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- American
- Conservative
- Condescending
- Highly intellectual
- Patriotic

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- British
- Witty and humorous
- `Personal tone
- Chatty and talkative
- Trends

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The Supreme Court's recent decision on whether a Christian baker can be forced to make a wedding cake for a gay marriage (no) arriving on the same day that Bill Clinton reared his syphilitic head on NBC's "Today" reminded me how liberals always use black people as props.

Midway through the last century, bedrock legal principles about property rights and freedom of association were abrogated to deal with a specific, intractable problem: We could not get Democrats to stop discriminating against blacks.

So Republicans, with very little Democratic help, passed a slew of laws saying: No, even though you own that restaurant, you cannot discriminate against black customers. And no, even though we are a free people, you cannot refuse to associate with black people in your clubs, universities or sports teams.

This should have been a one-time exception to the law for one specific group of people based on an emergency.

But Democrats, never wild about freedom in the first place, saw "civil rights" as a great gig. Instead of civil rights being used to remedy historic injuries done to a specific group of people, they'd use "civil rights" as a false flag for all their pet projects.

Just six years after passage of the historic 1964 Civil Rights Act, Democrats in New York had dropped black people from the equation and moved onto legalized abortion. State senator Manfred Ohrenstein of Manhattan explained why killing the unborn was a "right": "It was the end of the civil rights era, and we viewed [abortion] as a civil right."

In the 1991 case Kreimer v. Morristown, a Carter-appointed federal district judge, H. Lee Sarokin, ruled that a public library's discrimination against smelly, frightening homeless people violated the equal protection clause because it had a "disparate impact" on people who refuse to bathe compared to those who bathe regularly. Three years later, President Clinton promoted him to an appellate judgeship. (The judge, not the homeless person.)

In 2007, then-governor Eliot Spitzer vowed that "New York state will continue to be a beacon of civil rights" -- when proposing a state law that would guarantee access to late-term abortions.

In June 2012, The New York Times chirpily reported "gay rights the fastest-moving civil rights movement in our nation's history"!

These days, you could be forgiven for not realizing that civil rights ever had anything to do with black people. According to Equal Opportunity Employment Commission statistics, for a least a decade, 65 percent of all "civil rights" claims have had absolutely nothing to do with race discrimination.

The gay wedding cake caper is only the most recent example of our majestic "civil rights."

Instead of basing favored treatment under the law on a history of brutal and widespread injustice in America, liberals thought it should also be based on other forms of suffering, such as: being a woman, being a Muslim, wanting an abortion, having been born in Mexico, being a smelly homeless person stinking up the public library and -- according to Ruth Bader Ginsburg this week -- being a gay couple who wants to force a Christian to bake a cake for your wedding.

It must make blacks feel great being compared to daft women, smelly homeless people and bossy gays harassing a Christian baker.

And apes!

Princeton ethics professor Peter Singer compares black people to apes, citing the black liberation movement as a model for the liberation of apes. We must "extend to other species," Singer says, "the basic principle of equality" that we extend "to all members of our own species."

This wasn't an Ambien-induced Twitter rant by a comedian. Singer wrote it, calmly and deliberately, in a book on "ethics."

Still, I believe the greatest insult black Americans have had to endure from liberals was when they called Bill Clinton the "first black president."

I notice that he was not the first black president when Democrats were singing Fleetwood Mac at his inauguration, nor when he was appointing the first woman attorney general or passing welfare reform. Only after Clinton was caught in the most humiliating sex scandal in U.S. history did he suddenly become "the first black president." (Which is not true, according to Monica Lewinsky's description of Clinton's private parts.)

During the House impeachment hearings, Rep. Maxine Waters ferociously defended Clinton, saying, "I am here in the name of my slave ancestors." She said she had woken up in the middle of the night, "with flashes of the struggles of my African ancestors for justice."

What this had to do with Clinton perjuring himself about molesting a chubby Jewish White House intern was anyone's guess.

Always the master of subtlety, as soon as the Lewinsky scandal broke, Clinton promptly invited the Rev. Jesse Jackson to the White House to "pray" with him. Two months later, he took off on an 11-day, six-nation $43 million trip to -- guess where? Africa!

Haven't black people suffered enough without this horny hick piggybacking on their oppression?

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I Have a Dream ... About Gay Wedding Cakes

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The Supreme Court's recent decision on whether a Christian baker can be forced to make a wedding cake for a gay marriage (no) arriving on the same day that Bill Clinton reared his syphilitic head on NBC's "Today" reminded me how liberals always use black people as props.

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- Australian
- Feminist
- Passionate
- Purposely uses jargon

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In the fifteen or so years that I've been actively feministing, I've never tired of being asked whether or not I hate men. When I say I've never tired of it, I am of course lying. If I could summarise my experience of the anti-feminist backlash into one tedious, repetitive interaction, it would be thus: "Do you hate men? Wait, let me rephrase that. Why do you hate men?"

Although my care factor for whether or not men think I hate them hovers somewhere just below zero - and I will teach you how to adjust your scale similarly - the blatant lack of self-awareness on display when this question is asked (and asked and asked and asked, repeatedly, on and on into infinity) still manages to astonish me.

Here's a sample of some of the things that have been said to me by men distressed by the thought that feminism might not be a political movement that advocates for gender equality, but just a club for ugly chicks to hate on blokes:
Misandrist. Man-hater. Feminazi boner killer. Joyless harpy, jealous of the prettier girls. Dumb fat cow. Sour-faced wrinkled bitch who's only angry about rape because no one would ever rape her. Wants to kill all men, but only because no man would ever touch her. You're a c---. I hope you get raped by someone with AIDS. I hope you get raped by a pack of Muslims. F--- you, you f---ing man-hating dyke.

Do feminists hate men? When you consider the level of hostility women are subjected to just for standing up for ourselves, surely the better query is why do so many men seem to hate women so fiercely, so aggressively, so violently and so passionately?

As pertinent as this question might be, it's rarely asked in response to the knee-jerk paranoia around feminism and what it supposedly means. Instead, feminists and non-feminists (or, as I call them, dickwads) alike funnel endless reams of energy into debating the utterly pointless question of whether or not feminists are required by law to hate all men, as if answering this will reveal the secret key to unlocking real gender equality.

In actual fact, this boring, trivial fixation is nothing more than an effective means of constantly diverting any attention away from feminism's success (potential or actual) and directing it towards feeding society's obsession with placating men at all times.

You know what? Some women do hate men. They have good reason to. They might have been raped and beaten and down-trodden and abused, and they have reached their breaking point. They might have lived a nightmare you can't even conceive of.

'Fight Like A Girl' by Clementine Ford is out now through Allen & Unwin.

To these women, men might represent the enemy because the role they have played in these women's lives - a role that might involve sexual abuse, exploitation, emotional manipulation, and perhaps even attempts to kill them - has consistently shown themselves to be exactly that. If these women hate men, who is anyone to blame them?

Others may not hate or despise men at all. They might love men. And they might be able to do this while recognising the extraordinary advantages that men in general (particularly the white, middle-class, cis-het ones) enjoy over everyone else, often in tandem with the denial that these advantages exist at all.

These women who love men - the women who enjoy the presence of their husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, cousins, friends, colleagues, the man who serves them coffee at their local, the Uber driver they spoke to last night - might also express frustration and anger over the times men do not treat them with the same level of respect.

They might rant when a man tells them to "lighten up" when they complain about sexist commentary. They might fume when a man tells them that instead of complaining about street harassment and "tarring all men with the same brush", they should be flattered by it because "it's a compliment". These women who love and adore the men in their lives and recognise the potential for goodness that exists in all men might still feel like crying sometimes, because for all the love they offer the world's men, the hate those men are capable of offering back can be heartbreaking and soul-destroying.

Instead of berating feminists for being misandrists, perhaps these men should start taking responsibility for the abominable, destructive and dehumanising treatment of women throughout all of history up to and including the present day.

Because here's the thing: at a broad sweep, men have given us countless reasons to hate them. They have certainly provided ample evidence of their hatred for us, and the violence they inflict has more physical, cultural and economic power behind it than women subjugated by a patriarchal system could ever hope to replicate.

Despite all this, most of us don't hate men. Most of us still engage with men on a substantial level, choosing to befriend them, marry them, create families with them, become mothers to them. We choose to love them. But we are allowed to love ourselves as well.

Yet when we engage in this radical act of self-love, unashamedly, openly and fearlessly, we are asked, "Why do you hate men?"

Why do we hate men?

Again, the better question to ask is: why do men hate us, and why do they hate us so much?

This is an edited extract from Clementine Ford's new book, Fight Like A Girl, out now through Allen & Unwin.

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Clementine Ford: The question I am tired of being asked

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In the fifteen or so years that I've been actively feministing, I've never tired of being asked whether or not I hate men. When I say I've never tired of it, I am of course lying. If I could summarise my experience of the anti-feminist backlash into one tedious, repetitive interaction, it would be thus: "Do you hate men?

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his week it's the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas, an annual opportunity for tech companies to unveil their latest gizmos during January's traditional slow news week, thereby picking up precious coverage that might otherwise be spent detailing something - anything - more important than an egg whisk with a USB port in the side.

At the time of writing, the show is yet to kick off, although some of the offerings have already been unveiled - such as "Belty", the world's first "smart belt", which monitors your waistline and tells you when it's time to lose weight, just like a mirror or a close friend might. More excitingly, it adjusts to your girth (again, like a close friend might), and will tighten or loosen itself according to your current level of blubber. No word yet on whether it's possible to pop a Belty round your neck and order it to squeeze you into the afterlife, but there's no reason they can't incorporate that feature in Belty 2.0, except maybe on basic ethical, moral and humanitarian grounds.

According to Bertrand Duplat, whose company manufactures the Belty, "the belt experience hasn't changed in centuries", which is a) true but b) wasn't formerly a problem worth solving, and also c) how does "doing up a belt" qualify as an "experience" anyway?

There will be more announcements over the next few days - 5K televisions, a new Sony Walkman, sentient toothpicks that dream of a better life while they prise flecks of half-chewed poultry from your gums - but none will beat the following far more exciting products I've just made up for the sheer giddy thrill of it. Three, two, one. Commence:

Last year brought widespread acceptance of the "selfie stick" - a stick you clamp your smartphone into so you can take a narcissistic self-portrait at a slightly greater distance than your feeble human arms will allow. What's odd about the selfie stick is that while it might faintly improve the photo you'll post on Facebook, it definitely makes you seem like a shallow, awful clown to any bystanders in the humdrum physical space you're posing in. And it's unnecessary anyway, because if you're the sort of person who takes so many self-portraits you'll consider spending money on a selfie stick, it's a cast-iron certainty that absolutely no one needs or wants to see another photograph of you ever again. Until the invention of the Selfpreciator, that is. The Selfpreciator is a quasi-sentient head-shaped device with one giant eye and a fixed grin, programmed to gaze approvingly at every self-portrait you upload while issuing appreciative murmurs and tweeting encouraging emojis your way. It's even got its own selfie stick, so it can take photographs of itself admiring photographs of you, then email them to you, so you can ignore them while adjusting your selfie stick.

As 2015 dawns, Britain seems more divided than ever. But there's one thing we can all agree on: we just don't see enough of Nigel Farage. Sometimes you can eat an entire Twix without seeing a photograph of him raising a pint and guffawing or hearing his voice on the radio. Total Farage Plus is a tiny chip almost painlessly inserted into the back of your mind using a knitting needle and a croquet mallet. Once in place and booted-up, it hijacks the signal to your visual cortex, skilfully Photoshopping Farage into whatever you're looking at. Enjoying a glorious sunset? It'll be even better with Farage's face peeping over the horizon. Bathing your kids? Nigel's here too, with a cheeky blob of bath foam perched on his lovable nose! Staring into the eyes of the one you love? That's not your own reflection gazing back at you - it's Farage. Kicking a foreigner to death? Who's that standing beside you, delivering the final blow with his steel-toe boots, real ale sloshing from the pint he's still holding in one hand, a lusty guffaw bursting from his wobbly amphibian throat? It's Farage again! What a card!

Our metropolises are blighted by two problems: a lack of public transport and a lack of public loos. This solves both issues in one fell swoop: a driverless biofuel vehicle and toilet cubicle in one. Step in, sit down, tap in the target postcode with your nose (more hygienic than fingers), then simply let go and defecate, secure in the knowledge that the supersmart vehicle is converting your excretions into fuel as it expertly navigates the city streets, allowing you to arrive at your destination as empty-bummed as you are relaxed. NB to prevent terrorism and/or mobile cottaging, the entire thing is made of completely transparent glass, and has a maximum speed of 1mph.

A small handheld device that enables you to leap forward in time without even realising you're doing it. Simply pull the small rectangular device out of your pocket midway through an episode of Call the Midwife or a dinner party or a wedding or something, intending to glance at it for mere seconds, then gasp in astonishment as you look up apparently moments later to discover an hour's flown by and you haven't heard or seen anything that's happened in your immediate vicinity in that time. Twist: you've already got one of these. DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING, DID YOU? #christ #jesus #mindblown #wow

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Never mind the 'selfie stick' - here are some REALLY useful inventions | Charlie Brooker

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his week it's the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas, an annual opportunity for tech companies to unveil their latest gizmos during January's traditional slow news week, thereby picking up precious coverage that might otherwise be spent detailing something - anything - more important than an egg whisk with a USB port in the side.

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Mon 20 Oct 2014 15.00 EDT Last modified on Tue 12 Dec 2017 06.54 EST

haven't always been the kind of man who plays videogames. I used to be the kind of boy who played videogames. We're inseparable, games and I. If you cut me, I'd bleed pixels. Or blood. Probably blood, come to think of it.

Games get a bad press compared with, say, opera - even though they're obviously better, because no opera has ever compelled an audience member to collect a giant mushroom and jump across some clouds. Nobody writes articles in which opera-lovers are mocked as adult babies who never grew out of make-believe and sing-song; obsessive misfits who flock to weird "opening nights" wearing elaborate "tuxedo" cosplay outfits.

On no account go to the opera yourself: you'll probably run into a mafia boss. According to at least one film I think I saw once, mafia bosses love opera, because there's loads of death and killing in it. Yet politicians don't table motions solemnly condemning opera's dangerous level of violence.

Opera - a three-hour unskippable cutscene and all-round cultural blight whose primary function in modern society is to be used as a backing music to slow-motion montages of sporting folk - gets an easy ride partly because it's called "opera", instead of "singy-sing-sing time". This is gaming's biggest image problem: that infantile word, "gaming". Or rather, that was gaming's biggest problem, until the arrival of " gamergate ".

If you don't know what gamergate is, I'd suggest you Google it, because I've tried and failed to explain its roots in person to people I consider patient grownups, each of whom pulled a face like I was describing the plot of a terrible high-school teen drama. It began with a blogpost written by the disgruntled ex-boyfriend of a female games developer, and somehow ballooned into a bitter online culture war bristling with gruesome personal threats. Both sides of the argument have flaws and strengths, nothing that couldn't normally be hammered out in a few hours of civil debate. But there's something in the water: gamergate has dragged on for weeks, growing increasingly toxic. And now, in 2014, women have been forced into hiding - for voicing an opinion about videogames. That's a sentence that should only ever appear in the opening chapter of an implausible dystopian sci-fi novel, moments before you toss it in the bin.

There seems to be a small yet vocal core of maniacs bafflingly resistant to the notion that women should have any say in the games industry at all. Even recent statistics indicating that female players now outnumber men can't sway them, thanks to a lazy assumption that most of those women are playing Candy Crush or other, equally non-taxing "casual games" apparently un worthy of being called "games" at all. I don't think that's true, and even if it were, I wouldn't blame women for voluntarily choosing to play something soothing and non-threatening in their free time, since they spend so much of the rest of their time being forced to play a terrifying survival horror MMORPG colloquially known as "The Internet". Women are the hardest hardcore gamers there are, by miles.

You know those games where you get to choose your character class at the start, weighing up the pros and cons of picking a Warrior over an Archmage, or what have you? Never, ever choose "woman" on your first playthrough of The Internet, because you'll face an immediate difficulty spike. Suddenly it's a stealth game with nowhere to hide, one with hundreds of respawning enemies waiting to attack you the moment you make a noise or stand out in any way whatsoever. The enemy AI is sophisticated and unpredictable; it studies your weaknesses and moves to exploit them. Instead of shitting fireballs at you, your foes bombard you with unrelenting abuse. Reach the higher difficulty stages without dying (by your own hand) and this could graduate to blood-curdling death threats.

Sadly, there's no easy way for male players to experience the hardcore "female" difficulty setting to the full - perhaps if The Internet was available in the form of an old-school text adventure, in which you play a woman on an epic quest to just go about her business, it'd be fun to try it out for a while.

I can picture it now. Black screen, white text. DOS style.

"You are a woman," it reads. "You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door. There is a small mailbox here."

There's a prompt, blinking. You take your first step into this brave new world by typing OPEN MAILBOX, and hitting return.

DIE U FUCKN WHORE, replies the game.

Not one to be dissuaded, you try again. OPEN MAILBOX.

I SAID DIE U FUCKN WHORE says the game, accompanied by an animated gif of your head on a porn star's body.

You decide to see what you're carrying, by typing INVENTORY.

YOU HAVE: A LAMP, A ROPE, A FAT ASS AND SAGGY TITS, chuckles the game.

You try something else. You type GO NORTH.

The game thinks for a while, then distributes your home address and phone number and threatens to murder you and your entire family.

OK. That's enough. QUIT GAME, you type, fingers shaking: QUIT GAME.

But it won't quit. And you can't be sure it ever will.
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Gamergate: the internet is the toughest game in town - if you're playing as a woman | Charlie Brooker

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Mon 20 Oct 2014 15.00 EDT Last modified on Tue 12 Dec 2017 06.54 EST haven't always been the kind of man who plays videogames. I used to be the kind of boy who played videogames. We're inseparable, games and I. If you cut me, I'd bleed pixels. Or blood.

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Ah. Right. Looks like I picked a bad week to draw inspiration from current affairs for this knockabout comedy column. The news is rarely a warehouse of carefree chuckles but at the moment it's like an apocalyptic playlist on perpetual shuffle, with one harrowing crisis overlapping another. Palestine, Libya, Syria ... it's all horrifying and upsetting. Not a single nice thing has happened all year, except the recent stealth launch of Cadbury's Wispa Biscuits, and even "stealth launch of Wispa Biscuits" sounds like a terrible euphemism for breaking wind.

The planet is currently playing host to countless alarming crises. There's the nail-biting tension of Russia v Ukraine, a depressing standoff overseen by facial-expression-avoider Vladimir Putin. I don't know if all the strings connecting Putin's face muscles to his brain were accidentally severed during a tragic smiling accident years ago, but I've seen brickwork convey more emotion.

The prospect of a new cold war is serious, but currently overshadowed by the next item on the playlist: Isis. Or Islamic State, a group that's risen from obscurity to become planet Earth's number one Band of Bogeymen; putting the "hate" into "caliphate". We hear a lot about Isis seeking to establish a medieval-style Islamic state, which might not seem so frightening if the accent was on reviving the tolerance, harmony, and cultural and scientific advancements of a medieval Islamic state like Al-Andalus, rather than the more barbaric aspects of global medieval history that still prompt winces even when depicted in woodcut form or on tapestries.

The number of young Brits apparently flocking to join Isis has prompted much public soul-searching. "Why are young Muslims angry and disillusioned?" asks the same media that habitually considers hysterical fabrications about Muslims demanding Halal bingo, or whatever, more important than factual reports about Palestinian children being blown to pieces. "What kind of sick glorification are these jihadists seeking?" they wail, while filling the front page with ominous images of "Beatle John" - literally a rock-star nickname - accompanied by text breathlessly recounting his terrifying ruthlessness. "When will the Muslim community do something about this?" they demand, without pausing to consider any potential accountability of their own. The media isn't to blame, but it does very little to help.

Boris Johnson reckons the best way to thwart potential jihadists is for suspected terrorists to be assumed guilty until proven innocent. He described this as a "swift and minor change" to the law. Yep, just a quick, simple reversal of the entire basis of the British legal system. Making pre-emptive kneejerk assumptions is fun: in fact, I've already decided Boris Johnson is the shittest and most dangerous prime minister Britain's ever had, just to be ahead of the game.

Still, just as you're coming to terms with Isis, along comes Ebola to get under your skin, literally. If you haven't heard of Ebola, you're living in a bubble. Like anyone who's been exposed to it. It's landed in the UK, but don't worry: apparently you can only catch the disease by existing.

It's a measure of how bleak the news has become that the only showbiz story with any real traction is the one involving historical allegations against Sir Cliff Richard (allegations he denies). At the time of writing, Cliff hasn't been charged or found guilty of anything, except on the internet, where he's already serving concurrent 140-character sentences.

Actually, that's not the only showbiz tale. There's the ice bucket challenge, 2014's Gangnam Style, which is sort of uplifting, in that it involves famous people doing something stupid for charity. The idea is to raise awareness of motor neurone disease by tipping a bucket of iced water over your head and uploading the results to YouTube (having dried the video off first so it doesn't short-circuit the internet). Already popular, it went super-viral once celebrities joined in. David Beckham, Rihanna, Cheryl Fernandez-Versini - there were even sexy people too, like Alex Salmond. And Alistair Darling. Of course those two scarcely noticed the ice cold deluge because THEY ARE SCOTTISH AND THAT IS SCOTTISH WEATHER HAHA SCOTLAND.

Everyone's done it. Simon Cowell, Kate Moss, Liam Gallagher, Dennis Nilsen. Former president and Teddy-Ruxpin-faced planet-vandal George W Bush joined in the fun, proving that even dot-eyed locust warmongers appreciate a bit of slapstick. Bush had an ice bucket emptied over his head by wife Laura. He's cheerfully commanded people to use buckets of water before, of course, but back then he called it "waterboarding". Over three million people have watched his stunt on YouTube, although two million of those stumbled across it accidentally after typing "dripping wet bush" into the search engine.

Anyway, all things considered, 2014 is going to have to strain really hard to engineer some pleasant news before the end of December if things are going to balance out. That IS how the universe works, right? Good things eventually counteract the bad? Please say it is. Go on, say it. Never mind common sense. Just say it. Say it! SAY IT!

Ha ha u said it LOL #twat
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2014 is so horrible, nothing can cheer us up. Not even Simon Cowell with a bucket on his head | Charlie Brooker

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Ah. Right. Looks like I picked a bad week to draw inspiration from current affairs for this knockabout comedy column. The news is rarely a warehouse of carefree chuckles but at the moment it's like an apocalyptic playlist on perpetual shuffle, with one harrowing crisis overlapping another. Palestine, Libya, Syria ...

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New figures confirm having children is one of the most destabilising things that can happen to the equality in a heterosexual partnership.

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Don't let Eurydice Dixon's death be a 'cautionary tale'

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The people who have the power to change things think it's easier to keep women afraid than it is to make men accountable.

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The opinions expressed by columnists are their own and do not represent the views of Townhall.com.

Does anyone know why President Trump loves "Dreamers" -- i.e.: illegal aliens allegedly brought here before the age of 12 (which no federal judge will ever check) by their parents (which no federal judge will ever check), "through no fault of their own" (which no federal judge will ever check)?

We've been lectured by Mark Zuckerberg about how much better "Dreamers" are than you lazy Americans -- especially African-Americans, whose jobs are disproportionately taken by illegals. (As former Mexican President Vicente Fox once charmingly put it, illegal immigrants "are doing jobs that not even blacks want to do there in the United States.")

So why aren't we being bombarded with television interviews and profiles of these amazing human beings?

Liberals can't make an argument without producing a victim. Attack the media -- they bleat about journalists getting shot in the face while reporting abroad. Complain about FBI corruption -- they choke up over G-men putting their lives on the line EVERY DAY! Denounce the Deep State -- they moan that CIA officers have been killed in the line of duty.

Isn't this the moment for our hearts to be breaking over the millions of wonderful "Dreamers" who will suffer unless we amnesty them immediately?

Let's see 'em! Surely they've got a few Einsteins! After all, the media are capable of turning a gang-admiring thug who forcibly robbed a convenience store and assaulted a cop into "Gentle giant, Mike Brown." They turned jewelry-stealing juvenile delinquent Trayvon Martin into an altar boy.

But even MSNBC dare not show us Trump's beloved "Dreamers." The snarling Muslim showcased by the Democrats at their 2016 convention has gotten more airtime than any "Dreamer."

There are plenty of vague descriptions of "Dreamers," all of whom seem to be valedictorians. But can anyone identify precisely what they have contributed to our country -- other than lots of police work, welfare and protests?

The best "Dreamers" always sound like the "honor student" in Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities: "somebody who attends class, isn't disruptive, tries to learn, and does all right at reading and arithmetic."

How about MSNBC interview five new "Dreamers" every night? Five non-hateful ones are probably the most they could get.

As long as Trump is going to keep babbling about these "absolutely incredible kids" -- "I love these kids!" -- and obstinately refuse to deport them, he must have met thousands of them. He plans to amnesty millions.

Why doesn't Trump showcase his favorite two dozen "Dreamers"? Let the rest of us decide how "incredible" they are.

But no Glamour magazine profiles, please! We want to know everything, e.g.: How much have they cost the taxpayers in free school lunches and medical care? How many anchor babies have they had? What percentage have been convicted of a felony or killed someone in a drunk driving accident? How many have been admitted to college by taking affirmative action spots intended for the descendants of American slaves?

In 2009, The New York Times' Lawrence Downes gushed over illegal alien Benita Veliz. Three years later, liberals still hadn't come up with a better one: In 2012, she was the featured illegal alien at the Democratic National Convention. (It only seems like the Democrats have an illegal alien speak at all their conventions. Veliz was the first.)

Downes ticked off Veliz's "impressive" accomplishments: "She was valedictorian at Jefferson High School" -- naturally! -- "graduating at age 16. She went to St. Mary's University in San Antonio on a full scholarship." (A scholarship, I note, that otherwise might have gone to a yucky American.)

I gather Veliz is the left's designated baby seal of "Dreamers."

Veliz is probably a nice lady, but she was valedictorian at a school that Downes would never send his kids to. Jefferson High School is 98 percent minority, less than half the students are "English proficient," and only 16 percent are ready for college.

HOW DID AMERICA EVER GET BY WITHOUT HER?

Or to use Downes' more-relaxed standard: "How will this country be a better place once we force Benita Veliz to leave it?"

Off the top of my head: There would be less strain on education budgets, hospital emergency rooms, roads and bridges, and that college scholarship Veliz got would be open to an American kid.

This is a country built by Western Europeans. Immigrants arrived after it was already set up and running well. The idea that any immigrant who hasn't committed a felony is someone we can't live without is absurd.

If you're a yuppie in a rich white area and don't like cleaning your toilets, the Trump administration has been great for you. But if you're a Trump voter, you're scratching your head wondering what happened to those campaign promises that set him apart from every other Republican.

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The opinions expressed by columnists are their own and do not represent the views of Townhall.com. Does anyone know why President Trump loves "Dreamers" -- i.e.: illegal aliens allegedly brought here before the age of 12 (which no federal judge will ever check) by their parents (which no federal judge will ever check), "through no fault of their own" (which no federal judge will ever check)?

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As soon as the story broke about the Somali cop fatally shooting the pretty white Australian girl in Minneapolis, one of my Muslim fans emailed me a story:

"Re: Hunting in Kuwait as explanation why this Noor guy shot through the car

"I remember being in Kuwait with the president of the investment bank I worked for. We were invited by one of our directors to hunt turtle doves. There were five of us in all and each had a 12-gauge shotgun.

"Instructions were: Only shoot straight and up; shotgun point in air resting on shoulders when not being used. That's it. I was on the far left, and the fellow on the other end was a Syrian.

"Well, we were out there and no straggling turtle doves were migrating. A half-hour later, not one shot was fired. Then, two birds from a tree ahead darted out, between me and the houses on my left.

"We all looked, but the Syrian turned toward us and began shooting over our heads at the birds. The rest of us hit the ground. Even though our host took his gun away, I gave them mine and went back because, if there is a way to overreact, the Syrian would think it is natural and can't even consider the consequences.

"You cannot place these people in a position of authority (for example with a gun in their hands). They will always shoot as a default reaction to anything that is instant. Neither training nor thinking can change their natures.

"And that is why he shot. He had a gun."

Since then, we've found out that this is exactly why Officer Mohamed Noor shot the gentle yoga instructor walking toward the police car. He heard a loud noise -- or as Powerline blog is calling it, "The Loud Noise Heard 'Round the World."

Noor shot from the passenger seat, killing Justine Damond, according to his partner, sitting at the wheel, who is presumably now deaf. Damond had called 911 to report what sounded like a rape in the alley behind her house, and was approaching the responding police car when she was shot.

As usually happens when Muslims attack, the press is consumed with worry about their mental state and well-being.

Sample Headlines:

Somalis on edge after Minneapolis cop named in fatal shooting -- The Daily Herald (Everett, Washington), July 18, 2017

Somalis in Minneapolis on defensive after police shooting -- St. Paul Pioneer Press (Minnesota), July 21, 2017

Minneapolis shooting brings unwelcome attention to Somalis -- Associated Press, July 22, 2017

There are nearly 2 billion Muslims in the world, amounting to a quarter of the world's population, controlling 50 countries. The English-speaking world is about a fifth that size and constitutes a dwindling majority in about a half-dozen countries. But, somehow, no matter how the story is written, Muslims always get to play the victim, and Anglo-Saxons are cast as the aggressors.

That's why a Somali cop's fatal shooting of a pajama-clad Good Samaritan has gone directly into the "Be Nice to Muslims!" file, rather than the "Why Are All These Somalis Here?" file. (Answer: Because of an earlier mistake with excessive Scandinavian immigration.)

I can't help noticing that it was precisely the "Be Nice to Muslims!" dictate that put this Somali nincompoop on the police force in the first place.

Among Noor's evident errors the night he killed Justine:

1) Shooting from the passenger seat, the bullet whizzing inches past his partner's face, through the driver's side window;

2) Not turning his bodycam on when responding to a 911 call;

3) Shooting to kill because he heard a loud noise;

4) Believing that white women in America pose a threat to a policeman.

A few of the Weather Underground ladies were accomplices to cop-killings, 40 years ago, but even they weren't lone white women cop-killers.

According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, women of any race committed about 10 percent of all murders from 1980 to 2008, and black people committed a majority of all murders. Other than a small child, it's difficult to think of a demographic that poses less of a threat to a policeman in America than a 40-year-old white woman.

Noor's African-American neighbor, Chris Miller, said he was shocked when he heard about Damond's shooting -- until he found out it was Noor. Miller told The Daily Telegraph (Australia) that his Somali neighbor was quick to anger and was always going off on women and children. "He is extremely nervous," Miller said, "a little jumpy ... he doesn't really respect women, the least thing you say to him can set him off."

Sounds perfect for a police officer!

May we see Officer Noor's cadet exam? His training reports? Does anyone believe there is the slightest possibility that Noor was not rushed through the Police Academy so that the nice people of Minneapolis could feel good about themselves for having a real Somali on the police force?

Minnesota's importation of these stone-age people is a completely self-inflicted wound. It's as if the state decided to inject itself with Hepatitis C. Hey, you know what? We're too white and pure. Everyone tie a vein off and give yourself a shot of hep C. We could learn from that!

With Somalis, you get all the social pathologies of Muslims and the American underclass rolled into one package. There's the terrorism and pederasty -- but also the criminality and joblessness!

At least with taxpayer-draining Mexican illegals, you can say, yes, but they provide the rich with such cheap labor! Someone, somewhere in America, gets a benefit. There is absolutely no benefit to the more than 100,000 Somalis brought in by Minnesota, except to feed the Scandinavian ethnomasochism, expressed as arrogant self-regard.

Gosh, they're good people. R.I.P. Justine.

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pretty white australian girls' lives matter

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Pretty White Australian Girls' Lives Matter

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As soon as the story broke about the Somali cop fatally shooting the pretty white Australian girl in Minneapolis, one of my Muslim fans emailed me a story: "Re: Hunting in Kuwait as explanation why this Noor guy shot through the car "I remember being in Kuwait with the president of the investment bank I worked for.

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So I decided to introduce my two-year-old son to the world of video games. Before you accuse me of hobbling my offspring's mind, I'd like to point out that a) television is 2,000 times worse, so shove that up your Night Garden and b) I also decided to counterbalance the gaming with exposure to high culture. For every 10 minutes of Fruit Ninja during daylight hours, he'd get 10 pages of a critically acclaimed novel at bedtime. We're currently halfway through The Magus by John Fowles, which he's enjoying immensely. He finds some passages so moving that his protracted sobs drown out my reading completely, and when I return to the beginning of the chapter to start again, he leaps up screaming, trying to snatch the book out of my hands with delight.

Like any self-respecting 2014 toddler, he can swipe, pat and jab at games on a smartphone or tablet, but smartphone games aren't real games. They're interactive dumbshows designed to sedate suicidal commuters. And they're not just basic but insulting, often introducing themselves as free-to-play simply so they can extort money from you later in exchange for more levels or less terrible gameplay. Either that or they fund themselves with pop-up adverts that defile the screen like streaks on a toilet bowl.

I don't want him playing that horrible bullshit. I want him mainlining proper games as quickly as possible. And proper games are played with a keyboard and a mouse, or a weighty controller embellished with an intimidating array of buttons and sticks and triggers - one that melts ergonomically into any experienced gamer's hands, but makes newcomers feel like they've just picked up a Rubik's Cube designed by Salvador Dalí.

So I handed him a controller. I tried him on Super Mario World, but he didn't understand that you could move and jump at the same time, which limited the fun. My fun, not his. He was perfectly happy to press one button repeatedly to make Mario leap up and down on the spot. But he wouldn't time the jumps properly. He kept getting killed by the same Goomba, endlessly waddling towards him. It was excruciating to watch. So I switched the Nintendo off and tried a different console. He screamed with enthusiasm, or possibly despair. Maybe even hunger. It was getting quite late.

Eventually, after a few more missteps, I stumbled across the perfect game: Trials Fusion. It looks like an action game, but it's actually more of a physics-based puzzle. You're meant to continually adjust the stance of a motorcyclist so he doesn't fall off as he rides at speed over spectacular courses full of ramps and chasms. Despite its high difficulty level, he could make entertaining progress just by pressing the accelerator. The rider fell off all the time, but when he did he plummeted into ravines and bashed against photorealistic scenery, screaming in terror. My son found this hilarious, which is fine, OK, because it is hilarious. After each tumble he hurriedly tapped "retry", which is the second button he learned to locate.

Things soon escalated. One afternoon he threw a tantrum in a supermarket and I, in desperation, downloaded the iPhone version of "the Motorbike Game" (which is what he calls it), and handed it to him as he writhed screaming in the trolley seat. Bingo. Instant calm. He couldn't have been happier. Or quieter. I had to prise it from his hands later with a shoehorn, but that seemed a reasonable exchange for 30 minutes of peace.

But as with free-to-play games, the price was higher; the sting came later. Shortly afterwards, we went on holiday. He had a meltdown on the plane, so out came the Motorbike Game. Wouldn't sit still in a restaurant. Out came the Motorbike Game. Strayed perilously near the pool. Motorbike Game. It was too tempting: like having a toddler with a pause button. Inevitably, he got hooked. Hopelessly hooked.

I want the Motorbike Game. I want the Motorbike Game. That's all I heard all week, apart from him singing the theme music. Just like smoking, each individual cigarette satiated the immediate craving, while increasing his overall dependence.

Worst of all, in the iPhone version - which surprise, surprise masquerades as "free" - the bike runs out of fuel now and then, and the only way to refill the tank it is to wait for a countdown to expire (slightly harder for a two-year-old than completing a tapestry), watch an advert (evil) or to purchase in-game petrol from the App Store. I first became aware of this when he screamed and hurled the phone across a restaurant table in a fury. I caved in immediately and, illustrating everything that's wrong with human progress, found myself spending real money on non-existent petrol for a non-existent motorbike in a desperate bid to appease an infant. Spending money to shut him up felt transgressive and undignified - but worse still, I was literally fuelling his addiction.

On our return we realised he was shunning his regular toys in favour of the Motorbike Game. There was nothing else for it. He had to go cold turkey. The Motorbike Game had to die. I deleted it from the phone and hid the Xbox controller. Neither action went down well. Having been introduced in order to avert meltdowns, the Motorbike Game was now causing them on an epic scale.

Eventually, after several days of endless and often furious requests for the Motorbike Game, he passed through the five stages of grief and came out the other side.

I walked into the kitchen where he sat calmly on the floor, playing with his wooden blocks for the first time in a week.

"That's nice," I cooed encouragingly. "What are you doing?"

"I'm playing the Motorbike Game", he replied, a little sadly.

I looked again. He was re-enacting the game. One block was the motorbike. The rest were the scenery.

It wasn't as good as the original. But it was, at least, his own.
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Want to silence a two-year-old? Try teaching it to ride a motorbike | Charlie Brooker

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So I decided to introduce my two-year-old son to the world of video games. Before you accuse me of hobbling my offspring's mind, I'd like to point out that a) television is 2,000 times worse, so shove that up your Night Garden and b) I also decided to counterbalance the gaming with exposure to high culture.