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Mark Steyn. Genius.
Mark Steyn: Eternally shifting sands of Obama’s biography
…And where’s the harm in it? Everybody does it – at least in the circles in which Obama hangs. At Harvard Law School, where young Barack was “the first African-American president of The Harvard Law Review,” there’s no end of famous firsts: As The Fordham Law Review reported, “Harvard Law School hired its first woman of color, Elizabeth Warren, in 1995.” There is no evidence that Mrs. Warren, now the Democrats’ Senate candidate, is anything other than 100 percent white. She walks like a white, quacks like a white, looks whiter than white. She’s the whitest white since Frosty the Snowman fell in a vat of Wite-Out. But she “self-identified” as Cherokee, so that makes her a “woman of color.” Why, back in 1984 she submitted some of her favorite dishes to the “Pow Wow Chow” cookbook, a “compilation of recipes passed down through the Five Tribes families.”
The recipes from “Elizabeth Warren – Cherokee” include a crab dish with tomato mayonnaise. Mrs. Warren’s fictional Cherokee ancestors in Oklahoma were renowned for their ability to spear the fast-moving Oklahoma crab. It’s in the state song: “Ooooooklahoma! Where the crabs come sweepin’ down the plain.” But then the white man came, and now the Oklahoma crab is extinct, and at the Cherokee clambakes they have to make do with Mrs. Warren’s traditional Five Tribes recipe for Cherokee Lime Pie.
A delegation of college students visited the White House last week, and Vice President Biden told them: “You’re an incredible generation. And that’s not hyperbole, either. Your generation and the 9/11 generation before you are the most incredible group of Americans we have ever, ever, ever produced.”
Ever ever ever ever! Even in a world where everyone’s incredible, some things ought to be truly incredible. Yet Harvard Law School touted Elizabeth “Dances with Crabs” Warren as their “first woman of color” – and nobody laughed. Because, if you laugh, chances are you’ll be tied up in sensitivity-training hell for the next six weeks. Because in an ever-more incredible America being an all-white “woman of color” is entirely credible.
Entering these murky waters, swimming through it like a crab in Mrs. Warren’s tomato mayo, Barack Obama refined his own identity with a finesse that Harvard Law’s first cigar-store Indian lacked…
Morality, People, Politics | tree hugging sister | 
May 18, 2012 5:52 pm
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Crabs and liars are all the Democrats have to offer. Yet fools still vote for them.
JeffS,
And those aren’t even the kind of crabs you get after the pleasure of sex. Although, considering the screwing we’re currently getting, I guess you could say there was sex associated with those Democratic crabs.
There are 2 kinds of crabs: those you love to eat and those who love to eat you.
My only encounter with the latter was when I was a recruit at Parris Island beginning in June, 1975.
I discovered them one evening when I felt itching and to my horror noticed a tiny little tick-like critter that was actually moving on my finger after a scratching episode.
But that horror was nothing compared to trying to get rid of them because I knew it would require telling the Drill Instructor. I actually considered just putting up with them but decided I couldn’t. It went something like this:
Me: SIR, THE PRIVATE REQUEST TO SPEAK TO THE DRILL INSTRUCTOR, SIR!!
DI: SPEAK MAGGOT!!
Me: SIR, THE PRIVATE HAS CRABS SIR!!
DI: GET OUT OF MY FACE AND BEGIN!!
Did mountain climbers ’til the crabs were a distant memory. Later that day the DI sent me to sickbay where they gave me a lotion that killed them dead.
I made it through the next 10 weeks and eventually learned to admire and respect, not fear, our Drill Instructors.
Anyhow, that’s my main crab memory.
T.M.I.
Mrs. Warren’s fictional Cherokee ancestors in Oklahoma were renowned for their ability to spear the fast-moving Oklahoma crab.
Oh, I do love me some withering sarcasm.
And Currently, I did feel for you, but I have to say that “The private has crabs, sir!” is the funniest line ever.
Have to agree with Dr. Alice on the line.
Currently, I hope you have LOTS of grandkids, and tell all of them that story. (Or at least write it down offline and leave its location in your will.)
“BEGIN”
That’s the DI’s universal cure-all, isn’t it?