ROGER SIMON: Soul Corruption: Tucker, Candace and Steve.
I didn’t want to write about this. Oh, how I didn’t want to write about this. I was hoping it would just go away, like the worst of bad dreams.
But it kept recurring. And growing worse, almost to the point of metastasizing into an incurable tumor, a pancreatic cancer of the soul.
Would they soon be accusing us of murdering gentile children to obtain blood for our matzoh as they did in Norwich, England, 1144? Or would they burn the Talmud as was done in Paris when all books were hand written by scribes, 1242?
After all, we were now being accused of being behind the murder of Charlie Kirk with no more evidence than that deranged blood libel from the Middle Ages.
And, yes, I know the Democrats are a hundred times worse. The execrable Jimmy Kimmel was just pulled off the air by ABC for telling the most obvious lie about the Charlie Kirk assassination and he’s far from the worst of them, not even close to the Mamdani “globalize the intifada” crew.
Even so I didn’t want to write about it. I had promised myself, following the advice of the Lubavitcher Rebbe and others, that the best, most effective road forward was always to stay positive.
Speaking of which, it was that half-Jewish, half-gentile songwriting team of Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer who wrote “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive,” based on a sermon by a black man, Charles Manuel “Sweet Daddy” Grace , that became a big hit for Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters in the middle of World War II (1944).
So positivity can come from all quarters in the worst of times. You just have to pay attention to life and the right path.
Nevertheless—and sorry it took so long to get here—sometimes you’ve just gotta say ya basta, enough already.
So roll back with me roughly three years ago this coming winter. My wife and I were sitting in a small bistro on a posh island on the Gulf side of Florida with Tucker Carlson. I had texted Tucker, who spent the cold months on the island, that we were going to be there and hoped to have lunch.
We had a nearly three-hour meal together, gabbing and having a fine time, in agreement about everything under the sun. Tucker was great fun and I thought we were becoming better friends. In fact, we texted every week or so thereafter and he quite graciously gave me a stellar blurb for my then new book, American Refugees, that became the name of this Substack. Because of his fame, the publisher put that blurb on the front cover of the book, rather than the back where they usually appear. It remains there to this day, faute de mieux.
And then the roof fell in.
Read the whole thing.
