Category: Tiffany Kendal Koogler

When Truth Becomes Obscene


The most appalling and troubling spectacle of the American Left’s bag of tricks is their refusal to simply tell the truth. Democratic representative Frederica Wilson, who resembles both a rodeo clown and a pimp from the movie Shaft, said that President Trump has a brain disorder because he told a widow whose husband died in the Special Forces that: “ he knew what he signed up for… but it hurts when it happens anyway.”

What’s wrong with that statement? Absolutely nothing. It does not detract an iota from the sadness and somberness of the man’s death, but it is true. What else would someone believe being in the Special Forces entailed? An intense game of Scrabble? Ferocious flour sack races at dusk? Death is on the menu.

Because of the deranged pearl clutching over someone telling the truth these days, President Trump has been prompted to deny this statement.  Another sunk cost of resources and time (the taxpayers pay for all this, remember?) where someone has to slow walk out of a statement because they said what actually is.

A schadenfreude that is fun when insomnia strikes is to watch clips of smug Hillary voters on Election Night around 9 P.M. Eastern Time. In an accurate use of the word, they are gobsmacked that Trump delivered a thrashing to big, bad Hillary.

How could they not know that Hillary Clinton would lose when she has the trustworthiness of saltwater crocodile circling a basket of pug puppies? Even undecided voters loathed her. But her supporter’s disbelief and outrage is genuine. Why is that?

The American Left’s entire political discourse is built on false language. Lies. Trickery. Fallacies. Where words do not mean what they actually mean. Where one cannot actually state the nature of an issue, in plain and common language, without being called a racist, white supremacist, fascist, homophobic, misogynist knuckle-dragger that deserves to have their head bashed with a threaded lead pipe.

Even though they are uncomfortable, facts are what we must have to survive as a country. Being a Special Forces soldier in sub-Saharan Africa is the definition of danger. One’s gender does not change on a random Tuesday when a man feels the inexplicable need to wear a Laura Ashley dress and smear blush over his beard stubble, or woman wants to shave her head, push a tube sock down her pants and call herself Tanner.

The people who need to be told Black Lives Matters are other blacks, the gang-bangers who fire off guns with the casualness we would buy a coffee and cheese Danish. Areas where large populations of blacks live are inherently unsafe, and even other blacks flee from these neighborhoods the day they have the necessary funds. (See the Obamas vacationing in Necker Island and Bali, and living in swanky, white parts of D.C and California, as opposed to the Baltimore Sandtown projects or Haiti).

That as gloomy as their plight may be, America does not have the resources to shelter immigrants, feed their children, and absorb their medical care as they send billions of untaxed dollars back to their relatives in Oaxaca. That a burkha is a symbol of dreadful oppression. That whites not willing to take responsibility for every act of savagery on the planet and known history are not white supremacists. 

If you cannot identify a problem with honesty, how do you fix it? What relationship ever flourished because one party had a relentless commitment to an agenda of deceit? 

Politically correct language is obscene because it is a language whose entire purpose is to swindle. Hurting someone’s tender feelings has become social leprosy, and anyone who is brave enough to speak truth will find themselves shunned by the elites who shape the narrative and hand out the goodies.

Because the only currency the Left values is stridently not calling something exactly as it is, they could not understand how to advise Hillary on how to be the one thing voters want most of all: to be sincere.

What if Hillary had taken the stage at the election debate where Trump gathered a group of women who stated they had been victims of Bill Clinton’s frantic machinations to get laid and said this:

I see you up there. I have been married to this old hound dog so long — it was just easier to stay. Shared histories, entangled finances.  He is a pervert. I was a snake to throw the intern Monica under the bus. But, I am old school, and believe marriage is for life. Going forward, I will do everything I can to make sure women have a place at the table. His disgusting behavior will in no way affect my leadership of this country.

World-shattering. The stuff of legends. Huma Abedin would have tackled her on stage to inject her in the neck with Xanax. The pundits would have trampled little old ladies in patriotic blue glitter hats to get to their laptops and cameras to rabidly macerate her speech for months.  

But she might have won.

Her tremendous ego and innate pig nature kept her from being honest and humble. Because to be honest is to be humble. To state that President Trump is humble at first blush sounds delusional.  But he is humble, and therefore honest; about the difficulties he is having with both sides of Congress and the media. He uses his Twitter account as a VPN line to tunnel through the false narrative to tell us what is really happening as he presides.

With a huge set of conjones, he gave the voters what everyone wants: blistering, searing honesty. Sometimes, waiting on a plane to take off or for my elderly dog to do his business in the rain, I imagine what I would do if granted five wishes. One of my wishes would be the super-power to force people to tell the truth.

Give it to me naked, raw, and wriggling. We all just want the painful facts. No one wants to be cheated; when someone deliberately withholds facts to your disadvantage and their advantage. We want it from our romantic partners, our families, our employers and the politicians who are paid with our money to make grave decisions that impact our lives.

Let us see how the sausage is made in government and in corporate America. We need to hear the pig squeal and watch the blood flow, as unsettling and barbaric as it may be. Let us decide if we want to eat the corn dog, or not.

The American Left cannot grasp this certainty: as long as President Trump continues to tell the American public the truth, none of their slanders, concocted spy stories or the daily sneering disrespect shown to millions of voters matter to us.

For with every unpolished, uncooked, honest Tweet that President Trump sends out in the early morning hours into the vast American darkness, we are rooting for him with every move he makes.

The most appalling and troubling spectacle of the American Left’s bag of tricks is their refusal to simply tell the truth. Democratic representative Frederica Wilson, who resembles both a rodeo clown and a pimp from the movie Shaft, said that President Trump has a brain disorder because he told a widow whose husband died in the Special Forces that: “ he knew what he signed up for… but it hurts when it happens anyway.”

What’s wrong with that statement? Absolutely nothing. It does not detract an iota from the sadness and somberness of the man’s death, but it is true. What else would someone believe being in the Special Forces entailed? An intense game of Scrabble? Ferocious flour sack races at dusk? Death is on the menu.

Because of the deranged pearl clutching over someone telling the truth these days, President Trump has been prompted to deny this statement.  Another sunk cost of resources and time (the taxpayers pay for all this, remember?) where someone has to slow walk out of a statement because they said what actually is.

A schadenfreude that is fun when insomnia strikes is to watch clips of smug Hillary voters on Election Night around 9 P.M. Eastern Time. In an accurate use of the word, they are gobsmacked that Trump delivered a thrashing to big, bad Hillary.

How could they not know that Hillary Clinton would lose when she has the trustworthiness of saltwater crocodile circling a basket of pug puppies? Even undecided voters loathed her. But her supporter’s disbelief and outrage is genuine. Why is that?

The American Left’s entire political discourse is built on false language. Lies. Trickery. Fallacies. Where words do not mean what they actually mean. Where one cannot actually state the nature of an issue, in plain and common language, without being called a racist, white supremacist, fascist, homophobic, misogynist knuckle-dragger that deserves to have their head bashed with a threaded lead pipe.

Even though they are uncomfortable, facts are what we must have to survive as a country. Being a Special Forces soldier in sub-Saharan Africa is the definition of danger. One’s gender does not change on a random Tuesday when a man feels the inexplicable need to wear a Laura Ashley dress and smear blush over his beard stubble, or woman wants to shave her head, push a tube sock down her pants and call herself Tanner.

The people who need to be told Black Lives Matters are other blacks, the gang-bangers who fire off guns with the casualness we would buy a coffee and cheese Danish. Areas where large populations of blacks live are inherently unsafe, and even other blacks flee from these neighborhoods the day they have the necessary funds. (See the Obamas vacationing in Necker Island and Bali, and living in swanky, white parts of D.C and California, as opposed to the Baltimore Sandtown projects or Haiti).

That as gloomy as their plight may be, America does not have the resources to shelter immigrants, feed their children, and absorb their medical care as they send billions of untaxed dollars back to their relatives in Oaxaca. That a burkha is a symbol of dreadful oppression. That whites not willing to take responsibility for every act of savagery on the planet and known history are not white supremacists. 

If you cannot identify a problem with honesty, how do you fix it? What relationship ever flourished because one party had a relentless commitment to an agenda of deceit? 

Politically correct language is obscene because it is a language whose entire purpose is to swindle. Hurting someone’s tender feelings has become social leprosy, and anyone who is brave enough to speak truth will find themselves shunned by the elites who shape the narrative and hand out the goodies.

Because the only currency the Left values is stridently not calling something exactly as it is, they could not understand how to advise Hillary on how to be the one thing voters want most of all: to be sincere.

What if Hillary had taken the stage at the election debate where Trump gathered a group of women who stated they had been victims of Bill Clinton’s frantic machinations to get laid and said this:

I see you up there. I have been married to this old hound dog so long — it was just easier to stay. Shared histories, entangled finances.  He is a pervert. I was a snake to throw the intern Monica under the bus. But, I am old school, and believe marriage is for life. Going forward, I will do everything I can to make sure women have a place at the table. His disgusting behavior will in no way affect my leadership of this country.

World-shattering. The stuff of legends. Huma Abedin would have tackled her on stage to inject her in the neck with Xanax. The pundits would have trampled little old ladies in patriotic blue glitter hats to get to their laptops and cameras to rabidly macerate her speech for months.  

But she might have won.

Her tremendous ego and innate pig nature kept her from being honest and humble. Because to be honest is to be humble. To state that President Trump is humble at first blush sounds delusional.  But he is humble, and therefore honest; about the difficulties he is having with both sides of Congress and the media. He uses his Twitter account as a VPN line to tunnel through the false narrative to tell us what is really happening as he presides.

With a huge set of conjones, he gave the voters what everyone wants: blistering, searing honesty. Sometimes, waiting on a plane to take off or for my elderly dog to do his business in the rain, I imagine what I would do if granted five wishes. One of my wishes would be the super-power to force people to tell the truth.

Give it to me naked, raw, and wriggling. We all just want the painful facts. No one wants to be cheated; when someone deliberately withholds facts to your disadvantage and their advantage. We want it from our romantic partners, our families, our employers and the politicians who are paid with our money to make grave decisions that impact our lives.

Let us see how the sausage is made in government and in corporate America. We need to hear the pig squeal and watch the blood flow, as unsettling and barbaric as it may be. Let us decide if we want to eat the corn dog, or not.

The American Left cannot grasp this certainty: as long as President Trump continues to tell the American public the truth, none of their slanders, concocted spy stories or the daily sneering disrespect shown to millions of voters matter to us.

For with every unpolished, uncooked, honest Tweet that President Trump sends out in the early morning hours into the vast American darkness, we are rooting for him with every move he makes.



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Harvey Weinstein: Male Predators and Their Targets


Harvey Weinstein bears a shocking resemblance to Quasimodo, as portrayed in the 1982 Hallmark production of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. But, other than his uncanny resemblance to Hugo’s hunchback, nothing about Weinstein’s behavior shocks me. 

The first time I can remember a man coaxing and terrorizing me into a sexual favor was when I was 16 years old, working at Koeing Art Emporium, because I loved art, and I had no money.

There, at least three men, all in their late 20s, all in a supervisor position over me, attempted to kiss, maul or touch me in the back room that smelled of framing wood and Chinese takeout. Later, at Baptist Campbell University, my work-study professor would pull me down on his lap, show me condoms and stroke my hair. After I transferred to UNC Chapel Hill, two different professors asked me for sex, and threatened bleak outcomes if I refused.

The first, from the African Studies Department, asked me to sit on the front row in short skirts during lectures. I did not, but compromised and sat on the side row in shorts.  He later asked me to his office, and would rub my skin frantically and promised me an A if I would touch his privates. When I ran away from his office in fear, he ignored me the rest of the semester and gave me an A-. He still teaches there, in blissful tenure.

The more sinister predator was in charge of UNC’s Writing Program. He picked me out of a line of students waiting for approval of transfer credits. This man was intense, tall, and Machiavellian. He told me that if I did not spend time with him, he would not grant any of my English credits from my college transfer.  The details are hazy, but I remember he came to my apartment. We kissed on my couch and I longed for my boyfriend from Campbell, a wrestler whom I adored. When the professor told me he wanted to order a pizza, like we were co-ed couple lounging on a rainy weekend, some ancient wisdom finally reared up in me. I asked him if he was married. He said he was, and I said, “I feel bad for your wife.” He finally left. I avoided him and he eventually gave me the credits after I begged in handwritten letters I shoved his faculty mail cubbyhole.

I moved on with my life, graduated with good grades and even won the Francis L. Philip Travel scholarship.

Sexual harassment continued loud and proud, as I entered the legal workforce after law school. A smirking pervert, who reeked of cigarette smoke from ten feet away, and was the chief prosecutor in a huge county near Tampa, perusing porn on his computer while you briefed a case to him? You betcha. Same prosecutor and his knucklehead cronies ridiculing an African American murder victim’s photos because she had cellulite on her buttocks — as she sprawled naked, bloodied, and beaten on the floor of an old house? I remember it in fluorescent detail.

My boss at the Florida Attorney General’s Office, rubbing my shoulders, telling me I looked like a schoolgirl, and complaining that his nagging wife used the rocking chair as a clothes hamper (he should have seen my bedroom). It happened more than one time.

So, why did this happen to me? And why did it happen to Weinstein’s victims? Was my beauty so overwhelming that these men lost their minds? Hardly. There were other pretty girls, beautiful women in those environments, and they were unmolested. Just as there were other aspiring stunning actresses and waitresses who escaped Weinstein’s sweaty paws.

Was I sending out sexual vibes so strong these men thought I was a little minx? Not likely. I was often compared to Ellie Mae Clampett and was unsure of how to apply eyeliner, often resembling a sad raccoon. Forget seducing a man

So, how does the sexual predator choose who to terrorize?

The answer can be found in looking at Weinstein’s victims did not have, and what I did not have.  Some lone voices on Twitter have demanded: Why hasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow spoken up?

Because she was never sized up as prey. She is protected. Globally powerful men surround Paltrow. Her godfather is Stephen Spielberg. Her deceased father was movie producer. She dated Brad Pitt. She married and divorced a rock star. The girl has alpha men protecting her back.

And his victims? Ashley Judd. I have read Ashley Judd’s biography. Nary a male in sight to protect her.  Not a male with any clout, when she was finding her place as an actress.  Likewise, if my father had been a Platinum Donor to the UNC Alumni Fund, those fat cats that fly into the games on private jets, would these Professors have believed it was an acceptable risk to threaten me with harm if I did not have sex with them, and risk their joke, cushy jobs?  Not a chance.

Predators have a preternatural sense of the vulnerable. They know when a female has no male to turn to when another male attempts to harm her. If there is no powerful, moneyed alpha male to rain down an ungodly firestorm on their heads, it’s a green light to lunge for whatever they desire. 

The dreadful truth is that we have not moved that far from the cave and the campfire. We are still negotiating with Og and his club. And to beat Og, you need a bigger, meaner Og, ready to bash his brains out, or least the resources to pay a cold-eyed proxy (a lawyer these days) to gut him.

Women need powerful men to protect them from other men. For the celebrities who are feigning shock and dismay at this male abuse, they are as believable as an addict rummaging through your bathroom declaring she is looking for aspirin. The idea that this errant male behavior is systemic, and perhaps genetic, is heresy to feminists, the Left, and even people who believe that we live in a world where fairness and civility rule gender relations most days. It doesn’t.

The poor souls who have their faces melted with acid in the meaner parts of the world don’t come from the upper castes. They never have a rich father or a bevy of strong brothers to protect them. In the numerous documentaries I have watched, it is always a lone girl and her mother, trudging to a dusty court with half of her face ruined like a Dali painting, in hopes that someone cares that her life was obliterated by a man who was jealous or pissed off because he was rejected.

Our politically-correctness drenched world does not allow the thought to even bubble: that men are different — as Fitzgerald told us the rich are. Men who have unchecked power, as Weinstein did, will use it to get what they want, and very often, they want sex with young, powerless females. And all the women reporting on sports that they have never played, or a sprinkling of women CEOs in Silicon Valley, or men acting cool with unshaved legs and armpits will not change this. (They actually are not cool with it).

If a woman had an influential, heavy hitting male in her corner, would she have been safe from Weinstein? Would I have been safe? Yes. And yes.

That is why Malia Obama, working her internship at Weinstein’s Miramax, was as clueless and protected as the Queen’s jewels, and why a waitress at the Tribeca restaurant, forced to watch Weinsten masturbate over a potted plan and told to shut up, was unequivocally not.

Harvey Weinstein bears a shocking resemblance to Quasimodo, as portrayed in the 1982 Hallmark production of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. But, other than his uncanny resemblance to Hugo’s hunchback, nothing about Weinstein’s behavior shocks me. 

The first time I can remember a man coaxing and terrorizing me into a sexual favor was when I was 16 years old, working at Koeing Art Emporium, because I loved art, and I had no money.

There, at least three men, all in their late 20s, all in a supervisor position over me, attempted to kiss, maul or touch me in the back room that smelled of framing wood and Chinese takeout. Later, at Baptist Campbell University, my work-study professor would pull me down on his lap, show me condoms and stroke my hair. After I transferred to UNC Chapel Hill, two different professors asked me for sex, and threatened bleak outcomes if I refused.

The first, from the African Studies Department, asked me to sit on the front row in short skirts during lectures. I did not, but compromised and sat on the side row in shorts.  He later asked me to his office, and would rub my skin frantically and promised me an A if I would touch his privates. When I ran away from his office in fear, he ignored me the rest of the semester and gave me an A-. He still teaches there, in blissful tenure.

The more sinister predator was in charge of UNC’s Writing Program. He picked me out of a line of students waiting for approval of transfer credits. This man was intense, tall, and Machiavellian. He told me that if I did not spend time with him, he would not grant any of my English credits from my college transfer.  The details are hazy, but I remember he came to my apartment. We kissed on my couch and I longed for my boyfriend from Campbell, a wrestler whom I adored. When the professor told me he wanted to order a pizza, like we were co-ed couple lounging on a rainy weekend, some ancient wisdom finally reared up in me. I asked him if he was married. He said he was, and I said, “I feel bad for your wife.” He finally left. I avoided him and he eventually gave me the credits after I begged in handwritten letters I shoved his faculty mail cubbyhole.

I moved on with my life, graduated with good grades and even won the Francis L. Philip Travel scholarship.

Sexual harassment continued loud and proud, as I entered the legal workforce after law school. A smirking pervert, who reeked of cigarette smoke from ten feet away, and was the chief prosecutor in a huge county near Tampa, perusing porn on his computer while you briefed a case to him? You betcha. Same prosecutor and his knucklehead cronies ridiculing an African American murder victim’s photos because she had cellulite on her buttocks — as she sprawled naked, bloodied, and beaten on the floor of an old house? I remember it in fluorescent detail.

My boss at the Florida Attorney General’s Office, rubbing my shoulders, telling me I looked like a schoolgirl, and complaining that his nagging wife used the rocking chair as a clothes hamper (he should have seen my bedroom). It happened more than one time.

So, why did this happen to me? And why did it happen to Weinstein’s victims? Was my beauty so overwhelming that these men lost their minds? Hardly. There were other pretty girls, beautiful women in those environments, and they were unmolested. Just as there were other aspiring stunning actresses and waitresses who escaped Weinstein’s sweaty paws.

Was I sending out sexual vibes so strong these men thought I was a little minx? Not likely. I was often compared to Ellie Mae Clampett and was unsure of how to apply eyeliner, often resembling a sad raccoon. Forget seducing a man

So, how does the sexual predator choose who to terrorize?

The answer can be found in looking at Weinstein’s victims did not have, and what I did not have.  Some lone voices on Twitter have demanded: Why hasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow spoken up?

Because she was never sized up as prey. She is protected. Globally powerful men surround Paltrow. Her godfather is Stephen Spielberg. Her deceased father was movie producer. She dated Brad Pitt. She married and divorced a rock star. The girl has alpha men protecting her back.

And his victims? Ashley Judd. I have read Ashley Judd’s biography. Nary a male in sight to protect her.  Not a male with any clout, when she was finding her place as an actress.  Likewise, if my father had been a Platinum Donor to the UNC Alumni Fund, those fat cats that fly into the games on private jets, would these Professors have believed it was an acceptable risk to threaten me with harm if I did not have sex with them, and risk their joke, cushy jobs?  Not a chance.

Predators have a preternatural sense of the vulnerable. They know when a female has no male to turn to when another male attempts to harm her. If there is no powerful, moneyed alpha male to rain down an ungodly firestorm on their heads, it’s a green light to lunge for whatever they desire. 

The dreadful truth is that we have not moved that far from the cave and the campfire. We are still negotiating with Og and his club. And to beat Og, you need a bigger, meaner Og, ready to bash his brains out, or least the resources to pay a cold-eyed proxy (a lawyer these days) to gut him.

Women need powerful men to protect them from other men. For the celebrities who are feigning shock and dismay at this male abuse, they are as believable as an addict rummaging through your bathroom declaring she is looking for aspirin. The idea that this errant male behavior is systemic, and perhaps genetic, is heresy to feminists, the Left, and even people who believe that we live in a world where fairness and civility rule gender relations most days. It doesn’t.

The poor souls who have their faces melted with acid in the meaner parts of the world don’t come from the upper castes. They never have a rich father or a bevy of strong brothers to protect them. In the numerous documentaries I have watched, it is always a lone girl and her mother, trudging to a dusty court with half of her face ruined like a Dali painting, in hopes that someone cares that her life was obliterated by a man who was jealous or pissed off because he was rejected.

Our politically-correctness drenched world does not allow the thought to even bubble: that men are different — as Fitzgerald told us the rich are. Men who have unchecked power, as Weinstein did, will use it to get what they want, and very often, they want sex with young, powerless females. And all the women reporting on sports that they have never played, or a sprinkling of women CEOs in Silicon Valley, or men acting cool with unshaved legs and armpits will not change this. (They actually are not cool with it).

If a woman had an influential, heavy hitting male in her corner, would she have been safe from Weinstein? Would I have been safe? Yes. And yes.

That is why Malia Obama, working her internship at Weinstein’s Miramax, was as clueless and protected as the Queen’s jewels, and why a waitress at the Tribeca restaurant, forced to watch Weinsten masturbate over a potted plan and told to shut up, was unequivocally not.



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