A few leftist pundits (mostly women, but embarrassingly not all) have actually propounded the notion that the Trump assassination attempt was somehow staged, suggesting that “no one gets up from getting shot and does fist pumps and shouts, “Fight.”

They have so effectively socially castrated the men around them with “toxic masculinity” that they’ve become exclusively accustomed to effete old men who apologetically wheeze out a pathetic story about how their dad once told ’em, “Joey, it’s okay to fall down, as long as you get back up” every time they ineptly fuck something up.

They have been so completely bereft of actual masculine presence for so long that it is actually easier for them to believe a deadly event was “staged” because “nobody” would act that way.

My God…have the become so quickly and deeply inured to a frail, cowardly, senile old ball-bag wheezing on about LBGTQRSTUWXYZ&$FYXDVF rights as he sits in a full diaper behind the Resolute Desk that their fragile minds can no longer successfully process the fact that an actual man will, even in…especially in moments where their true selves are revealed, act with courage and resolution.  The feminized men on the left so frequently choose Flight, they can’t handle it when someone instinctively chooses “Fight.”

Which is the real reason these idiots are so hilariously apoplectic right now:  within two short weeks, we’ve unexpectedly had the opportunity to see both presidential candidates in truly unplanned for, totally unproduced and unscripted moments that showed both men at their absolute realist, rawest, and truest.  We saw Who They Are in brutally real ways.  We saw how they truly act in a crisis.  One challenged his opponent to a debate, a debate which he wanted to do, for which he picked literally every aspect (when, what network, format, everything).  This wasn’t really a crisis, but we all know how he handled it: he showed up and had a total mental collapse on live TV.  That was a crisis.  So how did he handle that?  He spent the next two weeks mincing and whining and blaming literally everything and everyone else, finally,  pathetically settling on “I had a cold,” and “I was still jet-lagged from 2 weeks ago.”

The other one got shot in the fucking head, bucked the Secret Service, and, with blood smeared across his face, raises a fist and shouts, “Fight!”

Well, I guess if you’re still on the fence, you now have the Harris/Vance debate coming up.  No idea how that will go, of course, but I’m sure it will be unburdened by what has been.

N.P.: “Eractou” – cEvin Key, Ken Hiwatt Marshall