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The Daily Donnybrook, and other fine things

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Mike @Substack

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Welcome to this week’s installment of our Wednesday meme feature, folks. Links to the “found via” sources will be attached to the specific MiQ’s (Memes in Question) whenever I can remember them, which likely won’t be very often. Only the first two memes will appear above the fold to save on bandwidth usage, since I assume not everybody who shows up at this here websty will want to see all of them. This intro will appear at the top of each week’s Memezapoppin’! post. Enjoy, funny pitcher-lovers.

Continue reading Memezapoppin’!



Err, let’s not get TOO very excited about this, ‘kay?

As per usual with Too-Big Goobermint, it’s the wheels within wheels within wheels that tend to fuck ya up.

Update! Ace runs down what’s really going on in Yertle’s labyrinthine but increasingly senile “mind.”

Senate Sources Tell Sean Davis: Mitch McConnell Isn’t Really Stepping Down. There’s a Revolt Brewing and He’ll Likely Be Removed from Leadership, So He’s Saying He’s “Stepping Down” To Stop the Vote to Remove Him.
—Disinformation Expert Ace

And he’ll un-step down when he senses that the current controversy has passed.

So this explains why he’s not ragequitting the Senate — this is all a ploy. Just like Kevin McCarthy stuck around in the House just to repeatedly attempt to be re-elected Speaker, and only finally left after a popular consensus choice had been elected to replace him.

This is a fake announcement of stepping down — he’ll be continuing to scheme to remain in power.

He just doesn’t want to be formally evicted from leadership.

So, as is nearly always the case with Republicunt “victories,” it’s pretty much Pyrrhic, then. Remember too, that Yertle hasn’t stepped down from anything yet—he only “promises” to in November. And we all ought to know by now the real-money value of a politician’s promise.


O, irony

So caustic it burns.

‘You absolutely can’ identify as a cat: Soda-wielding Alabama student goes on insane rant about transgenderism: EXCLUSIVE VIDEO
A conservative University of Alabama student was drawn into a confrontation after a pro-trans student erased her chalk sign advertising a Riley Gaines event.

‘I’m going to go and uncover and f***ing destroy every piece of transphobic piece of garbage you put on the f***ing ground,’ the student said.

A pro-trans student recently defaced a display made by conservative students on the University of Alabama Campus. After pouring a ‘Dr. Pibb’ on the group’s event advertisement, the student engaged in debate, claiming that it is ‘absolutely’ possible to ‘identify as a cat.

Anybody else seeing the problem here? I’ll give ya a sec…


Um, rilly now, MSRXXZZ Manwoman? DR PIBB?!? “Dr” is an antiquated, elitist term of the patriarchy, which no self-respecting Forward Thinker should ever deploy without first pre-emptively apologizing for hsxxzzz/hrxxzzz/itxxzzz microaggressive act of Literal Genocide© against Otherkins. Not unless they’re Saint Dr Jill/Joan of Biden, at least.

What exactly do you mean by purchasing/consuming this self-evidently transphobic, non-Progressive, revanchist, pronoun-denying, hypercapitalist, probably non-vegan fizzy-sugar-water product with the cis-het dollars your Mommylad and/or Daddygirl spend to keep and support you in Krayzee Kollege, anyway? It’s unhealthy, unsustainable, and full of deadly, GAIA-raping CO2 (the Silent Killer!), didn’t you know that? DON’T YOU CARE?!?


(Via Insty)


Of Toddlers and Termagants

Following has some analysis and some prescription but is mostly a rant. Ignore if you wish. I understand fully.

“My wife tried to tell me I was wrong and that this is what happened back then. It didn’t sound right to me so I checked it online and found that I was right all along. Of course, I’m not dumb enough to send her the link showing that I was right.”

I came across that (heavily reworded) statement a while ago. It annoyed me considerably. What kind of pampered babies have Western women become, that they cannot tolerate being told that they were wrong, or even that someone disagrees with them? What kind of harridans are men putting up with?

What kind of spoiled child has to get her own way in everything?

Worse: How badly beaten down or pussified are Western men to put up with having to tiptoe around wives and girlfriends, always careful never to give offense or to dent their precious egos or do something that they don’t like?

I’ve come across any number of similar statements, in person, in articles, and online in various fora and message boards. “I’d like to be able to let you stay until your apartment is ready but my wife wouldn’t like it.” “I wanted to go hunting last month but my wife didn’t want me to.” Or worse: “I’d kept my rifles in the closet for years and it was no big deal but when I mentioned that Dan was putting together a hunting trip she remembered that I had them and made me sell them.” (Unlike the above, those statements are not taken straight from something I saw recently.)

Here’s a hint: “Happy Wife, Happy Life” is a lie. It was always a lie. I don’t know where it started but it was not with an honest person who knew anything about family dynamics.

There are pragmatic reasons why a husband would avoid giving offense. Almost the entirety of the US (and almost the entirety of the Anglosphere) is subject to no fault divorce. Almost all of the US population is subject to the Duluth model for handling domestic complaints: if the police are called, they almost automatically arrest the man and leave the woman and the children in the house, no matter whose house it is, who called the police, who was committing the offense, or who has been injured. The entirety of the US (and I believe the entirety of the Anglosphere) gives de facto child custody to the mother, regardless of fitness as a parent. “Equitable” distribution of marital assets almost always favors the woman, especially if the woman can cry on command or can lie convincingly. There’s reputational damage, with family and friends often taking her side — “What did you do to make her upset?” — without hearing your side and employers sometimes firing him because of the “scandal” or because she’s called the front desk six times in the past week.

In short, husbands stand to lose half or even all of everything they have as soon as their wives are “not happy”.

Once a man is in a marriage for more than a few months and the assets have been commingled, it’s probably too late for him to cleanly get away from a temperamental wife. Once children are born, it’s definitely too late. Oh, he can leave a harridan or he can retain his autonomy with the expectation that she’ll kick him out, but only at the risk of losing everything.

I’m not going to complain about unfairness or double standards or even violation of Constitutional rights. Such an approach has any useful effect approximately never.

Instead, I’ll point out that the double standards are bad for society. It should not have escaped anyone’s notice that marriage rates are at an all-time low. (Acknowledging that some dispute this by playing with definitions and time scales.) The birth rate among American citizens, specifically among citizen women, is below replacement level. Significantly below, which translates to self-genocide if nothing changes. If not for immigration (both legal and invasion) the population within US borders would be decreasing.

The poor economy could explain some of the declining birth rate but not the declining marriage rate. If marriage were as good a deal as is claimed for men, the benefits would be worth putting up with temper tantrums and maybe even the likelihood of a surprise divorce.

That’s not what we’re seeing, though. Men are avoiding marriage because they see what happens to the men who take the leap. It’s a bad risk economically, even if he isn’t bankrupted by divorce and child support. Simply being married almost inevitably means that expenses are going to go way up: bigger house or apartment, new furniture, she needs a new car and not a beater, expensive gifts for her endless list of friends who are getting married or are having a baby, et cetera ad paupertātem.

“Two can live as cheaply as one” may have been true in my grandparents’ day. It was no longer true by the late 1960s, when lifestyle expectations were rocketing.

A single man in the United States can live on about $27,000 per year, before taxes. He’ll need more in an expensive area but less if he’s away from the cities, and if he’s single there’s less keeping him in an expensive locale. A married man in the US needs — “needs” — to make almost twice as much if his wife works or more than twice as much if she doesn’t. That’s a lot more hours that he needs to spend on the job, or a more dirty-difficult-dangerous job, or less money to spend on things that he wants, or less money to save for his own retirement.

If Western women were pleasant to be around, if wives made their husbands’ lives better, the expense would be worth it. Men have been making that trade since forever.

But that’s not what we’re seeing. That’s where this essay started.

Instead, we have a large fraction, probably a majority, of husbands needing to tread carefully at home. A home which is not really comfortable because the wife always wants to change something, whether rearranging the furniture or completely remodeling the kitchen. A home which he doesn’t see as much as he’d like because he needs to pick up extra shifts in order to bring in enough money. There may be children, whom he doesn’t see as much as he’d like, children who are being conditioned by society to see him as the source of all of the world’s problems. Children who may be taken from him any time his wife decides that he’s not happy.

And that’s what we’re seeing. Men see all this and decide that marriage isn’t worth it.

If anything, it’s surprising that as many as six out of a thousand are getting married every year in the US and somewhat fewer getting into all-but-the-name long-term relationships. I mark it down to the triumph of hope over reason. I expect the trend to continue downward unless there’s a major change to the legal and social structure, changing the cost-benefit balance. I don’t see a change to women’s attitudes to marriage and husbands, absent a major shock to the economy which makes women need men in order to survive, rather than sorta kinda want one around as long as it’s convenient for her.

Today’s situation in the US and much of the West is actually worse than if there were almost no marriages and almost no children. Women are having children and then raising them with no father figure or with a father who’s present very seldom, by his choice or hers. Or, worst of all, with a series of replaceable male presences who do very little fathering but either are sources of cash for the mothers or are drones.

This is a recipe for raising feral children. And this is what we see. When we look at the demographics of career criminals, young, unmarried mothers, the persistently unemployed, and other socially deleterious groups, the absence of a strong father figure stands out.

The Great Society and the follow-on programs have done a splendid job of destroying American society. I’ll assume that LBJ and the rest were well-intentioned fools, but I have to wonder. It’s hard to imagine a deliberate attack which could have done the job any better.

That’s the rant and the analysis, each of which have gone well afield of the starting point. Here’s the prescription.

Western society needs to get its act together and straighten out the imbalance, if they want to reverse the birth crash. Society needs men to be an active part of the family, as single-mother households are proving to be a disaster so far as raising a successful, productive next generation goes. Society needs men to work more than the minimum to support themselves, in order to have the economic excess needed to support women as they age and don’t want to work.

In order to get men to burden themselves for that, society needs to make it worthwhile for the men. What form that could take, I have no idea. We aren’t going to be returning to the 1930s family and legal structure. Without some form of authority within the family and respect for being a family man, I don’t see a way to get enough men to accept the burden and the risk for the meager benefits currently on offer.

That’s for the movers and shakers and string pullers to deal with. On an individual basis, make it clear when you start dating that you’re not going to tiptoe around things that she doesn’t want to hear. You can be gentle with unwanted truths but never censor yourself because you don’t want her to break down crying or break into a rage. Don’t let her tell you how you have to change in order to make her happy. Don’t tolerate her throwing away your possessions or demanding you get rid of them because she doesn’t like them.

If she starts crying or starts screaming or starts giving you the silent treatment, I suggest walking away. At most, give her a single warning that you won’t put up with it. If she tries to hit you or throw something at you or starts smashing your possessions, walk away immediately. Calling the police or punching her in the face are optional.

You can do better than a bully or a baby. Your life will be better without a bully or a baby.


From machine to bureaucracy: the hotrails to Hell

Riding at breakneck speed.

On the windowsill above the gas fire sits a surprisingly heavy square box. Its back is dirty, thick plastic; its battered and much-dented front is metallic, with rows of tiny ridges and microscopic holes creating a nubby texture if you run your hand across it. A leather strap is buckled into the top for ease of carry, in front of a retractable metal antenna. When the antenna is fully outstretched above the squat rectangle, it looks comical. In the top third of the box’s face, a vertical orange needle moves across the rows of numbers denoting frequency scales. You move the needle with a metal knob. There are four knobs in total, and a switch, and a few helpful legends: am/fm, volume, and, in neat, raised letters, general electric.

This is the family radio. It is at least fifty years old. My mother remembers her family listening to it after dinner; I remember sitting on the porch, hearing the Phillies playing in the background, summer after summer. The other night we turned it on again to catch the first game of the National League Championship Series. A few of the technologically savvy younger generation were home, and at first we tried to get the game on the big-screen Internet-enabled TV. Something was wrong with the pirating site, which is a tough situation for appropriately-directed complaint filing. You could get the game on the MLB app, but the app wants to know your cable provider, which precise lack was the reason we were on the app. Hulu was streaming it, apparently. We tried to sign up for a free trial that we could cancel before they’d get around to billing us. (This is not taking advantage of the free option, because we would have forgotten to cancel; if anything, Hulu is taking advantage of our rosy-eyed good intentions.) Of course it turned out that everyone had already at some point or other created a now-lapsed account; we would have to pay. No problem. We’re big like that. One of us tried to log in. None of us remembered our passwords. The message on the screen directed us to visit some variant of We weren’t messing around with that. By now we were fifteen minutes past the start of the game.

Radio it would have to be. But at least we had our Internet-enabled big-screen TV speakers. We would listen to Internet radio and pipe the game through the whole downstairs. What was the name of the Philly station? How did the search function work? How long could painstakingly scrolling to and clicking on each requisite alphanumeric character with the touch-sensitive Apple remote possibly take? The answer to none of these questions mattered because, as it turned out, three increasingly incredulous searches later, Internet radio had never heard of our local broadcast station.

We pulled the long spindly antenna all the way up. We flicked the switch to FM. We twisted the volume knob as far as it would go. The warm familiar crackle — then Kyle Schwarber was in our living room, hitting a home run.

I cannot think of a single piece of personal technology that I expect to be able to give to my grandchildren in working order. Some cars fit this bill, because there is an expectation and infrastructure of ongoing repairs. But in terms of smaller items? Apple, to give the devil his due, is probably the closest. I ran my iPhone over with a car last year; a quick trip to the electronic repair store and it may last me ten years, if Apple does not sabotage me with operating systems updates or charger modifications. But there’s nothing like the GE radio, nothing that I can expect to use, day in and day out, for fifty years, without touching it.

Things used to work in this country. This is the stock complaint of the Baby Boomers, and if you are lucky enough to inherit a piece of their technology, you may find yourself agreeing. But when I say “things used to work,” the object of inherited nostalgia is not only manufacturing standards before planned obsolescence and offshoring. Things used to, literally, work. You turned a knob, and sound came on, because the knob controlled the mechanism that tuned the radio to the broadcast that the big metal radio towers dotting the landscape beamed at you. I am not a gearhead of any description and don’t care much about how the insides of electrical devices work, but I know exactly what I, personally, have to do to operate my end of the GE radio. There are no downloads, no platforms, no passwords, no little pull-down menus, no verifications or account recovery protocols. There is no streaming. Personal technology used to be a machine. Now it’s a bureaucracy.

Call her incompetent, call her a neo-Luddite, call her what you will, but there’s no denying she does have a point. For every technological advancement, there is something lost along with it, sweeping away at least some things probably worth keeping. Is the benefit worth the accompanying cost? In general terms I’d have to say yes, but I also have to wonder sometimes.

In certain quarters the current vogue is to bitch to high Heaven about modern smartphones, with some folks going so far as to foreswear their use altogether—a reflexive, pettifogging abhorrence usually announced with a braggadocious sneer, as if the speaker was extremely proud of his self-denial, iron-willed fortitude, and clear superiority over lesser mortals. It reminds me of my dad’s strenuous denunciation of VHS machines as instruments of Satan Himself back in the late 70s.

Me, I wouldn’t give up my smartphone for all the tea in China. No, my continued existence doesn’t depend on the thing by any stretch, nor does my life revolve around it. But life for me has for sure been enhanced by it.

I’ve taken what steps I know about to shut off its pocket-spy capabilities, although living as we do under the constant, sleepless gaze of the Surveillance State panopticon—its cameras peering down at us from every lamppost, building, and street sign 24/7/365—it’s doubtful at best how much that really amounts to. In that light, smartphones look like pretty small beer.

Taken for all in all, our phones ratting us out to Big Uncle is a fairly trivial issue in my estimation, scarcely worth any serious person getting his bloomers in a bunch over. Drag Queen Story Hour; the “transgender” intifada; nonexistent borders facilitating an invasion of hostile illegal aliens; economic collapse; worthless fiat currency; a central-government behemoth that has openly declared itself the enemy of We Duh Peepul—it ain’t as if we lack for more pressing and far worse concerns to cope with at the moment, after all.


Fare thee well to Randy Herring

I was deeply saddened to learn of the passing of my friend of 30-35 years’ standing, tattoo artist nonpareil Randy Herring, who worked for a good many of those years out of the venerable Skin Art tattoo shop, cpl-three doors down from Tony’s Ice Cream parlor on Franklin Blvd in Gastonia. Randy died in a terrible car crash on Saturday evening.

Randy did at least half of my 20-some-odd tattoos, and the overwhelming majority of the ones I love best. His nickname was Ol’ Heavy Hand, and I can attest to its absolute and excruciating veracity. Basically, there are two schools of thought among tattoo artists: 1) pound that ink in deep, hard, and slow, or 2) use a feather-light touch. If there’s a happy medium between them, I never have run across it in four decades-plus of going under the needle.

The debate betwixt the two approaches involves which of them will allow the piece to retain its appearance longer. The lines are going to spread a little no matter what, so the goal is to have the colors hold their brightness and integrity as long as possible, see. The light-touch contingent relies on something a dermatologist’s nurse gf of mine once told me: contrary to popular assumption, the tattoo doesn’t fade over time and depending on exposure to the sun, the skin itself does.

On the one hand, then, all the dig-deep work Randy did on me has held up extremely well. On the other hand, I have one (1) piece from a light-touch advocate, Colin LaRocque, and it has too, so who the hell knows?

Colin’s work is on my left forearm, a rendition of Sailor Jerry’s classic “Venomous Maximus” traditional-style flash: a cartoon cobra rampant, sporting clownishly-outsized fangs, tongue, and google-moogly eyes, with old-school crossbones spread like a set of wings behind his head. The piece is positioned so that most of Venomous’s hood and head cover what is known in the tattooist’s trade as “The Ditch”—a particularly tender patch of fleshly real estate that had me dreading the pain I anticipated when Colin passed the gun over it (hell no, I wasn’t watching him work; salty-dog tattooees wouldn’t dream of succumbing to such a greenhorn temptation).

But nope, not a bit of it. Fact is, I hardly noticed Colin digging around in The Ditch region at all, and the piece still looks nice despite many years of being beaten half to death by Trucker’s Tan every summer.

Now, immediately above Venomous Max is Randy’s variation on the hallowed Sacred Heart design, which Randy custom-converted into a Sacred Piston just pour moi. A stray gob of Pennzoil drips from the bottom of the Sacred Connecting Rod onto the tippy-top of VM’s head, not quite making it all the down into The Ditch proper.

Nevertheless, I almost cried like a little girl when Ol’ Heavy Hands got to pounding that one into me with the 14-needle Magnum shader. No, it wasn’t The Ditch, but it was damned well close enough.YEEEOWTCH!

Once I’d gotten to know him, Randy liked to josh me when I was in the chair and under the gun or just hanging around the shop shooting the breeze with him and the rest of the Skin Art crew (which I used to do frequently) that the only reason he ever got into tattooing at all was because he really enjoyed hurting people. If he’d told me that after the first time he inked me, I’d have taken him at his word.

But by then I knew the man better than that. A little-known fact among non-tattooed people is the powerful bond forged between artist and human canvas, particularly those who become regular customers. This bond is something a truly good tattooist will insist upon, as opposed to those fad-factory hacks derided by their betters in the trade as “scratchers.”

When you think about it, it’s almost inevitable: tattooing, at its highest level, is a profoundly personal, even intimate experience for both customer and artist. You’re in the chair for hours and hours, feeling those needles drill into you painfully, chit-chatting all the while, alternating between him telling you his life story and you telling him yours.

Ideally, the best tattooists try to nurture that bond and help it to grow and expand to its fullest potential; as every one of them I’ve known well has told me, the better they understand who you really are and what brought you to them in the first place, the better-quality work they’ll be able to do on/for you, and the more satisfied you’re going to be in the long run. Unlike any other commercial enterprise, good tattooing is a collaboration, not a simple exchange of money for services rendered. That’s what elevates top-shelf tattooing to the level of bona fide, upper-case Art.

And exactly like my old H-D shop boss Goose, Randy—despite his fondness for pretending to be a grouchy, grumpy old fart with noobs, Normies, and looky-loos—was a true master at fostering that critical bond with dedicated victims like myself. Trust me, he was nothing of the sort (also like Goose). Always quick with a horrible joke, a warm smile, or a raucous guffaw, Randy was the best imaginable example of his craft, a real credit to the profession.

He was renowned for his eagerness to take in talented youngsters for apprenticeship; nearly all the best tattooists in the area, up to and including one of the most talented tattooists currently extant, my friend Rodney Raines, bear the Herring stamp on themselves and their work.

Twenty or so years ago, Randy got religion and became a devout, sincere Christian. Every Monday night he took to the lanes with his Christian bowling team to compete in a local Gastonia league. Over the years, he repeatedly invited me to come out and bowl with ‘em sometime, which I never did get around to doing despite the best of intentions. Alas, to my eternal regret, now I never will.

The above are but a few of many more great stories I have about the man; our long, close relationship both in the tattoo shop and outside of it enriched my life, to a degree I can’t even begin to calculate or describe. He was a good man, a great tattooist, and a cherished friend. So rest ye well, Randy Herring. May the good Lord accept you into the warmth of his loving embrace, your unchainable spirit be forever at ease.

Update! After much poking and digging around the last two days, the obits are finally starting to show up.

Randy Herring Obituary, Death:
The vibrant city of Gastonia, N.C is shrouded in sorrow as news of Randy Herring’s tragic passing spreads throughout the community. As the owner and artist of Skin Art Tattoo at Living Arts, Randy’s sudden and untimely death in a deadly car accident has left friends, family, and patrons reeling with shock and grief.

Randy was not merely a tattoo artist; he was a creative force whose talent, passion, and kindness touched the lives of all who had the privilege of crossing paths with him. As we come together to mourn his loss, we also celebrate the indelible mark Randy left on the world through his artistry and spirit.

“Last night, my dear friend and iconic tattoo artist lost his life in a terrible car accident. Randy Herring was a passionate human being who mentored many artists into greatness. He was also my student for many years. I am honored to have his skin art on my body. My heart aches for his family and friends. He will be sorely missed by an army of people whose lives he touched. Rest in peace ‘Ole Heavy Hands! May you rejoice in heaven with our brother Piotr Kopytek.”

A Master of the Craft
Randy Herring was more than just a tattoo artist; he was a master of his craft. His journey in the world of tattooing began with a passion for art and self-expression, which he honed over the years through dedication and hard work. As the owner of Skin Art Tattoo, Randy’s studio became a sanctuary for creativity, where clients entrusted him with their most personal stories and visions. With each stroke of his needle, Randy transformed skin into living art, leaving behind a legacy of beauty and expression that will endure for generations to come.

A Beacon of Creativity
Randy’s artistry extended far beyond the confines of his studio; it was a reflection of his boundless imagination and love for the craft. Whether he was creating intricate designs inspired by nature, mythology, or pop culture, Randy approached each piece with meticulous attention to detail and a deep reverence for the art form. His passion for tattooing was infectious, inspiring countless aspiring artists to pursue their creative endeavors with courage and conviction.

A-Pillar of the Community
Beyond his role as a tattoo artist, Randy was a beloved figure in the Gastonia community. His warm smile and generous spirit endeared him to all who knew him, and his studio served as a gathering place for artists, musicians, and free spirits alike. Randy’s commitment to his craft was matched only by his dedication to supporting local artists and small businesses, making him a cherished friend and ally to many.

Although they might seem to be pouring on the hyperbole pretty thick and heavy here, I assure you that such is not the case. Every word is perfectly true and accurate, if somewhat thin on the details, which I’d say is pretty dang good for a crusty old tattoo-slinging reprobate. Original-article link is here, albeit paywalled. I 12 Foot Ladder’d it, but can’t find a good link-path that will allow me to just link directly to their de-paywalled version. Alternatively, you can always just disable Javascript in your preferred web browser; that’s how all those paywall thingamabobs work, or so I’m given to understand.

Another, probably better obit—one that reads less like it was AI-generated.

Tattoo artist dies after crash with Gaston County police officer
A Gastonia tattoo artist was killed in a crash with a Gaston County Police Department officer over the weekend.

Investigators said the Gaston County officer was responding to a shooting call Saturday when he collided with Randy Herring’s truck on West Franklin Boulevard.

Police said the officer had his lights and siren on when he drove through the Webb Street intersection. The police cruiser was gone by the time a Channel 9 crew arrived at the scene, but we were able to see a pickup truck smashed against a pole.

Herring’s daughter, Brittany Thomas, told Channel 9′s Ken Lemon she just wants to know how the crash turned fatal when her father was in such a large and protective truck. She said her dad meant everything to her.

“Everything,” she said crying. “My kids lost their Paw Paw.”

The crash happened about two miles from Herring’s tattoo shop, where so many people say he touched their lives.

“He loved painting, drawing, he would even draw on my kids with a pen,” Thomas said.

Herring’s son, Randall Herring II, told Lemon he found out about the crash when loved ones realized his father was missing.

He said there were no details about what happened but he recognized some of the faces at the crash scene.

“A lot of the police officers on the scene, my father tattooed them,” he said.

He said his father would have been happy to see that.

I’m sure he would’ve at that. I know exactly where that Webb St intersection is, horribly enough; it isn’t far from where my ex-wife lives just off West Franklin, where I go to pick my daughter up. I musta driven through that same fateful junction about, oh, a bazillion and a half times over the years, going back to drag-racing up and down Franklin as a teenage hot-rodder.

I still can’t quite wrap my head around all this, folks. What a godawful tragedy, all the way around.

Updated update! Okay, another story I just gotta tell. The day I went in to have “Bang Zoom” tattooed on my knuckles, Randy sat me down before we got started and gave me the spiel, seriously and somberly, in that soft redneck drawl of his: “Look, Mike, I know you very well, and I already know how you feel and what you’re gonna say. I don’t mean to lecture or sound preachy, but I still have to warn you just the same: knuckles are the Final Frontier, ain’t no turning back from here. This, you won’t be able to cover up or hide, no way. It means you’ll never work a straight job in an office ever again. Are you sure you want to go through with it?”

Now at that time I was working at the H-D shop with Goose, who is more heavily tatted up than I am, even. This was in the halcyon days before every yuppie idjit and his sister’s cat’s grandmother started getting ink, mind. Tattooing was still strictly an outlaw, taboo sort of thing, the by and large exclusive province of sailors, bikers, Marines, ex-cons, and other sundry misfits. The usual reaction of Joe Normal, as he crossed the street to avoid passing close to you, could be summed up as: You’re tattooed? Ya loser!

By then, Randy had already finished both my arms shoulder to wrist, as well as the black cat on my neck—Lucky, we called him, done in loving memory of the incomparable Mr Kitty. Thus, I considered myself to be fully and firmly committed; I’d already gone well past the point of no return as a fully-paid-up Tattooed Freak, and didn’t give a tinker’s damn. I was perfectly content with my lifestyle choices to date, foolish though the Squarejohn world would doubtless think them.

Too, I’d spent a month in the office as dispatch manager at Airborne Express not long before and had loathed every second of it, considering the job a thirty-day sentence in the very bowels of Hell. Wanting no more of such, I wound up telling my boss to put me back in a truck again before I went bugfuck nuts and broke down in a frothing hissy fit out on the loading dock. T’weren’t no going back indoors for me, not if I had anything to say about it.

As it developed—UNEXPECTED!!!™—I was wrong about that: some years later, I would be hired on by Outlaw Biker/Art & Ink Publications, working in an office with people who cared not a whit that I was a tattooed, to-the-bone old-school biker; an itinerant rock and roll musician; a seedster Harley wrench, all that bushwa. Yeah, it was an office job, but I was among like-minded souls there, so it worked out pretty nicely for all concerned.

Even so, I always appreciated Randy being thoughtful enough, caring enough, to remind me of how high the stakes were, and have never forgotten it, bless his heart. Although I haven’t seen him in four-five years, I’ll always miss the man.


Rona Gone – Failed at her one job: STOP TRUMP

“Trump is the weapon to destroy the long-created Republican ‘illusion of choice’.”

Accurate. It is what we said in 2015 when it became clear who Trump really was. He became “our” weapon, the weapon to destroy the anti-American marxist control of the government.

No one with an understanding of the depth of the problem would underestimate the difficulty in fighting the entire government including the republican party, or the time this would take. It would be a multi-year effort.

That same marxist cabal released a virus to destroy the American economy because Americans were waking up to the reality – that it’s not that difficult to create the conditions for economic prosperity in the USA, Trump was doing it in spite of the entrenched government cabal of crooks. That had to be stopped before the economy really took off with 6+% growth, growth that produces wealth across the board, growth that allows for growing the economy out of the economic problems so carefully planned and implemented by the foes of liberty and freedom.

1st, kill the economy. Economic conditions create winning and losing elections. 2nd, steal the election in case it’s not enough. Lock downs = mail in ballots. Mail in ballots = massive fraud.

It worked in the short term. But there is a long game, and it ain’t over.

Rona McDaniel wasn’t “fired” by MAGA like people think. Rona was fired by the RNC money men because she failed at her one and only jobSTOP TRUMP.

Big Ugly Shift


Saturday memeage

Swiped from Irish’s Friday Femme Fatale Farrago—which, if you ain’t checking it out on the regular but dig hot chicks with great fun-bags letting ‘em breathe; cool old muscle cars; vintage piston-engine fighter planes; over-the-top burgers and BBQ; and those funny-pitchers-with-words, you really oughta be. Plus, it’s Saturday night, and dammit, I CAN. So why the hell not?

No need to thank me, gang, I’m happy to do it for y’all.


The leopard polecat never changes his spots

Be it federal, state, or local, Government is a right bastard. You should never, ever trust it, it’s always a mistake.

Liquor Regulators Are Seeking Revenge on Bars That Broke Pandemic Rules
“The people who violated the governor’s mandates and orders should face some consequences,” a Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board member said in 2022.

During the height of the pandemic summer of 2020, the proprietors of the Burning Bridge Tavern worked with local officials in Wrightsville, Pennsylvania, to host a series of outdoor gatherings for the community.

For their trouble, the bar’s owners got slapped with a series of citations by the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board (PLCB), the government agency that oversees and manages the sale of alcohol in the state. The citations were ticky-tack offenses, according to Burning Bridge’s chief financial officer, Mike Butler. Twice, the bar was cited for noise violations because they’d allowed a band playing at the gathering to plug into the tavern’s electricity supply. Another offense occurred when the owners and some family members were drinking inside the tavern, which was closed to the public, during a period when indoor dining was prohibited.

A frustrating situation, but not the end of the world. Burning Bridge’s owners paid the fines associated with the citations and assumed that was that. But then the bar had to renew its liquor license.

Fines, be assured, that amounted to thousands of dollars— dollars already hard to come by in the best of times given the extremely thin profit margins all bars and restaurants struggle with in normal times, orders of magnitude moreso under the draconian and entirely contra-Constitutional FauxVid rules of play.

Not the end of the world, perhaps, but having worked in a good few of them over the years I can tell you with absolute certainty that in the bar/restaurant business there simply ain’t no such thing as “extra money.” But as if all that weren’t enough:

“They denied it. They said, ‘Oh, you’re the guys that got all those citations,'” Butler says. “It was a real gut punch.”

Turns out, over the past two years the PLCB has pushed dozens of Pennsylvania establishments that racked up pandemic-​related citations to sign “conditional licensing agreements” to renew their liquor permits. In some cases, those agreements have forced the sale of licenses—but in most cases, as with Burning Bridge, they’ve added additional conditions to the license that could prevent a future renewal from being approved.

While the PLCB cannot revoke existing licenses, the board is empowered to object to the renewal of a license or to demand the license can only be renewed conditionally. “In extreme cases,” PLCB Press Secretary Shawn Kelly says, the PLCB can force the sale of a liquor license, though the board only pursues that option when “there is an operational and citation history that calls for such an agreement.”

Even though Burning Bridge’s owners weren’t forced to sell their license, Butler says signing the conditional licensing agreement has come with real costs: The bar’s insurance premium tripled as a result of being viewed as a greater risk.

Assuming BBT isn’t part of a bar/restaurant chain, the owners don’t by any stretch have what you might call deep pockets. So taken altogether, the bruising punishment inflicted by the state of Pennsylvania might NOT be “the end of the world” for them, no. But it could very well be the end of their sojourn in the bar biz.

As I always say, seems like there ought to be some way we could thank the “people” responsible adequately for it. I just can’t for the life of me imagine what it might be.

Update! Can’t leave out the closing ‘graph, which sums up the whole contretemps perfectly.

“The feeling was that our government really isn’t working to try and help us,” says Butler. “At this point, it feels like they’re coming after us.”

A-yup. That’s because they, y’know, ARE. You now, and eventually all the rest of us right along with you. Unpleasant as that is to get our heads around, as difficult as it can be for Real Americans naturally inclined to patriotism and faith in their institutions to choke down and accept, that’s the ugly reality nonetheless. The harder we resist admitting it to ourselves, the rougher it’s going to be when we do come around at last.

Which, sooner or later, one way or another, we’re all gonna have to, like it or not. Think of oversized, intrusive, all-powerful government as a sickness with only one effective treatment. It’s some bad, bad medicine—sure to leave a bitter taste that will linger for a long, long time—but before we can hope to be cured, the body politic fully restored to health, a full dose is going to have to be swallowed.


Da girlz can’t he’p it

The article’s title is waaay too close for comfort.

DMV America: The Regime’s Fani Willis Problem, and Ours
The fantastic fall of Fani Willis is one of the great comedies of recent American politics. It’s the flagrant corruption of Hunter Biden, mixed with the stupidity of Jussie Smollett, the courtroom farce of the George Zimmerman trial, and the sky-high political stakes of a U.S. presidential election. It’s the joyous, healthy humor of seeing a wicked, ridiculous person be exposed and get exactly what she deserves.

Right now, it still isn’t certain whether Judge Scott McAfee will actually kick Fani Willis off her own case, but even if he doesn’t, the damage has substantially been done. The tenuous prosecution of President Trump in Georgia has already been badly delayed and discredited, increasing its odds of being tossed by a higher court and the odds of the public simply shrugging its shoulders even if this abortion of a case somehow lurches all the way to a felony conviction. Left-wing anti-Trump zealots are practically begging Fani to step aside of her own volition for the good of the anti-Trump cause.

But they are unlikely to get what they want, for the same reason that this scandal happened in the first place: America’s regime elevated a clown-show affirmative-action incompetent who only cares about herself, told her that she was a big hero simply for existing, and now we are all reaping the consequences.

Follows, a bit of case-bolstering harking back to one Robert Mueller, Establishment Swine Esq, who actually comes off looking pretty good in comparison to these sorry-ass con artists. Then:

Now, take in all of that and go back to the adventures of Flim-Flam Fani.

Willis’s illicit relationship could have easily remained hidden, or at least inconsequential, if she had been even slightly less stupid. But she just could not help herself. It wasn’t enough to hire her lover. She had to make him special counsel on by far her most high-profile case, which would attract by a million miles the most press attention and the most expensive, diligent lawyers. It wasn’t enough to carry on a tryst with Willis. She had to go on one lavish vacation after another with him.

Willis’s excuses for her behavior are the sort that require a lobotomy to accept. Her relationship with Willis was entirely appropriate and aboveboard, yet Willis felt compelled to hide it because, well, *mumble mumble*. Was Willis using her highly-paid lover as a conduit to get those vacations? Not at all. By happenstance, Fani just keeps $15,000 (15 large) in cash in her home at all times for just this sort of thing. And by golly, it turns out Wade liked to do the same thing. How handy!

Good stuff so far, albeit disgusting and dismaying. Next up, a cpl-three more case-making examples—Kim Gardner, Marilyn Mosby, the particularly brazen grifter Tiffany Henyard (regarding whom the author cites a NYPost article I already had sitting in an open tab waiting for me to get around to it myself), Kim Foxx of Justice for Juicy! fame,—before we get down to the real nitty-gritty.

Yes, that Kim Foxx: the one who tried to let Jussie Smollett off the hook, requiring a special prosecutor to swoop in and save the day. When she wasn’t giving favorable treatment to black celebrities, Foxx ordered her minions to avoid cash bail and to only bring felony theft charges against criminals with at least ten prior felony convictions.

So, why would we expect Kim Foxx to hold a fellow soul sista accountable? For that matter, why would we expect anyone on the left to do it?

The modern left has almost wholly abandoned traditional religious faith, but it certainly still has its priests and saints. And the narcissistic message, repeated day in and day out, is that black women are America’s sacred beings. Joe Biden ran on a promise to consider black women, and only black women, for his first Supreme Court pick—93% of Americans need not apply. The result was Ketanji Brown Jackson, who can’t say what a woman is but nevertheless thinks the entire planet should hear every inane thought passing through her head.

As soon as Fani Willis’s own conduct threw the entire lawfare campaign against Donald Trump, years in the making, into doubt, the ethnonarcissist whining came tumbling out immediately: Criticizing a prosecutor for corruptly staffing her loser boyfriend onto a job he wasn’t qualified for was racist!

We’re not even close to rock bottom, either. Remember, as we speak, Kamala Harris is a heartbeat away from the presidency.

I must say, the piece is the most Godawfully RAYCISS!!!© slander of fine, upstanding, successful Blaque Wimminzxx ’n’ shizzle I ever did read.

And some people wonder how it is that the country got itself into the mess it’s currently in. If you’re one of those, you’ll want to read the whole thing for a big, fat clue. “DMV America”? That right there is some truth that really hurts, if you ask me.

Crapola, almost forgot my title-explicating embed.

There, that’s more like it.

Update! CederQ posts one over at Phil’s joint that is equally apropos to the topic at hand, I think.

Heh. Indeed. Two more good ‘uns perusable at the link.


Of weakness, strength, fear, and traps

KT helpfully unrolls a thread that puts paid to the self-evidently false notion that they’re “weak,” that for various reasons they’re “afraid of us!” What you’re seeing, rather, is neither weakness nor fear but the usual Mark-1 Mod-0 battlespace preparation.

Christian Nationalism is 10000% an op. Since I’m incredibly accused of not backing up this assertion, let’s have a thread, not of arguments but just to show off some of the ways the media sees it.

What we’re looking at here is easy to dismiss as the ravings of the Leftist press or even to characterize as a sales pitch for Christian Nationalism, since we know their “democracy” means their tyranny (Communism, frankly), but we need to understand what it is.

What you are looking at here, and why I did this thread, is called Operational Preparation of the Environment in political warfare talk. If you think this is ridiculous and worth ignoring, that’s because you’re not in the target audience of its psychological active measure.

The objective in saturating a media narrative from multiple kinds of outlets (Vertically Integrated Messaging Apparatus) is to psychologically prime the target audience to believe there’s a lurking or looming threat out there that will become an emergency later at the right time…

There are two primary target audiences with this issue. First, there’s the center-left, whom they want to have believe in a lurking threat with an identifiable name that’s already associated with things they don’t trust. They’re linking that name to “bad” things they know.

The objective with the center-left is to create a vague sense that Christian Nationalism is real, on the rise, and dangerous, and more importantly that it’s associated in various ways with the worst things they know: Covid, Boebert and Greene, J6, racism, fascism, violence…

The other target audience is the red-pilled Right, or at least the dumber among them, who are Christians leaning toward the Christian Nationalism movement. They want them to think the Regime sees it as a threat (it doesn’t) so they think it’s “based” to get involved.

The Regime doesn’t see Christian Nationalism as a threat, you guys. It’s a trap they’re setting. They’re showing weakness because they know they’re immeasurably strong. Walk into it if you want, but I recommend you don’t. I don’t care that much about you if you do, tbf, but don’t

My own approach, whenever the fascist Left accuses Our Side of anything at all, has always been to embrace their terminology just out of contrariness, defiance, and simple spite. Christian, misogynist, Nazi, H8RRR, Islamophobe, racist, backasswards redneck, violent revolutionary, what the hell ever? HELL YEAH I AM! Proud of it, too.

Wanna dredge up some tired old terminology from the hippie-dippie days to throw at me, like “warmonger,” “flag-waver,” “running dog imperialist,” anything you can think of? Sure, that’s me to a tee! I’m all of those, and much, much worse besides. NOW what, fuckface? Got anything else? I will continue to hark back to Captain Mal for my response.

This strategery seems to have worked fairly well for blaques who started using the dread “nigger” their own selves, not as an epithet or insult but as an innocuous descriptor, thereby robbing the word of its supposed power to wound, or so the theory goes. Personally, I don’t care so much about whether or not it really works that way; I just enjoy pissing off Leftards, which I find satisfying enough in and of itself. Any conceivable thing that gets on their nerves, I’m all for it.


Stump the chump

Better sit down and swallow whatever you might be drinking for this one, folks. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

30 Questions Likely To Stump The ‘Sharp’ And ‘Vigorous’ Joe Biden
Joe Biden has the greatest mental acuity of any president in the history of the United States — at least that’s what the White House wants you to believe.

Throughout the past week, regime-approved media and administration officials have twisted themselves into pretzels trying to gaslight Americans into believing Biden is as “sharp” and “vigorous” as he’s ever been, despite incident after incident showing he’s in mental decline. These laughable claims come in response to the release of the Hur report, which found that Biden mishandled classified documents but concluded that “no criminal charges are warranted in this matter” because the president “would likely present himself to the jury…as a sympathetic, well-meaning, elderly man with a poor memory.”

While corporate media will never admit it, Biden can barely answer basic questions, let alone complete a sentence. So, to bring a little humor to your day, The Federalist has compiled a list of 30 questions likely to stump America’s befuddled commander-in-chief.

  1. What day is it today?
  2. What are the names of your grandchildren? (And how many do you have…?)
  3. When is your birthday?
  4. What is a woman?
  5. Who’s the president of France?
  6. What year is it?
  7. When were you first elected to the Senate?
  8. What are the main ingredients in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?

Plenty more where those came from, and they’re a laff riot. In fairness to Amerika v2.0’s “pResident”-ish*** Tyrantosaurus Wrex, though, half the friggin’ country seems to be having trouble with Number 4, or at least are pretending to for various stupid reasons.

Actually, it’s a serious situation we’re in, one that isn’t really very funny at all. But hey, my personal philosophy has always been that if it’s either laugh or cry, then I’d much rather laugh.


Clobberin’ time

Evil, pure evil through and through, and nothing but.

Medical Staff Ordered to Euthanize ‘Covid’ Patients: Leaked Docs
Explosive leaked documents have emerged that show medical staff were ordered to euthanize patients who had been admitted to hospital and tested positive for COVID-19.

The official documents were leaked from the UK’s state-funded National Health Service (NHS).

The docs further confirm the previous reporting from Slay News that revealed patients were euthanized in order to boost the numbers for “Covid deaths.”

As Slay News reported, smoking gun evidence revealed that tens of thousands of elderly people were murdered to boost the mortality rates.

The data produced for the report indicated that people were being euthanized using a fatal injection of Midazolam.

The cause of their deaths was then listed as “Covid,” indicating that the virus was killing far more elderly people than it was.

The explosive data from the report was made public by Australian politician Craig Kelly, the national director of the United Australia Party.

The report obtained official UK government data on death rates and causes.

While alerting the public about the data, Kelly declared that it exposes “the crime of the century.”

I keep having to repeat this, which gives me no pleasure at all, but: Just when you think we’ve hit Peak Evil©, the filthy barstids go and raise the bar again. Or, y’know, lower it, more like.

Granted, this revelation, sensational as it is, may or may not hold up when all’s said and done. I know nothing about Slay News, Craig Kelly, or his United Australia Party, and therefore can’t speak to their credibility, if any. Documents can be fraudulent; data can be manufactured and/or manipulated; some “smoking guns” can turn out to be firing blanks. As such, could very well be this is all horseshit of the purest ray serene; it is to be hoped so, certainly.

But if I were a betting man, which I am not, I wouldn’t put one thin dime on it. After all we’ve seen these past few years, would you? Famed FauxVid hoax/Vaxx skeptic Dr Robert Malone addresses the larger issue here.

A shadow now haunts my mind. I am deeply troubled in confronting the reality that the world and version of political truths that I have been propagandized to believe over my entire life is merely smoke and mirrors. A vague uneasiness has been lurking around me over these last four years; a sense that I have not only been censored, defamed, and lied to during the time of COVID, but over my entire life. A deeply disturbing specter that the United States government is not the knighted champion of Camelot so frequently and pervasively portrayed in media and literature. Rather its actions since WW II have been those of an immature, petulant and narcissistic adolescent that feels entitled to exploit geopolitics and war to advance short term power and economic objectives that benefit a small elite, rather than more broadly advancing “democracy”, global economic development, and those ephemeral aspirations of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Not only have I been propagandized and lied to, but I also sense that the window of time where this behavior by a monolithic Imperial state has been tolerated is coming to an end, winding and grinding down into mundane corruption, bickering self-interest and bureaucratic dysfunctionalism. And that there is no way to stop this accelerating funhouse carousel of painted ponies and mirrors before an abrupt catastrophic failure of the hidden gears throws all into revolutionary chaos.

Maybe something like this has been bothering you also?

Whether fortunate or not, we live in a time of both disruption and deception. A period when change has become an inevitable norm, and yet objective reality is considered an obsolete anachronism. An anachronism that cannot be tolerated, and must be twisted or expunged to serve the interests of those most powerful who will always act to maintain their privilege. Poised in transition between the relatively stable legacy “Pax Americana” bequeathed to us by American military and political victories over twentieth century totalitarian regimes, and fragmentation into an increasingly multilateral rough and tumble world characterized by shifting transitory alliances based on short term interests and opportunity. We all now confront a surrealist intellectual and psychological landscape where truthiness becomes just another product to be marketed. Or propagandized. Or censored. Marketing, propaganda and censorship each being subtle linguistic variations on a single theme of methods to exert external control over the thought and behavior of what otherwise would be autonomous, independent and sovereign individuals.

For many, including myself, the fabric of the widely shared belief in the benevolence of the American Imperial state has been irreparably rendered by the grossly dysfunctional national and transnational mismanagement of the COVIDcrisis. Others were better able than I to see through the cloud of propaganda and lies long before SARS-CoV-2 was constructed. A virus developed and assembled by a bizarre and improbable collusion between US-dominated “biodefense” intelligence interests, the Chinese CCP/PLA (and its dual function Wuhan Institute of Virology), and an international network of entitled biomedical researchers. 

But now the gloves are off, and as the underlying truths of this global tragedy are gradually being revealed, the American Imperial state and its allies (governments and corporations) are increasingly resorting to raw power to avoid the consequences of their actions. And with this, it is becoming easier to see the fist. A fist that takes the form of the most aggressive and pervasive global suppression of thought and speech ever witnessed in recorded history. One that is rapidly becoming normalized as an industrial/academic censorship and propaganda complex.

Questions, questions: Just how deep does this rot go, anyhow? Would a global cabal of developed-world governments actually resort to out-and-out murder most foul in the course of pimping their Absolute Power & Control agenda? Have we really tumbled so far as that down the slippery slope to bare-knuckled tyranny?

Most dismaying of all: At this point, dare we assume that they wouldn’t?


Q: Is EVERY liberal a liar?

A: Yes. Yes, they are. In fact, as I’ve long maintained, if it wasn’t for lies, they wouldn’t have anything whatsoever to say.

Which, you gotta admit, would be a most welcome change of pace.

Shocking never-before-seen documents from an ongoing trial concerning allegedly stolen Eagles lyrics shine new light on an infamous night in 1980 when Don Henley was arrested after a teen overdosed at his home.

Henley has always maintained that the overdose happened during a going-away party packed with crew members as the band began a lengthy post-’70s hiatus. Henley was charged with giving cocaine to a minor, but said he took the rap to protect the others. He also has maintained that he never had sex with the teen.

“There were roadies and guys in my house – we were having a farewell to the Eagles,” Henley told GQ in 1991. “I got all of them out of the house; I took complete blame for everything. I was stupid; I could have flushed ev erything down the toilet. I didn’t want this girl dying in my house. I wanted to get her medical at tention. I did what I thought was best, and I paid the price.”

A contemporary letter written by Henley to a Santa Monica probation officer, now introduced into evidence in the unrelated current trial, tells a very different story.

Oh, that’s putting it mildly, I’ll tell ya that much for nothing. Read on for the rest of the sorry, sordid story. Then go ahead and smash all your Eagles records to bits, and make a big bonfire with the shards. If you have any Eagles rekkids, that is; never could stand that band, except perhaps for “Witchy Woman,” which I haven’t heard in years and can’t honestly say I’’ve missed. So how best to dispose of my Eagles collection is not really a problem for moi.

Via Ace, who is every bit as disgusted as you and/or I.

As I read this story, I wondered if this scumbag pedophile — and he is a pedophile; there is no mistaking a fourteen year old girl for an adult — wrote “Dirty Laundry” as his “I’m the real victim here” cri de coeur.

Apparently, he did just that. The song is the whine of a pedophile who’s angry that he got caught.

He’s a dick with ears, that’s what, and always was.

Update! Now Joe Walsh, on the other hand

Joe Walsh of The Eagles executed the greatest prank in the history of pranks.

The Eagles had just completed a concert in Oakland, California. ‘The Day on The Green’ was a yearly concert sponsored by promoter Bill Graham which was held at The Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum.

Following a night of boozing with the group, crew, and associates, Don Henley became unconscious and Joe Walsh tried to grant him a circumcision. The attempt was carried out badly, giving Henley scarred for the rest of his life and bending to the left.

“I don’t know what I was thinking” said Walsh, “I was out of my mind a lot back then. I had just finished super gluing all the furniture to the ceiling and I was feeling bored. It was about 4AM and it was just Me, Mick Jones of Foreigner and Steve Miller still awake. Henley was passed out naked on the floor. His junk looked like bazooka joe wearing a turtle neck so I figured I would help him out and remedy the situation. I got out my trusty old Swiss army knife and went to work on him. I got half way through and realized I had no idea what I was doing. The knife was old, dull and rusty. The knife got stuck and Steve Miller pulled the rest off with a pliers.”

The following morning Henley awakened squirming in discomfort with his crap swaddled in gauze and duct tape. “I had no idea what happened,” said Henley “then I heard Miller and Walsh giggling uncontrollably in the other room. I was rushed to the hospital and I am now scarred for life, but it was all good clean fun. I can pee around corners now. That Walsh is an interesting bunch of guys.”

Heh. Serves the old pedophile right.

Walsh, of course, has always been known for the many pranks he’s perpetrated on his bandmates and crew, including but not limited to the time he glued the heavy curtains shut in a hotel room shared by two of his road crew, endarkening the room so’s they’d sleep right through bus call the next morning, then calling them on the phone last minute and shrieking hysterically, demanding to know where the hell they were at and what the hell they thought they were doing, because dammit, this bus was fucking leaving!

Needless to say, the hapless roadies came scrambling downstairs to the lobby in utter panic—all disheveled and only semi-awake, trying to pull whatever clothes they could on as they raced out to the tour bus, swearing blood-curdling threats of vengeance while Walsh and the rest of the entourage collapsed in gales of raucous hilarity.

Always did like Walsh, going back to his days with the James Gang, although I must confess I wouldn’t much care to tour with the guy, in any capacity or role.

Man, dig them groovy threads!

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“The right of a nation to kill a tyrant in case of necessity can no more be doubted than to hang a robber, or kill a flea.”
John Adams

"A society of sheep must in time beget a government of wolves."
Bertrand de Jouvenel

"It is terrible to contemplate how few politicians are hanged."
GK Chesterton

"I predict that the Bush administration will be seen by freedom-wishing Americans a generation or two hence as the hinge on the cell door locking up our freedom. When my children are my age, they will not be free in any recognizably traditional American meaning of the word. I’d tell them to emigrate, but there’s nowhere left to go. I am left with nauseating near-conviction that I am a member of the last generation in the history of the world that is minimally truly free."
Donald Surber

"The only way to live free is to live unobserved."
Etienne de la Boiete

"History does not long entrust the care of freedom to the weak or the timid."
Dwight D. Eisenhower

"To put it simply, the Left is the stupid and the insane, led by the evil. You can’t persuade the stupid or the insane and you had damn well better fight the evil."

"There is no better way to stamp your power on people than through the dead hand of bureaucracy. You cannot reason with paperwork."
David Black, from Turn Left For Gibraltar

"If the laws of God and men, are therefore of no effect, when the magistracy is left at liberty to break them; and if the lusts of those who are too strong for the tribunals of justice, cannot be otherwise restrained than by sedition, tumults and war, those seditions, tumults and wars, are justified by the laws of God and man."
John Adams

"The limits of tyranny are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress."
Frederick Douglass

"Give me the media and I will make of any nation a herd of swine."
Joseph Goebbels

“I hope we once again have reminded people that man is not free unless government is limited. There’s a clear cause and effect here that is as neat and predictable as a law of physics: As government expands, liberty contracts.”
Ronald Reagan

"Ain't no misunderstanding this war. They want to rule us and aim to do it. We aim not to allow it. All there is to it."
NC Reed, from Parno's Peril

"I just want a government that fits in the box it originally came in."
Bill Whittle

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