Oy Vey!

Dave of the Locust

January 19, 2017

Multiple Pages
Dave of the Locust

Hollywood simply cannot conceal its massive butthurt over Donald Trump winning the election. With awards season in full swing, expect a slew of Meryl Streep moments from now through the Oscars. Showbiz types are a uniquely repulsive species, and I say that having mixed with them for the better part of my life. Hollywood is filled with attention-starved egotists who take any success, large or small, as confirmation of what they already knew, which is that they’re better than you. The Trump butthurt comes not so much from politics, although politics certainly plays a role, but from the knowledge that people like you did not follow orders from your superiors. You were told to vote Hillary, just as you were told to vote Obama in 2008. But this time you didn’t listen. Every star-studded instructional video, every rock star or comedian who interrupted a show to lecture people on the proper way to vote, was ignored, unheeded, and ultimately rejected.

Can’t you bastards see what you’ve done? You’ve hurt the feelings of those noble souls who seek nothing more in life than to entertain us as they push for progressive tax increases and free health care even though they belong to a union in which dues don’t increase for high earners and medical benefits are a privilege withheld from low earners. These are America’s finest, and you’ve made them feel impotent and unloved. As they cry themselves to sleep on pillows filled with money and oxycodone, just know, Trump voters, that the next OD is on you.

Okay, I’ll admit it: Celebrities are easy targets, and I’m far from the first guy to point out their flaws. But because I actually know a few of these repulsive Hollywood types personally, perhaps I can expand a bit on why these precious flowers are so up in arms over Trump’s victory.

I’ll begin with a brief anecdote from my past.

“We have a choice—we always have a choice—regarding what we decide to dwell on or let go of.”

Cathy Ladman is your standard-issue unexceptional New Yawk Jewish comedienne. She’s been around for a long time, and she’s done a lot of stuff, but you’ve probably never heard of her unless you follow stand-up on a regular basis. These days, like every other uninspired comedian in the U.S., she’s on the warpath against Trump and the racist anti-Semite Nazis who voted for him. Back in 1998, a mutual friend dragged me to Ladman’s one-woman show at a theater in L.A.’s pricey Miracle Mile district. I dreaded going, because I detest stand-up comedy, but I’d been invited, so, proper gent that I am, I went. The entire show was one gigantic kvetchfest. “Oy vey, woe is me. My life is such dreck.” But by the way her self-indulgent, unending monologue was structured, it was clear that she was building to something. She was working her way backward in time, toward the moment in her youth—that one horrific, traumatic moment—that scarred her mentally and emotionally for life. Sitting there in the dark, I couldn’t help but wonder what the big reveal would be. A rape? A parent’s gruesome death? A childhood brush with brain cancer? What turned Cathy Ladman into such a dysfunctional basket case?

In the final segment of the show, the cause was divulged. Her voice trembling, Ladman bared her soul. When she was 13 years old, she was watching the Academy Awards with her mom. When Barbra Streisand took the stage to sing “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” the young Ladman looked up at her mom and said, “I can do that,” and her mom replied, “Oh, no, she’s very special.”

Ladman never recovered.

Yes, the big “reveal” was a single inartful, offhanded comment by her mom; a suggestion that lil’ Cathy wasn’t as special as certain other performers (here’s another big reveal—Mom was right). That alone destroyed her life. The audience members gasped as she reached her denouement. They reacted as though she’d confessed to having been molested by Klaus Barbie. Amazingly, as recently as 2014, Ladman was still bitching to fellow nebbishes about that “tragic” moment.

So here’s my point: To a lot of these showbiz types, Trump getting elected is (as the kids like to say these days) “lituh-ruh-lee” the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. If they’re acting as though they were butt-raped by everyone who voted for Trump, rest assured—that’s exactly how they feel. They see themselves as the victims of a personal wrong done to them by the great unwashed—the hicks, the hillbillies, the impoverished goyim they so love to caricature on screen. The people in “the business” with whom I grew up were of the generation that was too young for Vietnam and too old for Iraq (not that they would have served anyway). To them, Trump is their ’nam. I’m astounded at the way my Hollywood friends have managed to personalize the “tragedy” of Trump’s victory. Maybe “astounded” is the wrong word; disgusted is more appropriate. Because, for better or worse, the Hollywood folks I grew up with are raising children now, and those kids are proving to be the best props imaginable in the real-life protest play my friends are staging.

A theatrical producer I’ve known since second grade posted on Facebook last month that she thinks Trump is going to Holocaust all the Jews (my friend is Jewish herself):

Has anyone flat out asked Trump if he can guarantee we will not have another WWII-like event? No Holocaust. No Internment Camps. Has he said to our country - that will not happen?

Days later, she followed it up with this:

The fact my daughter panics when she sees me post political stories and express my opinion and makes statements like, “Mom, please stop. I don’t want people who work for Trump to find out and come take you away!” makes it VERY clear something is not right!!

A well-regarded actress commented on the post, “He’s scaring the kids! Disgusting.” And a New York fashion designer added, “My daughter asked me if Trump could have me killed because I protested.”

These lunatics scare the hell out of their children by telling them that Trump is going to murder them and their parents, and then they use their kids’ nightmares as “proof” that Trump is dangerous. No, cretins, your kids aren’t scared because Trump is Hitler. Your kids are scared because you keep telling them they’re going to be killed. Your little ones aren’t responding to Trump; they’re responding to you. It’s amazing that these dumbasses can remain oblivious to their role in this farce.

My childhood best friend is now a prominent Hollywood executive. I’ll leave out any specific details for reasons that will become apparent shortly. Now, this friend of mine, this big-time exec behind some of your favorite TV shows, is, of course, a leftist. We grew up together, practically next door, two Jewish kids with permissive parents, but we ended up going to different high schools, and we lost touch during our senior year, for reasons that will become apparent shortly. With the advent of Myspace in 2006, we reconnected. We’ve remained friends since, always avoiding any major political arguments.

But these are new days, new times.

About ten years ago, this fellow, who I had always taken for being gay (for reasons that will etc., etc.), adopted a child from South America. Following Trump’s victory, my old friend went batshit crazy, with posts day after day after day about how Trump and his supporters were Nazi rapists. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether Trump was going to rape his adopted daughter or deport her. One day in December, he posted a self-pitying rant about how Trump’s victory had hopelessly damaged his life because he’s the “parent of a brown child.” I’d finally had enough. It was beyond me how any parent could reduce their child to nothing more than a color. “This isn’t my child; it’s my brown child!” I flashed back to the flak Bush Sr. took in 1988 when he referred to his Mexican-American grandchildren as “little brown ones.” How times have changed. Now calling your kids “brownies” is the progressive thing to do, as long as it allows you to claim victim status following an election that didn’t go your way.

I messaged my old buddy, and I decided to make a point. A point that he, and the Cathy Ladmans of the world, and all the other leftists who find their identity in real or perceived victimhood, fail to get: that we have a choice—we always have a choice—regarding what we decide to dwell on or let go of. We can decide that we’ve become permanently damaged by something, be it a mother’s offhanded comment or a presidential election, or we can rise above whatever troubles us. Plus, as he was essentially calling all Trump voters rape fans, I thought it might be instructive to drag my ol’ pal down memory lane so that he might gain a bit of perspective.

I reminded my friend why I stopped speaking to him back in summer 1985: He had attempted to sexually assault me. He’d lured me to the back room of a store, and, well, all that matters is that I got away, despite the fact that he had a good eight-inch height advantage (something about not wanting to get raped can make even the wee-est of men hulk out). Bottom line: No (lituh-rull) butthurt occurred. I fought him off, and that was that. It was a completely insignificant moment in my life, and one that has had zero impact since then. My good friend got horny, he tried to force himself on me, I fought him off, and said good-day. End of story.

When we reconnected via Myspace, we had lunch together. I decided that if he wasn’t going to bring it up, I wouldn’t. Because why would I? To play the victim card? To glean material for a self-pitying one-man show? That would be terribly—what’s the word?—leftist of me. But here was my old friend now, ripping Trump supporters for being pro-rape, claiming he’d been traumatized by Trump’s victory, so I just had to say, “You know, you did try to sexually assault me, and not only did I let it go, but I let you let it go.” In light of his anti-Trump righteousness, I asked him if he’d care to address what happened that summer day back in ’85.

Guess who immediately got defriended!

All leftists are hypocrites; Hollywood leftists merely have a larger megaphone. And make no mistake, as awards season marches on, they’ll be screaming into it like a sonofabitch. It doesn’t bother me one bit, and you shouldn’t let it bother you, either. Because, as election ’16 so wonderfully demonstrated, ain’t nobody listening anymore.

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