So the perky Somali pirate — I mean, Santa Clarita Valley’s sister district congresswoman from Minnesota — is in hot water. Again. The North Star State’s angry cover concubine, Ilhan Omar, had her D.C. home raided and searched recently by the FBI. The feds are putting together a freight train of charges, possibly including violating The Infield Fly Rule, which, if the Democrats had their way, would be a hate crime. The most intriguing accusation? That Mrs. O married her brother just to get into the country she so apparently loathes.
OK. Fine. So maybe we’re living in End o’ Humanity Times. Wickedness not only abounds, it oozes. But, what’s the greatest threat facing modern civilization? Being uncool. Still. Sibling marriage? Tres overbite uncool.
Under normal conditions, recognized by everyone except randy monkeys (good band name), we hairless primates don’t wed or even date our siblings. It’s Nature’s safety button to keep people from producing offspring with three pronounced nostrils, tall foreheads (like Peyton Manning) and a love of government employee unions from sneaking into the gene pool without a swim suit.
For some strange stimulus, the nation’s free press woke from a long slumber to finally ask Ms. Omar the rather pointed question we’ve all been whispering:
“Illy. Girl — did you MARRY your BROTHER!?!?!?”
Her response?
“Not to my knowledge.”
Lordy. I love politicians. “Not to my knowledge.”
Like a rhinoceros with the obvious and bodacious horn, Mother Nature has provided our elected officials with the self-defense camouflage of Dishonesty. Not just your ordinary, Dog Ate My Homework lying, but, fantabulous, Your Nose Is Gonna Grow Some Cubits for sharing whoppers.
You’d think that when Omar started dating her brother, some natural and haunting curiosities might pop up. Like: “Say, alleged handsome perfect stranger who looks like me named Ahmed Nur Said Elm Omar! As West Virginians say — Haw-YUCK!! Y’all shore look familiar!! Are you certain we haven’t met before?”
Dating one’s sibling does have its advantages. There’s no more awkward first-date front-porch moments where the girl says, “Would you like to come in?” or, “Keep your hands in your pockets and thank you for the wonderful evening, please don’t try and spoil it.”
Also? There’s no more uncomfortable grilling of the boy by the girl’s overly protective father with nosy questions. Like: “So, son. What do you do for a living, besides sleeping on my couch?”
Of course, having a dicey, bomb-throwing resume or worshipping candidates with flickering tails in red opera capes isn’t necessarily a problem to a Democrat. Liberals carry the 24-karat Get Out Of Perdition excuse card of, “I Identify As …” (fill in the blank). “Nothing to see here. I identify as an amoral 13-year-old middle school cheerleader engaged to my 29-year-old brother in the Coast Guard and who are you haters to judge we’re not in love?”
To be fair here, there’s the uncomfortable and unspoken Fact Of Life that men and women view Truth through completely different eyeballs. Ask any guy the following: “Were you ever married to country singing sensation Ella Langley and did you live with Ella happily in a West Hollywood apartment and she bore you three, beautiful love children?”
The answer? It ain’t — I guarantee, ain’t — the Hillary-esque, “I don’t remember at this time …” followed by the CHP’s favorite huffy response: “Do you have any idea who I am?”
Women are more — ahem — nuanced.
There’s also the sad fact of life that, in marriage, like baseball, women throw at your head. It’s just mixed into The Human Experience Soup. For men, “I can’t recall,” is a perfectly acceptable answer to the following questions:
• “How many guys did Lucas McCain kill in the five seasons of the tear-bringing, beautiful, manly, artistic TV Western, ‘The Rifleman’?” Actually, any self-respecting guy knows the answer. Lucas McCain personally killed 120 villains. For bonus points, seconds after killing them, he immediately asked his boy, Mark, “Well, son. Wanna get that slice of peach pie over at the hotel now?” Then, there’s the oft-asked query to California governor Gavin Newsom …
• “Gav. You evil mutt. Where did all our billions of tax dollars disappear in your various boondoggles like high-speed rail, Medicare fraud, endless green or homeless hijinks projects?” Or, my all-time favorite question …
• “Who would win in a fight, Superman, or, The Beatles?” This is actually an easy question. The Beatles. Why? Because there’s four of them.
Of course, all this is but a distraction to the core genius of Ms. Omar’s response to the query, “Did you marry your brother, you cootie-laced heathen so-and-so?”
Ilhan Omar’s answer? “Not to my knowledge.”
Talk about Las Vegas, spur-of-the-moment weddings. The minister, dressed as Elvis of course, asks: “Do you take your brother to be your lawfully wedded husb … oh, cripes. Even though it’s Vegas, I can’t go through with this. Get out of my chapel and no, you don’t get the complimentary free, 1-ounce cocktail on the way out.”
California’s a blue state. Sadly. But, even after the worst-case scenario, kidney-destroying frat kegger party, for a variety of reasons, you wouldn’t catch me marrying any one of or all three brother-like substances, Acorn, Joe or Hondo, no matter how generous the dowry.
There’s a variety of reasons. Granted. The marriage would probably work out better than my previous 42 failed weddings. Still. Matrimony with one’s brother or all three is gross, so sinful that only a Northern California junior college political science professor would attempt.
Most importantly?
My brother-like substances? They’re not my type.
Do pick up “Naked Came the Novelist,” John Boston’s sequel to the international bestseller, “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” at JohnBoston-Books.com. A lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards and nearly 12,000 columns, Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.
