to the unattractive man-haters because of a statement Mr. Summers made almost two years ago that offended the fatuously fickle, fantasy-favoring feminists.
If his name tickles your memory, Mr. Summers will be recalled as the late president of Harvard University, where one of the genuine aging witches of the fiercely frosty feminist fraternity now presides. Golly, what a gosh-darned shock.
Bad Memories Are Made of This
Mr. Summers, a well-regarded Cabinet member, Secretary of the Treasury, under President Clinton the First, did not plan to be a “former” anything at this stage of his life, much less, ex-of-Harvard.
The fiercely frosty, man-hating, politically correct free-speech feminists of Harvard, flying black and blue free-speech banners on their petite pink brooms, managed to get Mr. Summers thrown out with the rest of the stale food one fine winter day in the middle of his term.
Why Girls Flounder at Science
In a whopper of a tale that made Harvard a laughingstock among sensible people, Mr. Summers rhetorically, courageously, ventured into no-woman’s land.
Addressing some of the least socially sought-after girls on the Harvard campus a year ago last January, Mr. Summers said that inherent differences between the sexes could be a central reason why so few girls mature into serious scientists and engineers. (Another explanation might be that girls cry more easily — but he didn’t want to get into that.)
Calling All Girlies
As you know from the feminist bible and from Mad magazine, Harvard hath no fury like a physically unappealing girl who has been scorned.
Hen parties popped up all over the Harvard campus, girls chattering away over how swiftly and how harshly they could pry Mr. Summers out of the president’s chair. Perhaps, they speculated, Massachusetts could reinstate the death penalty, by dinnertime, for one day only.
The Odds Were Not So Odd
John Wilkes Booth had a better chance of coming back from the dead than Mr. Summers did of surviving the wrath of those cute little rascals at Harvard whom no self-respecting gentleman looks at twice.
Summarily, Mr. Summers was fired faster than the frosty feminists could run over to the Braille Beauty Salon to get their face and hair drastically redone, if possible.