High life: Why on earth should Barack Obama say sorry to Kamala Harris?

New York

When the President of the United States has to apologise publicly for calling a woman ‘the best looking attorney general in the country’, I know it’s time to hang up my jock, as we used to say in boarding school. Kamala Harris is a big busty black woman with Asian blood whom I obviously would not ask to vacate my bed, but Obama did not even go that far. All he did was praise her looks and the sisterhood of professional grievance mongers went to work. Some old hag wrote in Salon — whatever that is — that ‘my stomach turned over; those of us who’ve fought to make sure that women are seen as more than ornamental should know better than to rely on flattering the looks of someone as formidable as Harris’. (I picked up the quote from a newspaper, as I’m fortunate enough not to read the vile stupidities that appear online now that we’ve all become Papa Hemingways.) All I can say is I hate to think what the aggrieved one whose stomach turned over must look like. Kamala (where do they get these names?) Harris didn’t seem to mind at all. She’ll run for governor of California sometime in the future, or end up on the Supreme Court if there’s a vacancy and Obama still has a hard-on for her. Nothing wrong with that. Even the great King Solomon, seeking another woman for a wife, learnt wisdom in these matters. He had his acolytes bring him forth 50 or more they deemed suitable for him, wise ones, smart ones, some who had the right build for child-bearing, tall ones, gentle ones, serious ones. And the wise king looked them over until his eye suddenly caught sight on the far edge of the crowd of candidates a cutie-pie with a dimple in her ear…Boy, old King Sol’s decision to pick the cutie-pie must do wonders for the old hag’s stomach, but maybe she’s not as religious as I am and doesn’t read the old books. Kamala aside, and if you substitute the m for a v it means hanky-panky in modern Greek, another lady is in hot water for speaking the truth in the Land of the Depraved, one Susan Patton, bearer of a great and noble name. All Sue baby did was to write a letter urging her Ivy League sisters to put their college years to good use and find a hubby. If she had announced that Adolf Hitler was great in the sack, she would have got off more lightly. Never have I heard such epithets hurled at a lady, and a Princeton graduate to boot. A traitor to feminism, to co-education and to the university ideal were by far the mildest ones. Telling it like it is nowadays is a no-no. All Patton did was publicly to acknowledge a truth — that one uses university in the good old US of A to network at worst, and to find a suitable hubby at best. When I was at ‘THE’ university, as Virginia was and is referred to by gentlemen who think Robert E. Lee is the greatest American ever — as I do — there were no women students except a few ugly ones from the local village Charlottesville. There were three all-women colleges within 50 miles, however, and that’s how we spent our evenings, driving to and fro. Bonnie Richardson, Mary-Blair Scott and Ellen Hurst were the three beauties everyone was after. All three married Virginia men straight after graduating. I’ve stayed in touch. Oh, yes, I almost forgot, all three were honour students and very, very smart. Too smart for their stomachs to turn over when the President of the United States let the cat out of the bag. Elite universities are for connecting. Just look at Harvard and Goldman Sachs. So why pick on Patton? Ah! Beware of the sexlessness of those who can’t get it. Feminists seem to think that sex is a battle — and for some of them I’m sure it feels like Thermopylae — but actually it’s more of a piano duet. There is no aggressor stroking the keys. Sex, in the great scheme of things, is a much more casual and unimportant thing than it is customarily admitted to be. For those who have access to it, needless to say. The aggrieved ones screaming away at Obama and Patton seem to me like that crazy Rochester wife up in the attic, only this time in soulless newsrooms in DC, New York and London. But let’s get down and dirty, as they say. One of the most disturbing habits a woman may possess is that of putting an emphasis everywhere. Instead of commenting in a light-hearted way about the obvious bulge in the president’s trousers when Kamala’s name came up — pun intended — an extra dose of outrage and emphasis on her stomach turned the Rochester woman in Salon

more pathetic than usual. I’ve used this before, but the Rochester woman sounds like a very bad piano with a very loud pedal. And she should go and see a doctor about her stomach. Napoleon remarked that a woman for him was in the nature of a holiday. Well, of course, but Napo wasn’t known for knowing women well. And he was among the great men of history whose wives cheated on them. When I was going through my Napoleon stage as a teenager and read about Josephine’s and later on Marie-Louise’s indiscretions my stomach turned over.