Kevin Johnson has emerged from self-imposed retirement to comment on a truly “shocking,” “disgusting,” “grief”-inducing and “horror”-provoking spectacle.
Now, you ask yourself, what could trigger such a reaction? Was it the looting and shooting in New Orleans? Was it a California court awarding child custody to lesbians? Was it a Pope’s seek diplomatic immunity in the sex scandal? Was it the acquittal of Michael Jackson? Was it the Bill Frist reversal on stem cell research? Was it the London bombings? Was it a US senator who compared our troops to the Nazis, the Khmer Rouge, and the Stalinist gulags?
No. Nada. None of the above.
Rather, it was a satirical magazine cover.
Yep, that’s right. Phil Johnson doctored an old magazine cover to produce a spoof. And that, my friends, was the tipping-point. Like Marshall Kane, that is what forced Kevin Johnson out of early retirement to confront this moral outrage.
Honestly now, does anyone suppose for a moment that Kevin Johnson is really grief-stricken over this? I mean, where did he grow up—in a broom closet?
This is simply his way of trying to get even while retaining the moral high ground. He saw an opening, and he went for it.
If he’s so worried about what a poor witness it makes, why is he drawing attention to it? Why is he publicizing the “scandal” for more eyes to see?
The liberal establishment has made a cottage industry of taking offense. The offense-mongers have cultivated the fine art of taking offense to the highest pitch of overbreeding. They are constantly on the lookout for something to be offended by. It isn’t enough to wait and see if something offensive just happens to catch their eye. No, they send out their squad cars to police the neighborhood and ferret out anything that anyone, anywhere, at anytime, might possibly construe as offensive and hurtful and constitutive of a “hostile” work and play environment—especially Christmas trees, yes, those hateful Christmas trees.
Not only do they take personal offense, but they take offense for the benefit of others, on behalf of others, in the place of others. They take offense for the sake of the offended party even when the offended party isn’t offended. They take offense for the sake of blacks and Latinos and American Indians and women and poor folk and jihadis and cross-dressers and chickens—yes, especially all those helpless, harmless chickens who end up in a bucket of KFC.
These are the professional offense-mongers. They have advanced degrees in offense-taking from all the Ivy League universities.
Phil Johnson’s problem is that he’s an unreconstructed male. An evolutionary throwback to the stone age of early manhood. It’s hard to think that far back in time, I know, but according to Richard Dawkins it dates to the Eisenhower era, when men and dinosaurs still roamed the globe. This was before the Pepperland meteor struck the earth and extinguished the caveman once and for all.
Well, almost. There are still stragglers and survivors in fundamentalist pockets around the world. And they’re breeding, you know. That’s the very worst part of it. They’re churning out their Neanderthal spawn in the gross, old-fashioned way, and not according to the antiseptic methods of artificial insemination.
And if that’s not bad enough, they look just like you and me. But if you listen closely, the troglodyte will betray his true ancestry.
For example, if you want proof positive of what a sexist male chauvinist pig Phil Johnson truly is, he actually thinks that women are capable of speaking for themselves. That women don’t need an air-brushed, PC-sensitized male—if “male” is the operative word here—to rush in with the smelling salts in case some fainting violet were to swoon at the sight of an old comic book cover.
You see, Bro. Phil is of the patriarchal view that women are just as capable as men of reading Jonathan Swift and understanding the satirical genre all by themselves. He doesn’t feel the need to trivialize their intelligence by talking down to them like five-year-olds.
I daresay he even imagines that some women are actually brave enough to see a John Wayne movie—you know, the kind in which men are abusing other men—without holding their hand the whole way through.
According to unconfirmed reports, there are even a few especially sturdy members of the opposite sex who can read a Bible containing the generic male pronoun without bursting into tears and seeking psychiatric help.
I realize that this may be a real eye-opener for the clientele of Coffee Stains, or whatever it’s called, and I assure you that the combined forces of government, the media, and the education establishment are taking coercive measures to weed these Troglodytes out of the general population. But they keep popping up between the cracks like so many dandelions.
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