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In which WOOF reports all the news unfit to fake; est. on April 19, 2017 at 3:39 pm


In which WOOF’s editor in chief, Old Bugler, expresses his up-to-the-minute-if-frustratingly-excursive views on nothing but 100% guaranteed genuine news, mostly in the annoyingly-officious third-person, as befits his station!


OUTRAGE: It Isn’t What it Used to Be!

–Byline: “Old Bugler”

Old Bugler wishes to admit at the outset of this commentary that he is not outraged. He makes this asseveration after an intensive exercise in self scrutiny and feels confident that he is correct. He simultaneously confesses feelings of encroaching isolation, as he witnesses so many of his fellow citizens succumbing to this bleak emotion.

The Wonder Woman crisis…

Even Wonder Woman looks outraged.

Take armpit hair, for instance. Apparently, Wonder Woman doesn’t have any, or put more correctly: Gal Godot, the ephemerally significant superstar currently portraying Wonder Woman on the silver screen, doesn’t have any—a detail Old Bugler might have gone the rest of his life without noticing were it not for legions of keen-eyed feminists who deluged the usual media outlets with their declarations of outrage. Even the once-staid FORBES complained that “…Wonder Woman’s armpits… represent the entire struggle with which a modern woman must grapple daily: I am woman, hear me roar, but…let me take away everything I am so I can be everything you want me to be.” Really, FORBES? And this without a hint of sardonicism? Great Hera! (No pun intended.)

Wonder Woman survived the hotly pro-feminist ’70s with shaven pits–and nobody minded at all.

Old Bugler frankly and outspokenly doubts the sanity of anyone willing to assert that “the entire struggle with which a modern woman must grapple” is represented by Wonder Woman’s armpits, but he may be underestimating the matter.  And besides, somewhat confusingly, an equal number of British Subjects appear to react angrily to hairy armpits, a pair of which were disported on a morning ITV1 show by one Emer O’Toole, a comely Irish “research student” whose appearance appears to have ramified solely from her decision to become “furry and proud of it,” the better to protest “pressure on women to conform to artificial gender norms.” But no sooner had Miss O’Toole displayed her profoundly piliferous pits (glimpsable here, for the stout of heart) than swarms of British viewers declared themselves outraged.  Are these viewers not concerned with the tyranny of artificial gender norms?

As the above panel from the Golden Age of comics should suffice to demonstrate, even paleo-Wonder Woman shaved her armpits!

Perhaps then, Emer O’Toole should play Wonder Woman, and Gal Godot should appear on British morning TV; but hardcore comic book fans would be outraged in either case because alterations made to their heroine’s outfit also seem to provoke outrage. Nowadays, of course, even using the word ‘heroine’ is likely to promote outrage, but Old Burglar doesn’t care. More to the present point, the blog NERVE reports that NBC revised its TV Wonder Woman costume to look “slightly less like a sex outfit…after fan outrage.”  And outrage, again, reportedly led to Wonder Woman being stripped of her title as United Nations Honorary Ambassador for the Empowerment of Women and Girls back in 2016, only two months after her elevation to that status was announced.  Old Bugler confesses some concern that the Amazon princess’s feelings were toyed with in so callous a fashion, but that’s the United Nations for you.

Hera today, gone tomorrow. Sic transit gloria mundi.

Modern outrage is not, of course, restricted to armpits and Wonder Woman. In fact, this reporter has noted that not a day passes without the confection of some new “outrage” by the mainstream media attributable to President Trump’s actions or pronouncements. Also notable is the fact that news readers who report these ostensible enormities seem to forget them by the time they convene to recite Mr. Trump’s newest outrage de jure. How else to account for the fact that such alert looking young ladies and gentlemen (all of whom display an amazing identicality of timing and phraseology no matter what their network affiliations) seem oblivious of how severely their latest allegations conflict with the details of Mr. Trump’s previously reported outrages? But the modern capacity for outrage is not, of course, limited to newscasters, TV viewers, or even feminists.

Language that sort of offends you…..

Wallace Loh, speaking Spanish to the outraged….

Readers may have noticed that university students are consistently outraged.  So much so that they have begun to describe themselves as outraged when their faculties expect them to maintain acceptable GPAs despite having to devote a majority of their college careers to demonstrating how outraged they are. Old Bugler offers as one example the petition signed by 1,300 young learners at Oberlin College demanding their proctors “get rid of any grade below a C,”owing to the extraordinary amounts of time socially responsible students found necessary to devote to anti-Trump activism. But America’s colleges are not solely outraged by the Donald. No sooner had the University of Maryland declared itself a “sanctuary campus” (meaning it was willing to violate federal and state laws in order to burnish its social-justice image among leftists) than Hispanic students and social-justice devotees in general pronounced themselves “outraged” because when UM’s President Wallace Loh announced the university’s sanctuary status, he had the audacity to deliver part of his remarks in Spanish (which, incidentally, is his native tongue). Students fumed that Loh’s bilingual performance implied that all illegal refugees are Mexican. One outraged scholar explained, “As a student you want to know that your university stands by you and won’t use language that sort of offends you.”

Some days, you just can’t burn a flag!

Muslim students as well as numerous other non-Muslim but equally sensitive students at the University of Missouri were outraged when members of their campus’s Young Americans for Liberty (YAL), , joined together to form the “Missouri University Coalition for those Killed by ISIS” and burned the terrorist organization’s infamous  black flag. Meanwhile, outraged students at UC Berkeley rioted upon discovering that Breitbart editor Milo Yiannopoulos planned to address them. So outraged were they, in fact, that the students felt it necessary to set property fires, vandalize buildings, and threaten Mr. Yiannopoulos’s life.

Similarly outraged young scholars at NYU rioted to protest a speech by Vice Media co-founder Gavin McInnes. The conservative McInnes was scheduled to address the campus Young Republicans but was forced off stage, in the event, by outraged social-justice protagonists shouting “Whose campus? Our campus!” which they further emphasized by pepper spraying the unfortunate Mr. McInnes.  Seemingly, the Young Republicans at NYU are expected to find another campus, although the rioters were not clear in this regard.

Frederick Douglas: To praise him is to micro-aggress?

Without wishing to risk boresome elaboration, Old Bugler offers for consideration the outrage expressed by Michiganian environauts following news that Orvana Resources – a subsidiary of Highland Copper – had undertaken to advance that state’s foundering economy through exploratory drilling in the upper peninsula’s Porcupine Mountains; the outrage expressed by the habitually outraged Congressional Black Caucus when Donald Trump waxed so craven as to heap praise upon abolitionist Frederick Douglass (who died in 1895) as someone “who’s done an amazing job and is being recognized more and more,” thereby, apparently, discounting all subsequent achievements by Black people; and the outrage widely expressed by liberals everywhere upon discovering that vice president Pence will not dine alone with women other than his wife—this last outrage being widely cited as disempowering women—although Old Bugler has yet to grasp how.

Planetary umbrage?

The many faces of student outrage.

Why, one might ask oneself, is everyone nowadays outraged? Has the world become qualitatively more outrageous? Your humble editor thinks otherwise.  Decades ago, Malcolm Muggeridge warned that advances in media would cause us to perceive these times as unprecedentedly horrific whereas, in fact, our newfound capacity to learn of all calamities everywhere simultaneously merely creates that impression. Viewed in that context, pandemic outrage seems understandable, but also unwarranted.  Even psychologists seem slowly to be approaching the realization that outrage is a false flag operation.  A peer-reviewed study in the recent edition of Motivation and Emotion finds that “moral outrage at third-party transgressions is sometimes a means of reducing guilt over one’s own moral failings and restoring a moral identity.” Like many of psychology’s most lauded discoveries, it is tempting to file this one under “duh,” except that Old Bugler believes the authors may be letting their subjects off too easily.

In the age of Twitter, the sound bite, and the instantly inferrable microaggression, outrage has become more than what Reason editor Elizabeth Nolan Brown sensibly dismissed as “a function of self-interest, wielded to assuage feelings of personal culpability for societal harms [and] to reinforce…one’s own status as a Very Good Person.” True, outrage often fulfills such functions, nowadays called “virtue signaling,” but its rapidly advancing artificiality as displayed by so many unthinking practitioners of “social justice” reveals still-shallower motives.  University students, for instance, are signaling not only virtue, but an unprecedented appetence for being led by the nose by professors and media pundits whose alacritous patsies they become without offering so much as token resistance. True, a leftist establishment whose policy and philosophical failures are indefensible must needs resign itself to the evocation of mass sanctimony as its only viable recourse– but is everyone suddenly so riven with feelings of “personal culpability” as to take the bait?  As usual, the mechanisms of liberal ire are less than meet the eye.

White women scolding themselves, aka: virtue signaling.

A bunch of maroons….

College students pronouncing themselves outraged are merely the less creative, less well-educated descendents of those who scarfed down goldfish during the Roaring Twenties (which today would strike many as outrageous) or stuffed themselves into phone booths during the 1950s, which struck everyone as stupid, even then. Nobody would care that youth’s misguided enthusiasms are nowadays more self important, except that today’s social-justice faddists wreck stuff, burn stuff, hurt people, and demand “safe spaces” when anybody objects. Their knack for demanding things is arguably an inheritance from the radical students of the ‘60s who are now their professors, parents, or grandparents,whereas the critical faculties necessary to challenge the sociological guff their professors trowel out has been denied them by our neutered educational system, allowing radical teachers to cunningly redirect their rebellious impulses toward cutout social constructs that either don’t exist (as in global warming) or that will cringingly absorb even the most insensate criticisms without retaliating (as in corporations) or that only the most conspicuous sort of blockhead would bother himself to give a tinker’s damn about–as, say, the well being of the imperilled East Usambara speckled grasshopper.  As Bugs Bunny would say, “What a bunch of maroons.”

Despite such valiant efforts to perpetuate their species as demonstrated here by these two dedicated specimens, the ranks of the Tanzanian East Usambara speckled grasshopper continue to dwindle, environmentalists report.

Take BREXIT for instance–while the liberals took polls, British patriots took action.

Old Bugler exhorts WOOF readers to avoid outrage. It may once have enjoyed a substantive currency, but no longer. The lexical deflation of outrage as a concept is almost entirely ascribable to nounal abuse from the Left, which has left the usage a vapid, debased conceit best met with calm, or, when possible, indifference. For the Right, contemporary outrage is nearly always better met with ridicule than replication. Take the creation of the wonderfully infectious term “snowflakes” to describe these collegial mutton heads, who, as Dr. Domenick J. Maglio forecast in his perspicacious tome Invasion Within, bully us only so long as they are not confronted, and metamorphose into wimps as soon as authentic confrontation is offered. In each instance of media or collegial outrage, let us resolve to respond with laughter, perhaps even jeers, but always with forceful, constructive action into the bargain.

Seriously–can you picture the students who solemnly created and brandished this poster and not burst out laughing? 

Speak truth to snowflakes…

The worst thing about contemporary outrage, after all, is that it suffices as a sort of action onto itself, relieving the “virtue signaler” of the responsibility of actually doing something useful about whatever he purports to deem outrageous. Waging the fight to re-establish conservative values, views, and governance in the land is therefore both an effective response, and an exploitation of the Left’s most conspicuous weakness: its lack of strategies appealing to anyone outside of the balkanized honeycomb of special interests, brainwashed university children, and manufactured minorities that constitute its post-Obaman base.

Our young American snowflakes and the addlepate generations of deracinated potheads who raised and educated them deserve exposure to alternatives from the Right, not reflections of their own emotionalism and pseudo-moralistic pomposity. Let us offer them truth, criticism, and humor, rather than a mirror image of faux indignation. Cast off the malignant histrionics of the Left, gentle readers. Let us offer a choice, not an echo.  Or is that phrase still considered outrageous? 


“The Devil and Barack Obama” (Part One: The Early Years)

In "Unfinished Waffles" forum on March 22, 2017 at 12:20 pm


Dear Mr. Obama:

Did you ever see the movie Big Jim McLain? We’re guessing probably not—for one thing, it stars John Wayne, and we don’t see you as a John Wayne guy, besides which it opens with a salute to the hard-working members of the House Un-American Activities Committee. We’re guessing you’d rather appear in an NRA commercial than display a scintilla of sympathy for an anticommunist bunch like HUAC.  But that’s not important now. What’s important is Daniel Webster.

The Webster Paradigm

We’ve seen media reports that you’re quite the scholar, Mr. Obama, so we needn’t remind you that Daniel Webster was the American statesman who twice served in the House of Representatives (for New Hampshire and Massachusetts) and then in the Senate (for Massachusetts) between and 1813 and 1827. No, not the guy who wrote the dictionary. That was Noah. No, not the Noah who built the ark—but anyway—the reason we thought of Daniel Webster as we began this effort to help you compose a true accounting of your presidency is because in Big Jim McLain there’s this spooky scene where you see Webster’s gravesite on a lightning-riven night, and the narrator intones these lines from Stephen Vincent Benet:

Webster’s grave as depicted in “Big Jim McLain.”

“Yes, Dan’l Webster’s dead—or, at least, they buried him. But every time there’s a thunderstorm around Marshfield, they say you can hear his rolling voice in the hollows of the sky. And they say that if you go to his grave and speak loud and clear, “Dan’l Webster—Dan’l Webster!” the ground’ll begin to shiver and the trees begin to shake. And after a while you’ll hear a deep voice saying, “Neighbor, how stands the Union?” Then you better answer the Union stands as she stood, rock-bottomed and copper-sheathed, one and indivisible, or he’s liable to rear right out of the ground.”

Please don’t misinterpret that as a threat, sir. True, you wouldn’t pass muster, but we understand your public persona demands pretensions to patriotism, even as you chirpily dissemble your record in that sing-song manner to which we’ve all grown achingly accustomed. You did a good job of this last January on the occasion of your most recent farewell address. Presidents traditionally use such events to voice concerns and hopes for the Nation’s future, but somewhat unsurprisingly, you used the occasion to review what you perceived to be your greatest moments in office.  As journalist Caroline Baum remarked, “Why wait for others to assess your legacy when you can do it yourself?” But even the perspicacious Baum failed to note the dichotomy between the legacy you described, and your actual accomplishments—or between what Comrade Lenin called truth and objective truth.

The long farewell– from a man who says he’s not going anywhere! 

We understand how frustrating it must be to continuously burble misleading flummeries while no proper recognition can be given your genuine achievements as an agent of the Islamo-Fascist Left. Like Dostoyevsky’s Raskolnikov, you must find the thrill of getting away with the perfect crime dampened by the realization that nobody appreciates your brilliance. So in what follows, we at WOOF offer you an opportunity to give a complete accounting of the blows you rained upon the Republic, offered  mainly for the edification of a demonic dyad (see below) uniquely positioned to assess the impact of those blows, as well as to applaud those manifold  instances in which your famously incomputable intellect sufficed to keep you several steps ahead of the  clueless bourgeoisie.

Franklin’s arithmetic:

Ben Franklin wrote that ““Three May Keep a Secret if Two are Dead,” and that’s exactly what occurred to us while pondering how best to help you catalog your rascality without risking discovery by the masses. Our plan works a lot like Binet’s–only without Daniel Webster, of course–he being an old, dead White guy who’d throttle you on sight.  No, for Binet’s framework to fit our purpose, an antithetic approach was required entailing a very different historical icon–one occupying a very different gravesite. An iconic figure sympatico with your unwaivering revolutionary convictions. We refer here, of course, to Fidel Castro.


The Devil and Fidel Castro

fconeYou will doubtless have occasion in the not too distant future to revisit the imprisoned island of Cuba, upon which you recently lavished so much favor, even as you conveyed to its tyrannical leadership so many overt and implicit apologies for the sins of your predecessors. Once arrived and sumptuously quartered in environs palatial enough to gobsmack the average Cuban, you will want to seek out the resting place of Fidel Castro. As you know, his ashes are interred inside a big concrete blob at Santiago’s Santa Iphigenia Cemetery. It’s supposed to be a kernel of corn, but it looks more like the Rubbles’ house in Bedrock. Anyway, the point is, you will want to make a pilgrimage there the better to reenact the Big Jim McLain scene, mutatis mutandis.  We suggest you cry out,  “Primer Ministro Presidente, Comandante Fidel!” And imagine your thrill when he thunders back, “Comrade, how goes the struggle for el socialismo?”

El Comandante’s tomb is supposed to be a kernel of corn. Presumably the designer was shot.

(Except he will probably add remarks amounting to three or four additional hours of your time, in that inimitably loquacious way of his.  So bring a book. After all, Fidel’s penchant for giving five-hour speeches to audiences forbidden to leave their seats on pain of death or imprisonment, makes him the only world leader to have used–and on myriad occasions–even more personal pronouns per speech than yourself.  But then again, because Fidel gave such long speeches, he had more opportunities to praise himself than you had in your (comparatively) brief addresses. Judging the matter on an hourly rather than a per-speech basis, you’d win hands down. Take your speech in Austin back in 2014. You spoke for only 40 minutes, but managed to employ the pronouns “me,” “my,” and “I” one-hundred and ninety-nine times. Did you know, the entire Gettysburg Address only lasted about three minutes?  It contains a measly 272 words– and Lincoln didn’t use a single personal pronoun in the whole speech. What a wallflower!

Print this article!

No place to plug in a teleprompter at Fidel's tomb!

No place to plug in a teleprompter at Fidel’s tomb!

So, when Fidel finally finishes you must grab the opportunity to say something like:  ”The struggle for socialism, unh, goes pretty well, and, unh, I really stuck it to the unh, Yanquis who are so stupido they –-hah–elected me for two, unh, consecutive terms, and unh…” And…see the problem? Here’s where WOOF can really help out, because, that’s right: There’s no place to plug in a teleprompter at Fidel’s concrete lump, and even if there were, Cuban electrical power is notoriously spotty—did you remember to apologize for that? Anyway, you know how you get when you try to ad lib! So print these articles out, Mr. President, and bring them with you (if you can even get WOOF articles into Cuba, which come to think of it probably isn’t all that easy, but you’ve got pull.) Stick to our comprehensive script and we bet Fidel will just about jump right out of his cement blob and give you a big comradely smooch.

Iblis, aka Shaitan–the most important audience member!

But don’t draw the line at impressing your hero in the big grey blob…no, he’s just the intermediary–like a medium at a seance–or a big cigar-chomping ouija board. What matters most is to impress the big guy himself–El Diablo. You know: Iblīs— did we get that right?–you know who we’re talking about, and he’ll be listening all right, Mr, President–the third person in Franklin’s trilogy. Okay, he’s not dead like Fidel, but he’s not alive like we mortals–so Franklin’s maxim still applies. The Devil can keep a secret all right! So here’s what to say; stick to the script we’ve provided and you’ll do fine!

———Begin reading your statement HERE, Mr. President: ————

Carl Davidson’s articles appeared in “FORWARD,” a journal named for the classic battle cry of the Marxist Left. By complete coincidence, that was also my campaign slogan in 2012!

“To begin with, right from birth I was the cause of confusion and dissent, only most of it didn’t boil over until I ran for president. See, I was born on August 4th in Mombasa—that’s in Kenya—in 1961, just a year before the Americans blundered into the Bay of Pigs, isn’t that right Comandante? LOL! Anyway, I always told everyone I was born in Kenya; but by the time I was running for senate, comrades like Bill Ayers, Bernardine Dohrn, and Carl Davidson— started to worry abut that.  I know the Comandante knows Carl, because he personally contacted him and told him America was ready for revolution, remember? Anyway, as soon as my fellow radicals,  ex-weather underground mentors and a few of my favorite CPUSA-type professors came up with the idea of my national political career, they pointed out I had to be born in America—just in case I ever tried running for president. Those were some smart folks, guys—I mean—Fidel and—Mr. Devil, sir, or…can I call you Iblis? Maybe just Old Nick!

Bill and Bernardine: My staunch supporters, advisors, and political advocates in Chicago, pictured here in more carefree times.

Multiple births, multiple mysteries:

“After all the advice I got, I realized I was probably born in Honolulu, Hawaii, (coincidentally, on the same day that I was born in Mombasa) so Hawaii became my updated birthplace, even though I seem to have registered as a foreign student in college. And there were all those brochures left around from 1995 publicizing my forthcoming book, Journeys in Black and White–which never actually forthcame, heh, heh,  saying  I ‘was born in Kenya and raised in Indonesia and Hawaii.’  In fact, my Kenyan birth was still going strong as recently as 2007 as publicity for my next book–which actually did get written.  I liked the Kenyan version because being a real African always impresses “African Americans” cuz, let’s face it, the majority of ’em couldn’t find Africa on a map–and real Africans always leave white liberal academicians gasping in awe, so the Kenyan angle worked great. To tell you the truth, near as I’m able, I’m not exactly sure where I was born anymore–I was pretty young at the time. But  I think we can agree that confusion is a mighty weapon we wield against the forces of capitalism, reaction, and  all those backward hayseed southern fundamentalist churches that won’t support partial-birth abortion or transgender bathroom rights…you know, like the Catholics.

“But honestly, fellas, the truth is, Hillary really did start the whole “birther” thing back in ’08, like Trump said, only I’d never tell anybody else that. For starters, she sees all these memos and oppo-research findings about my total disconnect from anything authentically American–a fact I take great pride in, by the way–but politically not so good! Next, in unmistakable Clinton style– the emails get ‘leaked’ saying I’m Kenyan–or Jakartan, or Indonesian–and when everybody runs back to Hillary and asks her ‘Why are you sayin’ all this horrible stuff about Barack?’ (Because by then, remember, the media were trampling her in a mad rush over to my side), so she just pulls that bug-eyed face of hers where she looks like she’s never ever been so shocked in her life, you know–eye balls popping out of her head–and –classic Clinton–she turns around and fires the loyal staffers she had leaking this stuff, and tells the press, ‘oh–we traced those memos to a few renegade staffers but I got rid of them.’

“I mean those Clintons, you gotta admire their style– their knack for looking self righteous while they pump out whatever garbage they just made up– I have to say, I’m a big fan.  I’ve certainly tried doing it like that, but when I go for indignation I just come off snotty, so mostly I try to act suave and highbrow, but that bores people after a while, except Charlie Rose. I think I’m going more urban Black from here on out, droppin’ muh final G’s, an’ soundin’ like ah’m from the Chicago hood ‘stead of Indonesia by way of Hawaii. And just between us comrades, thousands of my admirers will totally buy the idea that I’m all of a sudden talking like Charlie Rangel or somebody, because, let’s face it, they’re morons–but I say, praise Allah for making so gosh darn many of ’em! Can I get an amen?

The road to the Whitehouse…

Me and George.

“Okay, some funny things happened on my way to the Oval Office–at first, of course, I didn’t think I could win. Like everybody, I figured Hillary was a shoe in, so  I just wanted to get my face out there.  I never doubted I could beat John McCain–that guy has the electability of a brain damaged tuber–plus, I swear he was rooting for Hillary–but  everything changed when the mainstream media just all of a sudden seemed to decide I was the guy. Like somebody pulled a switch. Okay, let’s face it, somebody did–so let’s give kudos to George Soros here, before I go any farther.  Me and George go back to 2004 when he threw me a fundraiser at his New York mansion. Up until then, there wasn’t any real money behind me because most of my supporters were communists or former Weather Underground terrorists– and the only work those people can get with that kind of background is pretty much limited to tenured positions at major universities. But Soros smeared my opponent and got me elected in Illinois, after which I served about 700 days, and ran for President!

Wright and Wrong

“Don’t turn your back on Islamic tradition–I’m still in the Bible!”

“So the next big deal was my history at Jeremiah Wright’s church, which we thought might end my chances, because there’s tons of video tape of him saying stuff like ‘God damn America’ and ranting about the Jews, and White people, except that none of the mainstream networks played those parts. So, I just claimed I sat in his church for 20 years, and never heard a word, which was obviously ridiculous—especially with him being my kids’ Godfather and one of my books being dedicated to him and quoting him about “the white man’s greed”and stuff–but the liberal media held solid and covered it up.  In retrospect, we totally overestimated the damage Wright could do me—first because voters just dopily accepted the idea that I sat nodding like a bobble doll in his church for 20 years and never heard a word he said, but also when stuff came out about how he’d mentored me and counseled me politically the whole time, we just called it right-wing nonsense. When it came out he taught Liberation Theology, which is really Marxism, as you fellas well know, the press didn’t go near it. And when that jackass Ed Klein Read more…