My two favorite observers of the modern scene who have yet to be silenced* by the censorious gang that runs YouTube are, of course, Simon Webb, whom I often display here, and Bill Whittle. Both are brilliant boys and such fun to listen to.
So I have added them to The Moon staff, the first time since The Moon debuted a decade ago that HQ has consisted of more than one person, me, the CEO. They will get the same salary as the CEO.
There are no secretaries or maintenance staff.
In the 10-minute video today, Whittle talks about the “Kick Me” sign that’s been slapped on the back of the United States of America by the Democrat/Socialist Party.
As always, I bring this to you as a public service.
The tip jar is just below.
*Not permanently at least. Webb is often silenced for a week or so, and YouTube discourages people from listening to him because it finds Webb’s accuracy and clarity disturbing.
(The following is an editorial from Sunday’s New York Post.)
Vice President Kamala Harris’s team canceled press access to her remarks to U.S. troops at Pearl Harbor on Thursday — surely because it feared yet another disaster for the veep at the site of a terrible attack on America, the same day as the horrors in Kabul.
Harris is just too prone to verbal fumbles that pour more fuel on the Biden administration’s fires.
Just the week before, Harris broke into a bizarre cackle when reporters asked about the early stages of the Afghan crisis. And that’s hardly her only nails-on-chalkboard moment.
For example, when NBC’s Lester Holt called her out for failing to go to the US-Mexico border when she’s supposed to be administration pointwoman on the border criss, Harris again weirdly laughed as she countered, “And I haven’t been to Europe!” as if that had a thing to do with it.
Earlier, during last year’s campaign, CBS’s Norah O’Donnell asked Harris if she brought a “socialist or progressive perspective” to the Democratic ticket and got her own burst of the Kamala cackle.
Then the candidate answered, “No, no!” followed by a nervous-laughter-filled ramble: “It is the perspective of — of a woman who grew up a black child in America, who was also a prosecutor, who also has a mother who arrived here at the age of 19 from India. Who also, you know, likes hip hop. Like, what do you wanna know?”
That followed her cringe-inducing interview with Charlamagne tha God during the Democratic primaries. The “Breakfast Club” host asked if the ex-prosecutor opposed legalizing pot; she replied, “Half my family’s from Jamaica. Are you kidding me? Hahahahahahah.”
She told Charlamagne she’d toked up in college while listening to Snoop Dogg and Tupac Shakur — yet she graduated in 1986, years before either artist hit the scene.
Even the high point of her primary campaign proved hollow, when she blasted Joe Biden’s 1970s opposition to forced bussing with her “That little girl was me” memory of waiting for her own bus — when it turned out she was in a voluntary bussing program.
Bottom line: Harris can barely get through a friendly interview without blatant insincerity — she’s as fake as her laugh.
In a weird way, all this makes her a priceless asset to President Biden: Anytime talk starts about, say, invoking the 25th Amendment to force him to step aside because of his apparent mental woes, people consider the fact that she’d be the one to take over.
Harris’ incompetence, in short, is Joe’s job security.
Above you see a typical Trump rally. Below you see the CNN “Town Hall” staged by Biden’s handlers a few days ago in which the “president” stumbled and mumbled his way through the event.
When it ended, Kamala Harris tossed a sack over Biden’s head, steered him out the back door, heaved him into the limo where Hillary, Bill and Barack were waiting, drove him back to the White House and propped him up again behind the desk in the Oval Office with a bowl of warm porridge. And soon it was bedtime.
When I lived in Houston, Texas, I worked evenings till about 1 a.m., and I would stay in bed the following morning till around 9. My wife would have already departed for her job, so I would be alone.
She would have scooped up The Wall Street Journal from our suburban lawn and left it inside for me. I would sit in the living room in a wing chair and read it. The previous night I would have read The Houston Chronicle because that’s where I worked.
I wish I still had access to The Wall Street Journal, but I don’t. No physical newspaper awaits me in the mornings because there is no home delivery. I don’t know if there is U.S.-style home delivery anywhere in Mexico. Or if it still exists above the Rio Bravo.
Now I get out of bed about 7 a.m., and I climb the stairs to the second floor, turn on the H-P All-in-One and read the news online. Mostly, I read these three in this order: Breitbart, Gateway Pundit, and the New York Post. The last one is more for chuckles than anything.
On very rare occasion, I open The New York Times and The Washington Post if I am curious about the Democrat Party’s line of the day.
This morning, Breitbart tells me the University of Rhode Island has decided not to destroy World War II murals, that Marvel Comics has Captain America saying the American Dream is a lie, that Albuquerque social studies “recommended books” for students are all about “race and queerness,” and that Cori Bush says July 4 is only for white people because black Americans still aren’t free.
This, she says, from her office in the U.S. Congress.
I also learn a Black Lives Matter chapter in Utah deems the American flag a “symbol of hatred.”
I open The New York Times, and see nothing of this. I do read “why record-breaking overnight temperatures are so concerning” and that a 14-year-old has become the first black American to win the spelling bee and that world economic leaders are meeting to finalize a global tax agreement and that “the G.O.P. heads further into the abyss.”
The NYT also seems to think Joe Biden is actually the president instead of being a Deep State figurehead stooge with downward spiraling dementia. And that woman with the desired skin tone and genitalia waits in the warm-up box. She’s known, like a villain in a Batman story, as The Cackler.