More Nothing To Do With Pets

What can we say about Beverly Young Nelson?  She’s the woman who accused Roy Moore, 40 years after the fact, of “seeking an inappropriate relationship with her in the late 1970s.”

I remember in my physical anthropology class where we were studying primates, reading that female chimpanzees in zoos were known to hold grudges for as long as 40 years.  That is, when they had a disagreement with another chimp in the zoo, the female who was offended would be just as angry 40 years later as on the day it first happened.  They will sit and stew in their own fury for their entire lives.

I also recall watching my grandmother and her sister, my great-aunt, sitting at the kitchen table glaring at each other over a fight that had started … 40 years earlier.  Female primates are female primates, I guess.

Think of La Nelson, sitting on that secret like an egg for 40 years and not letting it hatch until that particular, um, revelation would do the most harm to Roy Moore.  Biding her time, never saying a word, never revealing her deep, dark, boiling-with-rage secret about the judge all those years.  Waiting for the key election that would be lost to him, thanks to her 40 year old secret.

This seems to happen frequently with women; the “accusers” of Donald Trump, for example, were asked recently why they didn’t take any legal action.  “The statute of limitations ran out years ago,” was their reply.

Once again, these women are suffering, as they put it, a fate worse than death, yet they choose to sit on that festering canker and let it fill with pus for decades before they finally let loose and release their fire at their long-lost tormentor.   That’ll show him.

Could you imagine a man doing that?  Sitting on a perceived or even real offense and doing nothing with it for decades, waiting for your time to strike?  What man has that much bile in him?

All I can conclude is that women are chiefly controlled by spite, pure spite.  Men, according to women, are chiefly controlled by their own lusts.

Which does more harm?






“Why don’t you buy your wife a pet?  Women are just crazy about pets.”
“They’re just crazy.  Pets have nothing to do with it.”
–W.C. Fields

It’s an easy conclusion to leap to, if you’re a man.  Men are a certain way, and women are a totally different certain way, and the contrast looks crazy depending on what your sex is.

Think of it:  men LOVE sex.  They love it unconditionally, for itself.  Don’t believe me?  Ever heard of a woman having sex with a sheep?  And yes men will also have sex with women they aren’t attracted to — it’s called “marriage.”

But if a man does to a woman something he wishes all his life that one would do to him (i.e., expose her genitals to you, or touch your genitals, or even try to kiss you), it’s called sexual harassment.  Have you ever heard of a man complaining of sexual harassment?  Are you kidding?  Unless he’s a homosexual, it’s not perceived by men as harassment, it’s called “coming onto me, and what did I ever do to get so lucky?”  We’ll take it if we can get it, even from fat women, ugly women, flat chested skinny women — heck, we’ll grab the nearest sheep or shorter male inmate if there’s no other choice — we just want to get laid.

It is for this reason that a) women shouldn’t expect equality with people there is no earthly chance of being on equal footing with.  Also, b) why should women be the ones to set the standards, if what they actually want is “equality?”  You will never find equivalency between men’s sexual attitudes and women’s, and sex is pretty darn basic.  If you can’t even agree on standards for basic instinctual drives, what can you agree on?

All I can conclude is that women hate sex (having sex with someone they don’t want to have sex with is called a fate worse than death; men call it “getting lucky.”)  So far, all I’ve seen women do as a coping mechanism is try and force men to act more like women, or at least pretend.

Yet, I always remember that when I was a young man in my late teens and early twenties, there were rumors everywhere that I was gay, simply because I acted around women the way I thought they wanted me to.  I was always respectful:  I made sure I never looked at their cleavage, didn’t ever talk about sex, didn’t kiss on the first date, etc., all the bullshit they claim they want.  I learned, like every man everywhere has learned, that women are lying about how they want men to behave.

Allowing them the vote was a big mistake — just ask Roy Moore.  Now everyone who wants to get elected has to pretend he’s been a monk all his life and would never ever want to do what every single man on the planet wants to do every chance he gets.

Like the man said, pets have nothing to do with it.

He’s Just Like Hitler

It’s a popular thing to say these days, since there’s a Republican in the White House.  They’re always accusing Republicans of being like Hitler.

Hitler, who was a vegetarian, because he believed in science(!).  Hitler, a utopian dreamer who believed it was his duty to fundamentally change his country and create a glorious future.  Hitler, a self-described dedicated socialist.  Hitler, a man obsessed with race.

Actually, he sounds a lot like Obama, doesn’t he?  (Remember him? Shudder.)  Except, of course, the vegetarian part — Obama was known to eat dogs.

No one more accurately characterizes Freud’s dictum that perception equals projection more than a liberal, particularly when they accuse others of being like Hitler.

The Weinstein Story

Well, there are all kinds of people with their panties in a bunch because of Harvey Weinstein.  The anger seems to be directed at the fact that he treated women like sex objects, unlike … well, who?

To which all I can retort is, well, what else have they got?  Is there really something else I’m supposed to get out of an experience with a woman?  Intellectual stimulation?  Keen insights?  I already get those from men, and it’s usually myself anyway.

This whole way of thinking that women aren’t supposed to be sex objects (what else have they got?) started back when women decided that they were the equal of men, and could be just as good at men’s jobs as men could.  In short, when women decided to stop complementing men and start competing with them instead.

This has always been true of feminism: women downplay the only part of them that is unique and desirable to men, and instead attempt to be a sort of Frankenstein male instead.  Seriously, are women doctors somehow superior to men doctors?  Are women lawyers innately superior to men lawyers?  Etc., etc., etc.?

Are we surrounded by women’s inventions?  I don’t see any.  I look around my desk and what do I see — anything invented by a woman?  The telephone? The computer? My Kindle? The photo on my desk (did a woman invent photography?  Nope)?

So what did women actresses have to offer in Hollywood?  They can look great and men want to fuck them.  If that’s the part, why do they get upset when someone rehearses with them?

This whole scandal reminds me of something Bernard Shaw once said:  “America is the only country where a woman can look like a whore, talk like a whore, and act like a whore, but if you treat her like one, she’ll call a cop.”

Well, ladies?

The Crazy is Too Strong Here

My wife and I have bought a house up in Washington state.  We’re renting it out for now, but expect someday to retire there.  We’ve been discussing retirement for the last two or three years, and it just occurred to me that at no time did my wife, a California native, ever suggest we retire here in California.

I think my wife has long ago come to the same conclusion I did years ago:  the crazy is too strong here.  Crazy is a novel thing, but not after this many years of it (in my case, I’ve been living in California for 36 years, and thank you for your sympathy).  I remember learning to be unfriendly about 33 years ago, when the nth person I met and was friendly to started telling me about how she was reincarnated from Cleopatra (always Cleopatra; apparently nobody has ever been reincarnated from Cleopatra’s maid or slop jar handler).  Or how they regularly talked to ghosts.  Or how in spite of the heavy five o’clock shadow and the hairy chest, really and truly, way deep down, he’s a woman.  Or how the world is actually flat, or heating up like a bunsen burner, or being controlled by Jewish or Catholic or Muslim bankers in a secret location in, well, it’s secret.  Or how airplanes piloted by government workers are spraying deadly chemicals and killing us by the millions.  Or how Republicans cause dandruff and bad breath.  You name it, they’ll tell it to you.  Crazy people have to share their craziness, because they take your friendliness as a sign that you approve of it.

Man, there’s only so much of that you can take.  Every time we go up to see the house or visit the, um, that secret location in Washington, it’s so refreshing to be surrounded everywhere you go with what can only be characterized as “normal” people.  What a relief!  Now I know why most Californians leave the state for their vacations.

Today, for example, I came into work (only six to eight years more, thank God) and two co-workers were discussing the “realism” of The Handmaid’s Tale, a television show that is to realism as vinegar is to jelly doughnuts.  Seriously, there’s nothing at all real about it, it’s some angry lesbian’s fantasy about how awful men truly are.  And the people talking about it were both men.  How can I make this stuff up?

As I said, I’m counting the years at this point.  The catch is my young, young, young wife – I will have to wait over a dozen years for her to be able to retire, otherwise she loses a nice pension.  Ah well, youth has its compensations.

Healthcare Sucks

There’s a commercial with a lot of heart-warming bald-headed children who are undergoing cancer treatment.  They ask the kids, “What would you say to cancer?”

Well, here’s what I’d say to modern American medicine:  You suck.

Allow me to elaborate.  Years ago, I was a rope aerialist.  It’s a thing you do in the circus; I still have my old practice videos posted on Youtube.  As I’ve whined about in an earlier post, that old avocation left me with a few health problems.  So for the past 13 years, I’ve been in and out of doctors’ offices seeking relief, which I haven’t gotten.

(Yes, they’ve prescribed a bunch of drugs that help a little, but each of those drugs comes with bad side effects, which makes it sort of a break even proposition.)

In fact, if I had $10 for every time I’ve gone into a doctor’s office feeling lousy, and left feeling just as lousy with no relief in sight, I’d have all my co-payments back in my pocket and could probably retire in comfort tomorrow.  Seriously, I literally can’t count all of the times it’s happened, in either doctor’s offices or hospital emergency rooms or clinics.  And when I leave, they always say, “I hope you feel better,” as if it has nothing to do with them.  Why the hell did they think I went to see them in the first place, if not to get them to make me feel better?

It took two full years of constant doctor’s appointments to diagnose my hiatal hernia, which has caused immeasurable misery in my life for the past 13 years.  It took nearly two months to diagnose my hypothyroidism, and two of the three doctors involved still don’t believe I have it, in the face of all evidence to the contrary.  This Monday I saw my doctor with a complaint of chest pains and shortness of breath.  She didn’t have a diagnosis, and I left feeling the same pains and shortness of breath (I still do).  Her advice was to take some Ibuprofen, which is about as useless for chronic pain as … well, her advice.

What’s worse is when they start acting like lawyers and questioning me about my symptoms in ridiculous detail (try it:  describe to me in minute-to-minute detail what your breathing was like last night.  Good luck).  It’s as if they feel that if they win the argument, they’re justified in not doing me any good at all but still pocketing their fee.  How compassionate.

None of these quacks ever offered to return my co-payments nor returned any insurance payments made on my behalf — medicine comes with no money-back guarantees.  I’ve had four surgeries in my life — two of them did absolutely no good at all, one turned out to be unnecessary and the only one that was successful has left me fifty percent more likely to develop prostate cancer.

So, people tell me, what do you expect?  You just have too high an expectation of medicine.

Really?  I have too high an expectation of a business that grosses $3.2 TRILLION A YEAR in this country alone?  That comes to $10,000 a year per person — for that kind of money I shouldn’t expect at least to feel better when I see a doctor than when I walked into their office?  Really?  As the Bible says, from whom much is given, much is expected.

You guys suck.  Period.

What a Drag it is Getting Old

Fortunately, nobody reads this, and I feel the need to whine a bit.

Since I was 48 years old, and was still a circus aerialist, I’ve had many health problems associated with the injuries I sustained in that pursuit.  All of the cartilage in both shoulders, for example, is shredded, and every time I put on a jacket or shirt, I risk popping one or both shoulders out of socket, which is a painful experience nobody should have to go through.  I can’t count how many times now that I have done that (I’m 61 now, and the injuries happened when I was 48; you do the math).

Then there’s my hiatal hernia, which is the correct medical term for a torn diaphragm.   That happened as a result of all the “drops” I did.  A drop is when you are all wrapped up in a circus rope and release the knot and your body literally drops lower down the rope very quickly and dramatically stops just before you hit the ground head first.  There were “elevator drops,” “ramone drops,” lots of other slides and drops.  Eventually your body is jerked to a stop upside down many many times, and this causes your intestines, liver, stomach etc., to slam violently against the thin layer of muscle that is your diaphragm.  Sooner or later it tears from all that.  Every single circus aerialist I’ve ever met has a hiatal hernia.  Yes, we give up our health to thrill you and hope you applaud.

The bad side effects of such a hernia are too numerous to count.  It causes constant acid reflux, meaning I have to take daily acid blocker medication (with its attendant bad side effects).  It also causes problems with my breathing.  Basically, the symptoms are the same as a heart attack:  chest pains from the reflux, difficulty breathing — for the first two years of those symptoms I was in and out of cardiac care specialists trying to figure out what weird heart disease I seemed to be exhibiting.

Since then, I’ve had surgery to correct the tear (which failed, as that surgery usually does), I’ve seen more gastroenterologists than I want to count, dealt with a shitload of misdiagnoses and bad reactions to the wrong medications, and in general have learned that medical care, at its best, is not very effective.  It’s why I’ve always been against mandatory government healthcare — forcing people to go through that agony isn’t very nice, and by no means can be considered a good thing.

Then last year my thyroid stopped working, which can be caused by years of excessive daily exercising and stress — the kind of things aerialists exceed at.  I was out for three months disability, barely able to walk, until medication eventually brought up my thyroxine and thyronine levels.  A year later, though, I’m still overly sensitive to cold (I wear sweaters when the weather drops below 75 degrees), I still feel as if I’m not getting enough air every morning (a sign of hypothyroidism), I walk around sort of droopy-eyed and apathetic-looking.  That’s called “having your condition effectively treated.”

Yesterday, while hiking up in Marin County, I suddenly started having chest pain on my left side (usually it’s on the right side) and started gasping for breath.  We went home and I spent the rest of the day in my recliner, hoping I wasn’t going to die right then and there.  Today I saw my primary care physician, who assured me that my heart and lungs sounded fine, that my blood pressure and pulse are well within normal range and steady.   My chest still hurts and it still feels like I’m not getting enough air, but hey, what do I know?

Nevertheless, since I’m “over 50” (why don’t any of them ever say “over 60,” since I am?) my doctor recommends that I go see a cardiac care specialist again and run some tests.  After all, I do have high cholesterol, and anyone over 50 who has chest pain and difficulty breathing has to go see a cardiac care specialist, plainly for risk management-type reasons.  It’s probably a good idea, considering that heart disease doesn’t just run in my family, it gallops.  I’d be more surprised if I didn’t have heart symptoms than if I did.

At this point, also, if any doctor wants me to fire them, all they have to do is mention “depression.”  (It’s what doctors always say when they can’t figure out what’s really wrong with me — it must be what people in other professions call their “safety.”)  Every doctor I’ve seen over the past thirteen years has told me that I seemed to be suffering from “depression.”

No shit, Sherlock.  I’ve had no more than, say, one out of three healthy days for the past 13 years, why wouldn’t I be depressed?  I have yet to experience a vacation without having to deal with health problems, sometimes causing the vacation to end altogether.  I’ve had God knows how many sick days at work, as well as God knows how many miserable weekends and visits to emergency rooms.  Was all that misery supposed to have cheered me up somehow?

Sheesh.  No wonder that back in 2009, when everyone was asking me “Don’t you want everyone to have healthcare,” it always made me shudder and respond to the effect that “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

Pets Have Nothing to do With it

There was an article written by some feminist (link here: who, like all women dating online, apparently, was disgusted by men sending her pictures of their penises, so she decided to turn the tables on the men and send them pictures of her vagina.  Actually, it wasn’t her vagina, because, you know, women lie.

Anyway, the idiotic harpy was surprised to find that the men liked it.  Somehow, having a woman send them a photo of a naked vagina didn’t upset men.  In fact, they really really liked it.

The reason is simple:  men like women, but women don’t like men.  Seriously, just the sight of a naked woman will cause a man’s serotonin levels soaring and make him feel … happy.

A woman sees a naked man and she gets disgusted and angry.

Women call men liking women “objectifying” them.  Because if men hadn’t thought of them as something nice, the women wouldn’t be “objects,” they’d be … something else?

Yes, women are that awful.  Men like women, but women only like men who can do what the women want them to do.  Or, as my loving wife says, “the man we choose.”

Looking at the woman’s article, I kept wondering what a woman would think of a man who had such a complete lack of understanding about women.  Women choose to remain completely clueless about men, and why shouldn’t they?  It’s not like they are interested in men or something, outside of what men can do for them.  Basically, women are greedy, selfish swine, which is why so many of them are overweight.

There are three scenes from movies that, to me, epitomize men’s relations with women perfectly.  Two of them, of course, are from W.C. Fields.

In The Man On The Flying Trapeze, his character, Ambrose J. Wolfinger, sits down to breakfast only to find that there is nothing left to eat but cold toast.  His daughter asks, “Is your toast hot, dad?”  He replies, “No, it’s cold.  It’s all right.  I’ve been eating cold toast for seven years now.  I like it.”  One of the most succinct pictures of married life ever put on celluloid.

Then there’s the scene in You’re Telling Me where W.C. Fields is going home to his angry menopausal wife (yes, I can vouch, they’re very angry) and his friend suggests, “Why not get your wife a pet?  Women are crazy about pets.”  To which W.C. replies, “They’re just crazy.  Pets have nothing to do with it.”

Then there’s the sort of two-shot (two scenes) in the movie Happiness.  Ben Gazzara plays a man in his early 60s who is obviously worried about his longevity.  His doctor assures him, “You’re fine.  Just avoid salt and you should live for a long long time.”

Later, in the second shot, we see Ben Gazzara sitting down to dinner with his awful wife and worse daughters, and after looking around the table, he reaches for the salt and liberally salts his food.

Like the old saw says, why do men die earlier than their wives?  They want to.

Here’s the thing …

I hate jury duty.  “Duty?”  I pay over half of my income in taxes of one kind or another:  30 percent income tax rate, then there are payroll taxes (Social Security and Medicare) and taxes on every fucking thing the government can find to tax, from booze to gasoline to food and telephone and internet connections, hell, everything up to and including the air I breathe, here in California.

Isn’t that enough?  I also have to sit in a courtroom for hours and listen to some swine in a long black dress lecture me about my civic duty (all I could think during the entire lecture was that I pay your fucking salary, you goddamn useless snout in the public trough)?  Godammit!  Then I’m expected to help these goblins to enforce a system of laws I find immoral at best and oppressive in practice.  Fuck jury duty.

I could understand the idea of jury duty, not to mention some expectation that citizens would participate in governing themselves, but not when they’re bleeding me dry with taxation, for which I can find no discernible advantage in my life.  Adding this insult to injury every year is in very poor taste, and having to take all that guff from a bunch of swine who are dependent on my wealth is appalling.  So far, I’ve never served on a jury and if I’m ever forced to sit in one I plan to do everything I can to disrupt the proceedings and will vote the opposite of whatever the rest of the jury votes, just to hang it up and blow the trial.  Consider yourselves warned, legal lackeys!

Fuck them.  I pay their salaries, I don’t need to jump through their hoops as well.


And now, in other news, today for the umpteenth time in this City That Reality Forgot (San Francisco), some idiot told me that Trump will soon destroy the economy and we’ll all be thrown into a horrible depression worse than the 1930s.

At the time, I simply grunted and went back to my Kindle, like I usually do when homeless lunatics talk to me on the bus.  What a load of drivel.

If President Trump is attempting to destroy the economy, he’s doing it all wrong.

Let’s look at some numbers, shall we:

  1. Wall Street is heading straight towards outer space like a Saturn rocket.  Seriously.  The Dow closed today at 21,182.53.  This connotes a gain of at least $3 trillion dollars since the election.  Good GOD!!  How much wealth will we gain before someone notices we’re in a boom??!!
  2.  Unemployment is the lowest its been in decades.  Just this morning, I got an email from LinkedIn telling me of over 146,000 job openings in the Bay Area today.  Also, since the beginning of the year I’ve personally received three job offers:  me, a 61-year-old washed up has-been on his way to retirement as quickly as he can get there.  If I’m getting offers, I assume others are as well.
  3. My law firm is having its busiest year ever.  I can personally vouch that my own production rate has doubled over last year at this time.  Everyone around me complains of how much work they have these days.

Does any of that sound like the economy is being destroyed?  It sounds more like the biggest boom I’ve seen in years, and hot damn!  Combined with the coming tax reduction I so richly deserve, it shows all indications of being a phenomenal year.

I can’t understand the paranoia about the economy:  every indication is that it’s doing great and will just do better over the foreseeable future.  Yet I’ve overheard Democrats telling each other that the economy is bound to collapse soon because Trump will cut taxes.  Seriously, they believe that cutting taxes will hurt the economy.  Madness.

And here’s the thing:  I have Quicken, right?  It tracks all of my family’s savings accounts, retirement accounts and mutual funds.  Every month, at the end of the month, it gives me a report of our net worth.

Now, for the past eight years since my wife and I have been married, we have been saving and putting away in our retirement accounts about $3500 a month.  When I look at the chart I’ve created showing our net wealth, month by month, I see that from the beginning of our marriage until October 2016, our wealth increased by about $3000 a month, on average (yes, I’ve checked it on Excel).  I can only conclude that putting money into the stock market as we’ve been doing has only profited us as much as we put into that market — no appreciable gain except for the money we put into it.  Zero profit margin.

In other words, throughout the entire Obama presidency, we barely managed to break even.

Now, if you look at that same net wealth chart starting in November 2016, the average gain in our net worth each month has been $10,000.  This in spite of the fact that we are still putting away about $3500 a month.  It’s a startling chart to see — slow, gradual growth for years, then a sudden upward leap starting at the end of November 2016.  Gee, what a coincidence!

As I tell my Democrat acquaintances, so far I have about 70,000 good reasons to have voted for Trump, and counting.

Trump is the wind beneath my financial wings, and yes he has become my hero.  Yowsah!


You know, I got to thinking, and it suddenly occurred to me that all these youngsters worried about a looming financial disaster are simply people who have never seen an economic boom first hand, and therefore don’t know one when it slaps them in the face.

Oh, they think they remember boom times during the Clinton presidency, but that wasn’t a boom, it was a bubble.  I’ll explain:

I’m old enough to remember the 1980s — it’s when my present career first started.  I arrived in the San Francisco Bay Area in 1981, when I was 25, just when Ronald Reagan’s presidency got off the ground.  Because I was at loose ends, I attended an office training program, which promised to teach me to become that brand new thing, a word processing operator.


At the time, when you looked at the Sunday paper (what we had before Craigslist), you found several pages of word processing operator ads, every Sunday going on into the late 1980s.  Within three weeks of my finishing that training school, I was employed at a nationwide insurance company as a word processing operator, making $14,000 a year.  After about a year, I found another job making $18,000 a year.  By the end of the 1980s, I was making $40,000 a year.  My income grew like an olive tree, and birds made their nests in the branches therein (almost literally, since I raised two kids during that period).

This is called wage inflation — it happens when there are so many job openings that employers are desperate and offer higher and higher salaries.  That hasn’t happened this time (yet), but I won’t be surprised when it does.

The other thing I recall is that the stock market didn’t just rise, it broke records on an almost daily basis.  I’ll never forget the astonishment everyone had when the Dow reached 1000 points for the very first time.  It turned out to be only the beginning.

All during the 1980s, by the way, I was BUSY at work, and so was everyone else.  Seriously.  I remember bringing a book to work every day, but only having time to read it on my lunch break.  There were no breaks during work hours, because there was so much damn work.  We had large word processing departments in those days, because there was too much work for one or two operators to keep up with it.

On the other hand, all during the alleged Clinton boom, people had time to watch drunken baby videos and email each other pictures of kittens.  Suddenly we had lots of free time at work.  That’s not the sign of a boom, but its opposite.  I recall being stuck in a really awful job all during the Clinton years, because there were no other jobs to be had.  Finding new jobs was a problem that didn’t go away when Bush was in office, either, in spite of all the economic growth posted during his presidency.  It was nice, but it wasn’t a boom, and in fact it was just the bubble that followed the “boom” under Clinton, this time involving mainly real estate.

This has been the way it’s been up until the Trump election, when suddenly I don’t have time to watch movies on my Kindle at work anymore but instead spend all my time working on documents.  Suddenly I start getting job offers in my email inbox and on LinkedIn.  Suddenly my retirement accounts start going through the ceiling (as I pointed out earlier, we’re seeing almost $7000 a month growth in our accounts over and above our contributions).

Now THAT’S a boom.  Watch and learn, kids.

A Not So Modest Proposal

By now I’m sure everyone has heard about the Manchester bombing.  Once again we’re told that this is just the new normal, and that we’ll all have to just get used to our children being blown to bits when they go out for a little evening fun.

As Mark Twain used to say, people all talk about the weather but nobody does anything about it.

I’d like to make the following proposal to President Donald Trump, in the interests of finding a solution to the problem of Islamic terrorism:  Nuke Mecca.

No, I’m not kidding.  Here’s the thing:  Islam has not stopped terrorism, nor will they.  Why should they?  Terrorism is giving Islam what it wants.  So here’s my solution:  nuke Mecca.

What would happen to Islam if Mecca were suddenly a radioactive black hole in the ground?  What would next year’s hajj be like?  Oh, right, there wouldn’t be one.

Imagine the message sent:  your religion is your excuse for killing our children?  Here’s what we think of your religion.  Your holy relics are now carbonized.  Forever.  The qaaba is just a memory now, Mustafa.

The only thing that will stop Islamic terrorism, jihad, is to fight back.  We have nuclear powers, they don’t (well, not much to speak of anyway).  We destroy their religion, the terrorism will stop.  I guarantee it.

If it doesn’t, what’s next?  Nuke Medina?  Nuke Riyadh?  Nuke whatever is left, kill them.  Kill. Them.

It’s the only thing that will work for the people who only respect the strong horse.  Bring them a strong horse and let it stomp them into a bad memory.

Or would you rather just wait for them to kill your children?