Cold Fury

Harshing your mellow since 9/01

A true delight

You CF lifers will doubtless know what a dyed-in-the-wool, bred-in-the-bone Ford freak I am. My dad was a lifelong Ford man himself, and raised me to loathe all things GM reflexively, just as naturally and unthinkingly as breathing. If I opened a vein, I would bleed FMC Blue, the resulting puddle resolving itself uncannily into a distinct oval-shaped pattern. So you guys can easily imagine how much I enjoyed this brief, partial catalogue of Government Motors perfidy.

General Motors Doesn’t Want Anyone To Know These 20 Strange Facts
Despite GM’s long history and notoriety, there are numerous things that people do not know about the company and the products it has produced. From strange business decisions to hush-hush scandals, the company has a lot of dirt hiding under the rug. Here are 20 strange facts General Motors doesn’t want anyone to know or, at least, would prefer that most people forget.

Heh. I’m smiling already over here. A lot of what follows I already knew, but the very first one in the list surprised even me.

20—GM FAILED TO FINANCE A PURCHASE OF FORD
The history of General Motors is one of acquisitions and the take-over of many well-known car manufacturers. On September 17, 1908, the day after William C. Durant capitalized GM as a holding company, he purchased Buick Motor Company and shortly after that, acquired more than twenty companies, including Oakland, now known as Pontiac, Cadillac, Oldsmobile, and McLaughlin of Canada.

What few people know (except automobile historians) is GM also wanted to take over Ford—and nearly succeeded. In 1909, Durant offered Henry Ford $8 million for his stock in the company and Ford agreed. Durant also convinced the GM board of directors to make the purchase. However, Durant’s New York bankers squashed the deal when they refused to give him the loan needed to make the purchase.

All poking of fun aside, I’ve lamented at some length here over the years the loss of the age-old Foad/Chivvy-lay rivalry that was such a central feature of my ill-spent youth. All us greasy gearheads used to have ourselves a high old time ribbing each other about who ruled and who drooled, featuring the eternally unresolved “First On Race Day” versus “Fix Or Repair Delay” squabble among other jibes. It was all in good-natured fun, the dispute easily if only temporarily settled by a trip over to Franklin Boulevard in Gastonia for a drag-race blast from Shoney’s on the east side on down to McDonald’s on the west. Rarely did the matter descend to vulgar fisticuffs, although I’ll stop well short of claiming such a thing never did happen. Because that would be a lie.

That Shoney’s is as long-gone as the Ford-Chevy controversy itself is, alas, with all that noble American iron now reduced to pretty-much-interchangeable plastic egg-mobiles—featureless and indistinguishable one from another, except by direct reference to the badging. Nowadays, the young ‘uns couldn’t care less about such arcana, a vanished slice of Americana grieved over only by the old coots who reveled in it. A shame, really; they know not what they missed. Maybe it’s understandable: with the cars themselves being rendered anonymous, how could ennui and erosion of brand allegiance not be expected to follow?

Read the rest of ’em; whether you’re a Ford man or a Chevy dupe, you’re bound to find something of interest. Number 16 was another one I wasn’t aware of, and as a bonus I’ll throw in another fun GM factoid not mentioned at the above link:

The U.S. Army Ordnance Department considered several designs for low-cost/high production-rate submachine guns fabricated from stamped and welded sheet metal. A design developed in large part by George Hyde, with the assistance of General Motors’ Inland Manufacturing Division, was given the prototype designation of T-15. It was chambered for the standard .45 ACP cartridge and featured a sliding wire stock, which substantially reduced its length when retracted. Army Ordnance Col. René Studler was an ardent proponent of the new submachine gun and was instrumental in its subsequent adoption. The T-15 prototype was refined and superseded by the T-20. Unlike the selective-fire T-15, the T-20 only fired in the full-automatic mode.

The T-20 had number of advantages as compared to most other submachine guns, including the fact that its internal parts were fully enclosed, which reduced the possibility of the mechanism being clogged by dirt, mud or sand. In addition, it was designed with rather generous dimensional tolerances to allow functioning even when subjected to extreme dust or mud conditions. The bolt traveled along two steel guide rods, which prevented contact with the inside of the receiver and resulted in increased reliability and smoothness of operation. The gun could be quickly disassembled, and the barrel and bolt were easily removed. It did not have a conventional safety, but the ejection port cover prevented accidental firing when closed.

The T-20 prototype was extensively tested at Aberdeen Proving Ground and proved to be more reliable in the mud and dust tests than any other submachine gun ever tested by the U.S. Army. In addition to the Army’s Infantry Board, the new submachine gun was evaluated by the Airborne Command and Armored Forces Board. These latter two organizations were especially interested due to its compactness, which had obvious advantages for airborne use or in the cramped confines of a tank.

After conclusion of rigorous testing, the T-20 was recommended for adoption in December 1942 as the “U.S. Submachine Gun, Caliber .45, M3.” Official approval came on Jan. 11, 1943. Shortly after formal adoption, a contract was awarded to General Motors’ Guide Lamp Division for 300,000 M3 submachine guns. The Guide Lamp plant, located in Anderson, Ind., had extensive experience in the fabrication of stamped metal components, so it was a logical choice to manufacture the new submachine gun. 

How I knew about this was, I actually fired one at Knob Creek a few times, and its proud owner told me all about Grease Gun history. The article makes a glancing comparison between the M3 and the Thompson. Having run a shit-ton of rounds through both, I can tell you there IS no comparison—the Thompson is superior in every way. At the same time, though, if I was a D-Day footslogger coming ashore with the prospect of slogging across France carrying one or the other of ’em staring me in the face, I’d probably have picked the M3. Them Tommy guns are heavy, man.

Oh, and: if you’re a shooter, live anywhere near driving distance of Kentucky, and haven’t been to the Knob Creek shoot yet, may I ask what the hell have you been waiting for?

(Via Larwyn)

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Hog, Son Of Spad

More A-10 stuff, in a sideways sort of way. Although, as you’ll soon see, I have a different ulterior motive for mentioning this.

The air force leadership, during the decades they were very anti-A-10, did not like to discuss the usefulness of A-10s in CSAR (Combat Search and Rescue) missions. Yet this was a very popular use of the A-10 because when a pilot had to eject and was on the ground, they quickly learned that if you had the enemy nearby looking for you. What you wanted to see first was not a rescue helicopter, but an A-10, that would make sure the rescue chopper and the downed pilots were not hurt. The A-10s regularly came in low and slow seeking out enemy troops and was, unlike most aircraft, designed and armored to deal with a lot of enemy fire.

This CSAR chore was nothing new for the A-10 and goes back to before the A-10 entered service. Many reserve and National Guard A-10 squadrons regularly practiced CSAR tactics in part because many of the pilots were older and more experienced and retained memories of Vietnam, and the aircraft that inspired the A-10 by showing how such a low and slow aircraft could be invaluable during so many CSAR missions. The Vietnam era A-1 Skyraider (nicknamed “Spad”, after a famous World War I fighter) was one of the inspirations for the A-10. The A-1 was the most popular ground support aircraft during the 1960s and proved a literal lifesaver during hundreds of Vietnam CSAR missions. Developed at the end of World War II, the A-1 was an 11 ton, single seat, propeller driven aircraft that carried 3.5 tons of bombs and four 20mm autocannon. The four 20mm cannon could, altogether, fire 40 rounds a second. Cruising speed was 320 kilometers an hour (versus 560 for the A-10), and the average sortie was about four hours (a little longer than the A-10). The A-10 could go as slow as 220 kilometers an hour, which was nearly as slow as the A-1 could manage but the A-10 had a max speed of 700 kilometers an hour, more than a third faster than the A-1.

Ever since Vietnam ground troops have been agitating for another A-1. The A-10 came close, but did not have the persistence (long time over the combat area) of the A-1. But when the A-10 did get to demonstrate its CSAR capabilities during the 1991 Gulf War, there were still some Vietnam era pilots around who made the A-1/A-10 CSAR connection vividly clear. The A-10 CSAR capabilities are obvious to pilots. The A-10 is built to fly low and slow and better survive any ground fire it encounters. A-10s being jets could get to where the downed pilot was fast and then go down low to better deal with any enemy ground threat until the air force CSAR helicopters arrived. This was the same method used by A-1s in Vietnam.

That ulterior motive I mentioned? Glad you asked:




That there is a pic of me getting some stick time in the trusty Able Dog way back in ’04, which amazing experience I wrote about at greater length, with lots of photos from the flight included, here. Austin Bay’s link to a SP photo of a Skyraider legacy flight with an F-16 is what made me think of it. He says:

In 1999 I was at a small airfield in southern California. A Skyraider rolled onto the landing strip then sat there for about five minutes. The pilot slowly increased rpm until the sound split ears 250 meters away. Then he took off with a rush and climbed quickly. The Skyraider was originally a carrier aircraft. I thought the pilot might be emulating a carrier launch. If not, he was still having fun. Several observers, including me, clapped after the takeoff.

As well you should have, Austin. The Skyraider IS a loud sumbitch sure enough, I’ll testify to that. Big, heavy, sturdy, powerful; a potent attack aircraft packing some serious punch, one that performed its vital CAS/CASR role extremely well—I ask you, what’s not to like?

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Down the tubes

The SF Shit Map has been updated, and…well, I mean…that is to say…uhhh…

Good Lord.

poop-map.jpg


If you think that’s just something I P-Shopped up myself as a gag, you can go here to verify the stomach-turning truth. Goad digs deeper into this crappy shituation.

But San Francisco is the most expensive major city in the USA, and its residents boast a per-capita income twice the national average. It is also the nation’s most aggressively progressive major city, and its residents should tolerate no such public atrocities under their watch, right?

If you even have to ask such questions, you don’t understand much about wealth inequality. You’d be hard-pressed to find a single major American metro area whose politics aren’t obnoxiously leftist and that also doesn’t feature wealth inequality far beyond anything you find out in the sticks. Maybe these types see wealth inequality everywhere because that’s their natural habitat. Either way, you shouldn’t be surprised to see a Silicon Valley billionaire accidentally stepping in a homeless Vietnam Vet’s dung on the streets of the City by the Bay—it comes with the territory.

San Francisco’s climate—always chilly but never unbearable—is also more of a homeless magnet than frozen wastelands such as Chicago and Boston. The problem—at least when it comes to turds on the street—is that San Francisco suffers a much higher quotient of homeless people who have no permanent shelter than cities where you can die of frostbite during most winter evenings. Unlike LA, San Francisco’s geography doesn’t sprawl on forever, so it’s homeless quadrants tend to be more tightly compacted than those in other cities.

Heh. I see what you did there, Jim. This part is gut-bustingly funny:

Last year, the city formed a “Poop Patrol” to tackle the crisis. Comprised of five workers who each earn $184,000 yearly in salary and benefits, they enjoy the dubious honor of being the city’s first-response squad whenever anyone reports seeing human feces on the streets. A dedicated 311 line reportedly fields 65 calls about sidewalk poop daily.

Developers have also produced a phone app called SnapCrapthat allows users to point, click, and officially report all instances of sidewalk shittery.

The city’s Public Works department also sponsors a campaign called “Doo The Right Thing” that offers free dog poop bags and canisters for containing your pooch’s feces until they can be safely disposed. There are apparently no plans for a human version, no matter how loudly the universe howls for one.

In an unintentionally funny account of the sidewalk-shit crisis, the San Francisco Chronicle follows around Supervisor Matt Haney, who accidentally steps into some feces while guiding around the reporter. Within moments, an unrelated bicyclist named Malcolm Haney also steps in feces—only to do it again within a couple minutes.

Heh. To recycle a Bart Simpson quote I’ve gotten a lot of use out of here over the years: WHOA, that’s good squishy!

Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry.

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It’s turtles corruption all the way down

In Baltimore, and in every city run by Democrat-Socialist grifters.

Federal officials searched Mayor Catherine E. Pugh’s home and City Hall office Thursday in the midst of her children’s book scandal. Reports told us that Maryland health providers paid Pugh hundreds of thousands of dollars for her self-published “Healthy Holly” children’s books. 

Gov. Larry Hogan called for an investigation into the matter and the FBI is now very involved.

Pugh took an indefinite leave of absence last month due to what she claimed were health issues.

Ace explains further:

She made these books available. To, for example, health care providers looking to sign lucrative contracts with the city of Baltimore.

And you won’t believe this –health care providers looking to sign lucrative contracts with the city of Baltimore bought tens of thousands of copies of this self-published book, putting a great deal of money in the mayor’s pockets, to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars.

UMMS bought the most — 100,000 copies for a sweet half mil.

Why did the UMMS buy so many of these books?

Well, I don’t want to speculate unduly, but it might have something to do with the fact that the Children’s Author Pugh sat on the UMMS’ board.

The Baltimore Sun discovered that nine of the UMMS’ board members had entered into “business relationships” with the UMMS. I wonder what other tax-payer subsidized graft for politicians we’ll be discovering.

And now, the FBI takes a pause from chasing down the Steele Dossier and covering up Hillary Clinton’s crimes to do actual work, searching Mayor Pugh’s home and city hall office for evidence of crimes.

The FBI, going after a Demonrat? Well, I must say I never saw THAT coming. But now we come to the funniest part.

BALTIMORE (WJZ) — Where is Baltimore Mayor Catherine Pugh? It’s the question buzzing around the city as the FBI and IRS raid Pugh’s home, City Hall and several other locations tied to her Thursday. But, no one has seen the mayor even though she’s supposed to be recovering from pneumonia.

An earlier report said she may have been trying to get out of town, but attorney Steve Silverman spoke to the WJZ outside her home Thursday and said the mayor is physically ill and emotionally saddened.

I’ll bet she is at that.

He said she apologized for letting down the people of Baltimore with any appearance of wrongdoing.

“People of Baltimore, I’m sorry I got caught!”

Pugh is not mentally or physically able to make any decisions Thursday, according to Silverman.

Wait, she was before? Perhaps a nice extended vacation in a country with no extradition treaty with the US would be just what the doctor ordered (ahem) to restore her tragically shattered health. I understand coastal Cuba is lovely this time of year.

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A long campaign, a never-ending war

Good interview/chat with a brilliant, insightful man.

Victor D. Hanson: Well, in the book (The Case For Trump—M) I think I concluded in my chapter Mueller that was written a year ago, the greatest irony in Trump’s presidency when he was falsely accused of colluding with Russia by people who were actually colluding with Russia. And I think that assessment that came out well before that Mueller was validated. I think we’re gonna get the Mueller report today or tomorrow. But if you were to summarize the Mueller investigation, there’s a lot of ways to look at it, but I think the best is that there were people within the United States government–the director of the FBI, James Comey; the director of the CIA, John Brennan; the director of National Intelligence, James Clapper; the deputy director; and an array of others; and then NSC and the DOJ who felt A: that Hillary Clinton was going to win. They had followed the analytics and the polls–90 percent surety. But they felt as an insurance policy that Donald Trump for a variety of reasons–culturally, politically, socially–was unacceptable as president. And the very thought that he could be president was so foreign and disruptive that they felt they had a higher duty, a higher loyalty to stop that. So what did they do? They started to surveil his campaign, and they put informants we know into his campaign. In October of 2016, they went to a Federal Surveillance Court–FISA court–and deluded that court by not telling the true nature of opposition research from Hillary Clinton’s campaign which was unverified. And then they used that to surveil Carter Page who had work for Trump, but they were able to go back in time to a time when he was actively in surveils communications and then reverse target that by tapping all the people that he had talked to.

They, in the case of the National Security Council, they requested names that came up in these surveillances that be unmasked and then they leaked them. How did this translate in real terms? If you and I were reading newspapers in September, October 2016–Mother Jones, Yahoo News–they were printing things that Trump was involved with the Russians, and that permeated the press. We forget that now. Then when Trump did the unthinkable, he won both in anger at that fact but also as a preemptive defense of their behavior. You see, because you’ve got to remember the dialectic would have been “President Clinton, look at all I did for you. I should be rewarded. I went beyond the call of duty.” And now the mentality went “My gosh, I’ve got legal exposure. So we’ve got to press further.” So then it was a methodology of getting more FISA requests and disrupting the transition. And then finally the act that resulted in the Mueller commission, and then to dethrone. And then finally the larger context of this was when he was elected there was an effort to sue three states for the voting machines and nullify the election. There was a sustained effort to give the Steele dossier to the electors and to persuade the electors not to vote according to their constitutional mandates. Then there was almost immediately 60 representatives that voted for impeachment the week he was inaugurated. Then there was an effort to sue on the emoluments clause of the constitution to remove him. Then there was the 25th Amendment psychodrama that went on for … And then finally there was Rod Rosenstein and Andrew McCabe meeting to see if they could pull cabinet members to remove him. This is in addition to the Stormy Daniels psychodrama, the Michael Cohen, the tax returns–so there’s been a sustained effort not to wait until 2020, but to remove the president of the United States under the idea that we are so moral and anointed unelected officials, we have a duty to somebody higher than the American people. And boil that down and it was a coup attempt to destroy the presidency before its tenure had expired.

Jan Jekielek: So, basically, it was any means necessary where we’re OK to try to remove the sitting president.

Victor D. Hanson: I think so. I think these unelected bureaucrats, call them what you want–Deep State, members of the administrative state–they were analogous to people in history that worked in the Byzantine court, or the El Escorial in the Spanish Empire, or the people at Versailles. They were a permanent cast of unelected representatives that felt that the liberal progressive project under Obama would be continued for a 16-year interlude. And that somebody who didn’t deserve to be nominated under no circumstances should have been president and when he was elected should fail. That was not happening. So they called upon themselves to remove him. And I’m not trying to be overdramatic. Because remember on September 5 of 2018 we had an anonymous op-ed in The New York Times that was geared, by the way, to come out at the same time as the Bob Woodward book. … is a one-two punch in which a person said, “I am a Republican Deep State bureaucratic appointee within the administration, and I’m trying to stop what I think are wrong decisions by the president. I’m a member of the resistance.” That’s what he said. That was—trim away the imprimatur of the New York Times—it was basically a call for insurrection.

That’s by way of an introductory tidbit snipped from a long, wide-ranging interview. I’ve only gotten partway through it myself, so you can safely bet I’ll be updating this post with more as I wade further into it—or just starting a new post entirely, maybe.

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Hands off my dinner!

Whatever happened to the old “melting pot” idea, anyway?

The best Russian restaurant in New York suffered a tragic fire last week. Tatiana, on the Brighton Beach boardwalk, is not only a staple in the Russian-Jewish community of New York but a model of multicultural dining that should be a lesson to all critics of culinary culture mixing.

My favorite Tatiana dishes are the kani salad (Japanese), Khachapuri(Georgian) and pelmeni (finally, actually, Russian). They do it all and do it so well, even though all these dishes make this highly regarded Russian restaurant not all that Russian.

For the record, Tatiana has a lot of stellar, real, Russian dishes. Pickled herring, caviar, borscht, black bread and a lot of vodka, you can have a serious Russian meal there. But Tatiana has managed to perfect dishes from other cultures too. What’s wrong with that?

Cultural appropriation, especially when it comes to food, is good. It’s what we should want in our big, crazy melting pot.

It’s so boring to argue over whether food is exactly the way it’s been made for centuries or whether the chef has blood pure enough to make it. What do the culture police win at the end of it? The same food made the same way until the end of time?

Or is it really just about finding a way to berate white people?

Annnd WOOT, there it is. No matter, though. Until every last one of these sniveling diaper-smears swear off of White Guy life-enhancers like: air conditioning; indoor plumbing; refrigerators; planes, trains, and automobiles; the internet; American literature; German classical music; radio, teevee, and motion pictures; the cotton gin and its various end-products; iMacs, iPads, and iPhones; and scads and scads more, they can all go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut. Which, by the way, is yet another boon to mankind brought forth thanks to White-Guy imagination.

And when I say swear off, I mean for life, too. That’s MY culture you’re appropriating, bitches, and without so much as a thank-you either. So no backsliding without some sort of expression of your humble gratitude. Either acknowledge your debt for the innumerable contributions My People have made to your own personal ease, convenience, and happiness—or shut your fucking yap forever. Call it “reparations,” if that helps any.

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Golden oldie

For various reasons I won’t bother going into now, I had occasion earlier to look up this blast from the past. It just HAS to be the most supremely funny of all of Paul Shanklin’s parodies for the Limbaugh show.




As Brack said earlier today: ahh, the good old days, when we thought Carville was nuts. The Left has ventured so much further around the bend that he wouldn’t even rate a mention on the cray-cray continuum now. Makes me feel just a little bit nostalgic, it does.

“He’s a madman from Mars, flying around in a spaceship handing out cigarettes made by little green men to kill your babies and destroy our president.” I damned near fall over laughing every time I hear it, and I’ve listened to it about ten times so far today.

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Shit City

The tide is high, and rising.

People are pooping more than ever on the streets of San Francisco
Between 2011 and 2018, San Francisco experienced a massive increase in reported incidents of human feces found on public streets.

In 2011, just over 5,500 reports were logged by the San Francisco Department of Public Works; in 2018, the number increased to more than 28,000.

The government watchdog Open the Books documented the sharp increase over time in a stunning chart, first spotted by the BuzzFeed editor John Paczkowski.

Notably, this is a chart of only documented reports — the actual amount of feces on San Francisco’s streets is likely even higher than these statistics suggest.

Vox gets to the, uhh, bottom of the problem.

The reasons one should support Christian nationalism and Western civilization aka Christendom is not limited to a personal belief in Jesus Christ as Man’s savior. On the political side, even if you lack religious faith, a mere preference for indoor plumbing will suffice.

This is the dyscivilizational reality of the promised shiny, sexy, science fiction seculartopia that was promised by the progressives. Rivers of blood and public streets lined with shit.

Never forget, folks: what they did for once-thriving urban meccas like Detroit and San Francisco, they can do for YOU!

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Edelweiss

It’s one of the loveliest melodies ever written, from a wonderful, uplifting family movie without so much as a “shit,” a “damn,” or a bare tit to be found therein, much less any HEROIC!!! transgender-butt-rape sex scenes. So of course the fuckwit Left has to politicize and then shit all over it.

On Thursday, a New York Post reporter tweeted that President Donald Trump played the song “Edelweiss” at the White House. The New York Times’s White House correspondent, Maggie Haberman, suggested the song was a Nazi anthem, inspiring rightful backlash on Twitter. She seemed to stick with this false view, even after she was called out on it.

As National Review’s Alexandra DeSanctis noted, “Edelweiss” originated in The Sound of Music (1965), an American musical about the ravages of the Nazi rise to power in Austria. The song was a tribute to pre-Nazi Austria and a rebuke to the Nazis.

Don’t even ask: yes, they ARE this stupid. They really, really are.

The moronization of society proceeds apace. As we mentioned on the show, a bigshot New York Times correspondent thinks that playing “Edelweiss” at the White House is some kind of Nazi dog-whistle to Trump supporters. It is tragic and profound the way even small artifacts of our inheritance get trashed in these witless arguments, so, if you want to know the real story of the very last song in the Oscar Hammerstein catalogue, here’s what I had to say a couple of years back:

Not long after Rodgers & Hammerstein wrote the song, Theodore Bikel was leaving the theatre when he found a fan and fellow immigrant waiting at the stage door for his autograph: ‘I love that “Edelweiss”,’ said the theatregoer. ‘Of course, I have known it a long time, but only in German.’

Not for the first time, Hammerstein had done too good a job. Just as his ‘Ol’ Man River’ for Show Boat is assumed by many to be an authentic Negro spiritual, so ‘Edelweiss’ is assumed to be an authentic Austrian folk song. Not so. In both cases, a great craftsman manufactured them to solve a structural problem with the storytelling. But he did it so well that they have become for real what they were only intended to simulate. Some years ago ‘Edelweiss’ was played at the White House, at a state dinner for Austria’s President Kirschschlager, and everyone but the Austrians stood up for the national anthem. Actually, no. The current Austrian anthem is ‘Land der Berge, Land am Strome’, and the only official anthem by Rodgers & Hammerstein is their title number for their very first show, which serves as the state song of Oklahoma.

Steyn, natch, before going on to mention that Kate Smith has also been purged by the juiceless SJW skinbags at Yankee Stadium. Mark winds it up:

Eighty years later, the social-justice wankers can barely comprehend anything written before 2008. So it’s not enough that, hedged in by the ever narrowing restraints of correct attitudes, our age cannot make anything of its own; it is also necessary that the entirety of the past be erased. Hence, at top right, that ludicrous cover-up of the Kate Smith statue in Philly. As I said on Rush, she looks like the third child bride of Mullah Omar.

But that’s what pop culture is reduced to in 2019: a literal cover version of Kate Smith. Incidentally, if Miss Smith’s “God Bless America” cannot be heard because she also sang “That’s Why Darkies Were Born”, why should Bing Crosby get away with singing “White Christmas” on the all-holiday radio playlists every December? After all, in the very film where he introduced that song to the world, he also appeared in blackface!!!

So “White Christmas” should also be banned – unless, of course, Bing happens to be a Democrat Governor of Virginia.

We are in Pol Pot’s Year Zero. The demolishers (as Victor Hugo calls them in our Notre Dame Tale for Our Time) are determined to ensure there will be nothing left.

What else could anyone expect from Pol Pot’s ideological offspring?

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BOTW

It’s a deep, deep well over there, and now that I have about fourteen tabs open with articles of theirs I want to check out, I am up to my clavicles and sinking fast. First off, one of my all-time favorite rasslers: the incomparable Mick Foley.

You would have a tough time finding a professional wrestling fan who could argue with the insane badassitude of Mick Foley. A long time veteran of the ECW, WCW and WWF/WWE, Foley was well-known for being a total crazy bastard who went out there and put his body on the line every single night, doing the craziest shit you could ever think of and risking serious physical pain and permanent bodily damage purely for the sake of entertaining fans who might never fully appreciate it.

Mick Foley got his start wrestling the ECW circuit in the late 80s as Cactus Jack, where he spent much of his time being backdropped onto barbed wire boards and face-planting tables. During one match, he suffered severe second-degree burns when he was thrown into some explosives that went off in his face. He won the Tag Team Belt once in ECW, and in 1995 defeated Terry Funk to win the title of “King of the Death Match”, which is probably the most badass title you could think of. It sounds like something out of The Running Man or something.

After a brief stint in WCW, Foley burst onto the scene in the WWF in 1996 wrestling as the mentally-deranged Mankind. His humorous persona and complete lack of any sort of self-preservation instincts led him to become a huge crowd favorite, and during his career he would win the Tag belts eight times, the WWF Championship three times and would be the first ever WWF Hardcore champ.

After he realized that he had to stop taking serious blunt trauma to the head on a weekly basis, Foley released his autobiography, Have a Nice Day: A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks. The book topped the New York Times bestseller list and contained thoughtful insight into his wrestling career, and many people learned that in addition to making a career out of being a human pinata, Mick Foley also had a brain in his head and a gift for writing. Since the success of his autobiography, Foley released a follow-up book, a couple of children’s books and two full-length novels, all of which have found success.

During his career, Mick Foley received eight concussions, had part of his ear ripped off, lost most of his teeth and required over three hundred stitches for wrestling-related injuries. The guy sacrificed his body for the sport, and left everything out on the mat. He gave it all and did it with a smile on his face, and that’s the mark of a true badass.

Over the course of a unique career, Foley was indubitably the wildest Wild Man of them all. I remember when the Foley autobiography came out; the book was serially excerpted at length someplace or other, of which series I read the all. BOTW wasn’t just whistling Dixie in their praise, either: a completely spellbinding page-turner, a peek behind the veil into a strange and mysterious world, and so intelligent and well-written as to almost defy credulity at times. It was a real ripper of a fun read, what I saw of it; I’d bet that even people with little or no real interest in pro wrestling would still find it a difficult book to put down.

Naturally, then, it has now been added to my Amazon Wish List. Hey, don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful.

Another interesting thing about Mick Foley is that, among his peers and competitors, he was almost universally well-liked and respected. I used to have a couple of minor insider connections to the world of rasslin’, and from them I know that that is NOT the norm with most of ’em. There are intense rivalries both inside the ring and out, even real dislike among some of those guys. Their personal drive and natural competitiveness combine to exacerbate any such friction well beyond the realm of trifling social discomfort and right into imminent-threat-of-physical-violence territory. Despite that, most everybody thought quite highly and spoke warmly of Foley, and had great respect for him. Or so I’ve been told, at least.

Next up, another world-champeen Wild Man, and a lifelong personal icon of mine.

Gregory “Pappy” Boyington was a part-Sioux, part-Irish World War II fighter ace who could drink any man under the table, routinely kicked the crap out of his enemies in back-alley fistfights, cold-cocked at least two superior officers, and still somehow found time to blast a couple dozen Japanese Zeroes out of the air with his quad-mounted .50-cals.  He was the first American fighter ace of World War II, flew two of the coolest fighter aircraft of the war, held officer positions in a couple of the United States’ most famous fighter squadrons, and is probably one of the only human beings in military history to personally accept a Medal of Honor that had originally been issued to him posthumously

From the moment Greg Boyington was wheels-down from his flight with Pangborn, he was obsessed with planes. He built and collected model planes, went to any air show he could, and eventually learned to fly and got his pilot’s license. In 1926 he moved to Tacoma, and then from there he enlisted in the University of Washington, where he did ROTC and played on the UW wrestling, boxing, and football teams. In 1935 he enlisted in the Marine Corps as an aviator, and quickly earned a reputation as a dude you super totally did not want to step to. In addition to being easily one of the best pilots the USMC had to offer, he was also a hardcore troublemaker on the ground as well. He loved to get drunk, gamble, and challenge his buddies to wrestling matches in the middle of crowded bars. He kicked the crap out of townies whenever they messed with him. One time he got super hammered, stripped naked, and tried to swim across the San Diego Bay in the middle of the night (he eventually had to be fished out of the river by his comrades). Another time he punched a superior officer in the fucking face in an argument over a girl, even though Boynton was married at this point and the girl in question was super totally not his wife.

…Eventually Boyington pissed off his (AVG/Flying Tigers) commander a little too hard, and in 1943 he got into a heated argument with his commander that ended up getting Boyington dishonorably discharged from the Flying Tigers.  Which, honestly, is kind of badass if you think about it.  Luckily for him, the United States was formally in World War II at this point, so the grizzled old fighter ace just immediately walked into a recruiting office, swore the Oath of Allegiance, and was posted as a Lieutenant in Marine Fighter Squadron VMF-122.

In true Boyington fashion, within a couple weeks of being reinstated to the USMC, he got into a huge argument with his CO and almost got discharged again. 

At this point in the war, the U.S. was in the heat of the fighting against the Japanese all across the Pacific, and the fighting had left many Marine aviation units shattered and fragmented.  Boyington was coming back from injury himself, and his mission was pretty simple – take whatever available men and equipment you can find, form them up into a fighter squadron, and hurl it into the fray as quickly as possible.

The unit he came up with would become perhaps the most famous Marine Corps aviation squadron in American history:  VMF-214, the Black Sheep Squadron.

The Black Sheep Squadron initially consisted of 26 pilots, including some Royal Canadian Air Force vets, a Los Angeles police officer, and a couple Marine pilots who had already earned themselves a couple enemy aircraft kills during the war.  They were equipped with the Vought F4U Corsair, one of the most badass aircraft of the Pacific Theater, and shipped out to the front to try their hand at annihilating some Japanese aircraft.  Boyington, who was now known among his men as “Gramps” or “Pappy”, because at thirty years old he was by far the oldest man in the unit (I’m reminded of Julius Caesar weeping at the statue of Alexander), flew his first mission with the Marine Corps on September 14, 1943,  when his squadron escorted a group of dive bombers on a raid against a Japanese supply base.  Two days later, Pappy Boyington became one of the very few American aviators to ever become an “Ace in a Day” – meaning he killed five dang enemy aircraft in a single mission.  For most other badass aviators, getting Ace in a Day is the kind of thing that I’d write an entire article about, detailing every bank, turn, and machine gun burst in excruciating detail.  But Pappy Boyington’s story is so over-the-top bonkers insane that it barely warrants an entire paragraph among the list of exploits in his life.  Just know this – the was outnumbered, under attack, and facing an overwhelming force of some of the most battle-hardened, experienced fighter pilots in the world, and he walked away with five more Japanese flags painted on the nose art of his Corsair.

VMF-214 continued attacking Japanese bases as part of the Bougainville Campaign, which was the Allied American and Aussie mission to re-take the Northern Solomon Islands by striking out from bases in the Papua New Guinea region.  And as Marine Corsairs dove, banked, and opened fire all throughout the skies above the region, you might as well have called the place Pappy New Guinea because the freaking Black Sheep Squadron was walloping asses up and down the Pacific.  On October 17, 1943, 25 Marine Corsairs engaged and killed 20 enemy Zeroes without losing a single man.  Another time, Pappy was leading his flight group when he got a radio signal from a Japanese aircraft, hailing the Marines in English, pretending to be an American ship and asking Boyington to identify his location.  Boyington’s b.s. meter was off the charts, though, and he wasn’t about to fall for that weak sauce.  He told the Japanese pilot exactly where he was… except he gave the position at 5,000 feet lower than the altitude the Marines were flying.

When the Japanese squadron showed up for their ambush, the Marines dove down with the sun at their backs and wiped out twelve Zeroes in just minutes of dogfighting.

Lots, lots more to the incredible story of one of America’s greatest badasses. Next up, one for casual American hero Matt Bracken: SEAL Team Six.

The now-legendary Team Six was formed in October 1980, in direct reaction to the clusterfuck of epic proportions that resulted when the Americans tried to rescue a group of civilians who had been taken hostage in the U.S. Embassy in Iran and failed so miserably that the Joint Chiefs decided, fuck it, we need to put together a team of guys whose only job is to kick terrorists in the scrotum until they cough up their marbles and then force-feed their own marbles back to them. Team Six was actually just the third SEAL team formed by the U.S. Navy, but the Admirals gave them number six because it’s a much cooler number than three, and also because it might confuse the Soviets into thinking that we had way more of these guys than we actually did. Interestingly, the unit doesn’t go by Team Six anymore, instead calling itself DevGroup or DEVGRU, which is short for “Development Group” or something equally boring and innocuous. The rationale behind changing the name to something that sounds like a financial consulting firm or a team of overworked video game designers was basically just so that nowadays high-ranking Admirals can honestly stand in front of TV cameras and say shit like, “There’s no such thing as SEAL Team Six,” without lying. While I can understand and appreciate the whole “plausible deniability” thing, I should also mention that I have absolutely no intention of referring to a company of terrorist-eviscerating asskickers as The Development Group for the purposes of this article.

The general consensus is that we basically know about only a miniscule percentage of the badass operations Team Six has carried out in its career saving the world from terrorists, communists, vampire Nazis, and god-knows whatever the hell else out there is trying to kill us, but the shit we know about is pretty much totally fucking awesome. Commanded in the early days by Richard Marcinko (a man I intend to cover in much more detail in a later Badass of the Week article), Six’s first operation was to parachute into a small island off the coast of Puerto Rico in the middle of the night, attack a terrorist camp, and recover a portable nuclear device from the clutches of a group of madmen. Now, if that’s the sort of shit these guys were doing on their first mission, you can only imagine where it goes from there. Like, for instance, in 1985 thirteen SEALs from Team Six rescued Governor-General Sir Paul Scoon when he and nine members of his staff were taken hostage in his mansion in Grenada. Six briefly made tennis a badass sport, fast-roping down onto Scoon’s tennis court from a helicopter while the Grenadan army shot machine guns and anti-aircraft cannons at them. The operatives, completely unfazed by staring death in the face while suspended in mid air from a rope, charged ahead and freed the Queen’s Representative on Grenada by storming the mansion and clearing it of enemy troops with a dickload of bullets and concussion grenades. After securing the hostages, the SEALs, realizing they were cut off from extraction, then proceeded to hold the position against a full-on counter attack by basically the entire fucking Grenadan army. These 13 dudes held the position, staring down tanks, APCs and grenade launchers with little more than sniper rifles and small arms. Not only did Scoon get out safely, but all 13 SEAL team members survived, and none of the hostages were killed.

Their operational record only gets more impressive. In 1989, Team Six worked with Delta Force to capture notorious criminal drug lord Manuel Noriega from the jungles of Panama. In the days before Desert Storm they swam around in SCUBA gear disarming anti-ship mines in the Persian Gulf, and then when the war started they were fast-roping onto Kuwaiti oil platforms, wiping out the Iraqi defenders and re-taking the positions before the enemy could set fire to them. In the late 90s ST6 searched for war criminals in Bosnia. In 2009 they freed an American crew taken prisoner by Somali pirates in a manner so fucking badass that it belongs in an action movie: A team of SEAL Team Six snipers simultaneously coordinated three long-range shots from the rocking deck of one ship to another – the first two popped the heads off a pair of pirates patrolling the upper decks, and the third shot went through a porthole window and drilled a pirate who was holding the American ship’s captain at gunpoint with an AK-47, killing the scurvy scalawag before he could pull the trigger.

(As a weird side note, SEAL Team Six has also worked as a security force for every Olympic Games since 1984. This seems like overkill, but hey, if you’re going to station Colonel John Matrix as a mall security guard outside the fucking food court, you can be damn sure that’s the safest Panda Express in the known universe.)

Lots more fascinating stuff here, too. Minor quibble: SEAL Six wasn’t just led by Marcinko; according to his own autobiography, he was the guy who conceptualized it, created it, staffed it, and commanded it until he ran afoul of some petty personal politicking and was eventually hounded right into prison on trumped-up charges.

There are people out there, though, who are skeptical of many of Marcinko’s claims and regard him as a bit of a braggart—even a bullshit artist—prone to overstating his accomplishments, records, and influence. My late cousin Reggie—a career Navy fighter pilot who had some personal familiarity with Demo Dick—was one of those, albeit mildly. He did like and respect Marcinko generally, to be sure. But upon finding out that that I was a big fan of Marcinko’s writing, he tactfully suggested that a lot of it needed to be taken with a grain of salt. Reg seemed to think that Marcinko’s biggest talent was for self-promotion, I think.

And there’s this guy, a fellow Nam-era SEAL (Team Two) who was so annoyed by Marcinko that he devoted an entire chapter of his own autobiography to debunking and dismissing him.

Marcinko’s original concept for Six was of a lean, adaptable group of highly-trained warriors, small in number (only 75 shooters in the beginning) and operating more or less independently, answerable only to a highly streamlined, compact, and entirely fat-free chain of command. The clever idea of misleading our adversaries by calling it SEAL Team Six was Marcinko’s too. I think Marcinko was very wise in his original concept of Six’s structure and role; unfortunately, things haven’t quite worked out that way since his departure. SpecWar DEVGRU now has seven “squadrons,” consisting of nearly two thousand men. The ideal of an elite, stripped-down fighting machine capable of extreme operational flexibility, speed, and adaptability seems to have been traded in for fatty gobs of REMF bureaucracy and bloat, an apparently inescapable curse afflicting the whole country these days.

Whatever your opinion of Marcinko, the SEAL Six story is another worthwhile read from the BOTW collection. And to think, I still have eleven more of these open BOTW tabs to get around to yet.

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History, revised

Ask a silly question.

We’re all heard stories about young children being punished at school by their socialist teachers for drawing or cutting out pretend handguns, or even for pointing a finger on the playground and saying “Bang! Bang!”

And some of us did sound the alarm about the “slippery slope,” years ago, when the forces of political correctness realized how easy it was to start rewriting history by “digitally editing” old historical photos. After all, why NOT remove the cigarette holder from old photos of President Franklin Roosevelt? You don’t want today’s kids to think it’s OK to smoke, do you?

But surely we’ll never reach the point where gun haters in a U.S. government agency will actually start doctoring images to remove the rifles (the arms with which Americans won and have long defended our freedoms) from the hands of American COMBAT SOLDIERS, will we? — altering an image of a soldier in combat, removing the piece of equipment on which his survival depended, to make it appear that U.S. soldiers CARRY NO NASTY RIFLES when they go to war?

They’ll never go THAT far. Right?

Gee, that’s a toughie all right.

Standing in line at the post office the other day, I noticed a poster on display showing eight newly issued commemorative stamps, along with a sheet of 20, behind glass, of one of the new stamps, called “World War I / Turning the Tide.” In the background of this stamp can be seen a biplane, a shell burst, and some barbed wire. In the foreground, a uniformed and helmeted U.S. doughboy strides bravely ahead, holding close to his chest an American flag.

I have nothing against featuring the American flag on a stamp, mind you. But look at the way that soldier’s arms and hands are positioned. You’ve seen men on combat patrol holding their arms and hands in that position plenty of times. But they weren’t holding flags. 

Does it get worse, you ask? Guess.

I emailed artist Mark Stutzman in Maryland, who designed the “Turning the Tide” commemorative and who had earlier drawn the Post office’s popular 1993 “Elvis” and “Buddy Holly” stamps. In his original design, as submitted, had the American doughboy held a rifle in his hands?

He replied: “Hi Vin, Thanks for writing. Interesting that you should bring this up. My original proposal was with a rifle.”
A source familiar with the back-and-forth between artist Stutzman and the Postal Service told me the USPS “Stamp Advisory Committee” was “a little ‘gun shy’ about the rifle being so prominent.” Stutzman declined to confirm that for the record.

“We debated a few options and settled on him holding the flag instead,” Stutzman told me. “It seemed to bring some patriotism forward and helped identify him as American more immediately. Since stamp images are so small, there’s a need for immediate comprehension. In this case the read of hierarchy is WWI soldier, America, and war (barbed wire, plane, smoke)…I am somewhat speculating on the reasoning for why the decision (to remove the rifle) was made since I got information about committee meetings second-hand through the art director. He may be a better source for info and also have a direct line with the Postal Service. Greg Breeding is his name. . . . Super guy and easy to talk to.”

Not so much. 

Imagine my surprise. Then begins the hem-hawing, slithering-squirming, slip-sliding evasion of the old Bureacrat Shuffle.

After several days of ducking my emails and phone messages, art director Breeding, in Charlottesville, Virginia, finally sent me his polite refusal to talk:

“Hello Vin, Thank you for your interest in the World War I stamp. It was my deep privilege to art director this issuance to commemorate America’s role in bringing World War I to an end. Such an incredible part of our history. Regarding your questions, it is the policy of the Postal Service to direct these types of inquiries to Public Relations…”

Said PR guy “will be happy to assist you and, sometimes, he will subsequently involve the art directors and other Postal employees as well.”

Not so much.

Suprynowicz soldiers manfully on in his bootless quest for a simple, straight answer to his query, but the bobbing and weaving from our putative “civil servants” just continues on and on from there. Y’know, like it does. I guess we can maybe take some small gratification from the fact that even these insensate bureauweasels seem to know that their airbrushing of history is something to be ashamed of, cold though that comfort may be.

(Via MisHum)

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Fire of fires

As Bill says, I’m sure this is nothing.

A cell of radicalised French women guided by Islamic State commanders in Syria was behind a failed terrorist attack near Paris’s Notre Dame Cathedral last weekend and planned another violent attack this week before they were intercepted by police, the Paris prosecutor has said.

This too.

A sampling of the Facebook users taking delight in the tragedy…see if you notice anything in common:

Wahid Hadji
Oubbad Jsk
Yusuf Mohammedzai
Hessam Massa
Mohamed Hiadi
Mohamed Bensalem
Alaa Atfeh
Raidh Khaled
Ammar Sofiane
Abdelhakim Noui Oua
Mohamed Amin

You get the picture.

And then there’s this:

The cause of the fire has not yet been determined, the BBC reported. The fire comes at the beginning of Holy Week, the week celebrating the days between Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday and His Crucifixion on Good Friday and His Resurrection on Easter Sunday.

The timing of this fire is quite suspicious.

Ain’t it just. Pro tip: we’ll know for sure it was Mooselimbs behind the fire if the story suddenly disappears from all Enemedia coverage by the end of the week. ZMan says we all already know what’s really going on here.

As news spread of the fire consuming the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, the first reaction of most people was shock and sadness. You don’t have to be Catholic or French to feel as if some part of you has been lost. That was not just an old building or a historically important place. It was a symbol of Western civilization. Stand inside a great church and you feel the awe and power that inspired the builders. That cathedral was the primal roar of a people celebrating their creator and the essence of who they were as a people.

Of course, it did not take long for people to notice that its burning was a metaphor for the current crisis in the West. As Europe is swamped by Muslims, promising to replace Europeans in their own lands, it is only a matter of time before the great churches are turned into mosques or destroyed. Despite the endless propaganda from our rulers, most people here and there, are well aware of what’s happening. They don’t know how to articulate it or react to it, but they know. Watching the fire, they knew what it meant.

That anger people feel is not the sort of barbaric rage our rulers assume is in the heart of every white man. There will be no occidental riots or calls for pogroms against the invaders. It’s a slow buzz as the batteries charge up, waiting for the moment somewhere down the line when the circuit is finally closed. That’s how these things go. Decent people are willing to tolerate what seems like an unlimited amount of deprivation from their rulers, but it reaches a point when the batteries are charged and the circuit is closed.

That’s why it is good to watch the footage and follow the coverage of this thing. Many of us have disconnected from the news, because it’s just propaganda. You can be sure the media will first try to wave it all away as an accident, but we know how they would be reacting if it was a dumpy old mosque or a synagogue that burned, rather than a masterpiece of Western civilization. We know. Everyone knows. Watching it will make you a little angry, but that’s a good thing. We need to charge those batteries.

Obviously, we’ll never know what really caused the fire. A black church burns and the usual suspects tell us there is a rash of hate crimes against black churches. Catholic churches all over France have been burning for years and we’re told it is a racist conspiracy theory to see a pattern. The same will happen here to people who wonder how an unoccupied building that withstood air raids suddenly caught fire in two places. It will be infuriating, but it just charges those batteries a little more each time you hear it.

Even if the cause was recklessness by some workers, that’s probably worse. Like America, this kind of work in Paris is done by foreigners now. The work crews are no doubt Algerians, Tunisians and maybe some Africans. The few French involved spend their time keeping these tribes from murdering one another. To these strangers, that cathedral was as meaningless to them as the fire. There, as here, the cost of cheap labor is the loss of your heritage. Is cheap stuff really worth feeling like this every day?

I can’t find the thing now, but earlier I saw a Tweet from somebody or other that, paraphrased as closely as my piss-poor memory can manage, said this: “It took 200 years to build it; it stood for 800 years since. In that span, it endured through 2 World Wars, the Nazi occupation, five French revolutions, innumerable violent protests and riots, and more. But in the end, it couldn’t withstand Diversity.” A good friend, CF lifer, and regular e-mail correspondent ain’t surprised:

I have a good friend, a prominent businessman in his 60s, who is a genuine, authentic, practicing Catholic. That is to say that he has changed churches three times in the past few years when the priest tacitly endorsed symbols of moral decay such as abortion and faggotry. I asked him what he thought of it this morning, and he said that he believes it might be genuine wrath of God stuff. After all, in his opinion, the Church has spent the last several decades turning away from all it claimed it believed in – so why not? Catholics used to believe in a wrathful God, and perhaps that God has visited them. Of course – in his opinion – the Church leaders wouldn’t know it if that’s what it was.

He has a point. The Catholic church is but a shadow of what it used to be. From turning a blind eye to the Holocaust, to actively participating in Nazi ratlines after World War II (this is particularly galling, since Nazism was completely secular and anti-religious in nature), to allowing “Cafeteria Catholicism,” to the ongoing homosexual child molestation scandals (and yes, it’s homosexual – you could host a meeting of female victims in a broom closet), to endorsement of gay marriage, to not excommunicating abortion advocates such as Nancy Pelosi, to Pope Frankie washing the feet of Muslims, to advocating for mass third world immigration, it’s difficult to find exactly what the Church stands FOR these days. Perhaps it’s better that not only Notre Dame, but the entire Church, burns to the ground.

Other denominations, of course, are no better, and many are worse. The fact is that no Western religion is true to its purpose. Nearly all ‘leaders’ are but false prophets these days. Is there anything dumber, or more counter to purpose, than Jews advocating for more Muslim immigration? It’s no wonder that church membership and attendance are down – what centering philosophy or moral code can one find there, except, “Hey, dude, it’s okay, do what you feel.” Shit, I can get that anywhere.

There is one thing you do have to give the Muslims. They are low IQ savages (in fact, there is an inverse correlation of acceptance of Islam and societal average IQ), barbarians, and a drag on human society. It’s been centuries since a single Muslim did anything to add to the human condition. BUT – dammit – they have the courage of their convictions, and that’s why they are winning. They don’t equivocate, they don’t virtue signal, and they don’t back down. They have ZERO guilt. They tell you, right to your face, what they believe, and dare you to disagree. Too few are willing to take that on head to head.

So, maybe it really was an accident, although I doubt it. If it was truly the wrath of God, as my friend thinks, it might be appropriate. And, if it was Muslims doing what Muslims do – conquering and destroying – well, that would be appropriate, too, would it not? France has certainly been overrun from within. Better not to have those symbols of a past defeated society and culture.

It all comes back to the old joke: “How many soldiers does it take to defend Paris? Don’t know, it’s never been tried.” So, no, you won’t see me posting any memes about “standing with Paris,” or wailing over the fact that I never got to see the Cathedral, or that I never visited Paris. I no longer want to, because I don’t visit Muslim countries.

I can’t argue with a word of it, no matter how hard I might wish it weren’t so. In a damned-right-it’s-related story:

Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, in the midst of a regional and municipal elections campaign, has again threatened to turn the Byzantine Patriarchal Cathedral of Hagia Sophia (Holy Wisdom of God) , which after the fall of Constantinople was turned into an imperial mosque and into a museum in the 1930s, into a mosque once again.

For centuries the largest and most resplendent cathedral in Christendom, Hagia Sophia was turned into a museum by the founder of the modern Turkish Republic, Kemal Ataturk, who brought sweeping secularisation to his country.

Erdogan’s comments come after the manifesto of the mass murderer who killed dozens of Muslims at two mosques in New Zealand, in which the terrorist stated that Istanbul will be renamed Constantinople and that the Turks will be limited to the Asian side of the city.

Of course, defiling Christian churches and holy sites and either converting them to mosques or just reducing them to rubble is a longstanding tradition among the Musselmen after a conquest. Let us note, too, that Erdogan’s pestilential Moslem shitrapy is a member in good standing of the useless and outdated NATO. Yeah, shriek at me again about how stupid and insane Trump was to propose extricating ourselves from that clusterfuck, whydon’tcha.

Miraculous update! Steyn brings news both good and…well, depressing.

Twenty-four hours after Notre Dame de Paris began to burn, there is better news than we might have expected: More of the cathedral than appeared likely to has, in fact, survived intact – including the famous rose windows, among the most beautiful human creations I’ve ever seen. The “new” Notre Dame will be mostly high up and out of sight, which is just as well given that modern man prides himself on having no smidgeonette of empathy with his flawed forebears and thus the chances of historic recreation of the animating spirit of 1160 are near zero.

There is an architectural debate to be had, I suppose, about whether a reconstructed twelfth-century cathedral requires nineteeth-century appurtenances such as its spire. But the minute that starts you risk some insecure dweeb like Macron, on whose watch the thing went up in smoke, getting fanciful ideas about bequeathing to posterity some I M Pei pyramid on the top of the roof. France’s revolution, unlike America’s, was aggressively secular, and it ultimately found expression in the 1905 law on the separation of churches and the state. Since then the French state has owned the cathedral, and thus it will be Macron who ultimately decides what arises in its place.

Beyond that are the larger questions: When the iconic house of worship at the heart of French Christianity decides to mark Holy Week by going up in flames, it’s too obviously symbolic of something …but of what exactly? Two thousand churches have been vandalized in the last two years: Valérie Boyer, who represents Bouches-du-Rhône in the National Assembly, said earlier this month that “every day at least two churches are profaned” – by which she means arson, smashed statutes of Jesus and Mary, and protestors who leave human fecal matter in the shape of a cross. This is a fact of life in modern France.

As it is, there is no shortage of excitable young Mohammedans gleefully celebrating on social media. In 2017 some inept hammer-wielding nutter yelling “Allahu Akbar!” had a crack at Notre Dame, and a couple of years before that the historian Dominique Venner blew his brains out on the altar to protest same-sex marriage. I love France but, in recent years, it’s hard not to pick up on the sense that it’s coming apart – and that, when the center cannot hold, the things at that center, the obsolete embodiments of a once cohesive society, are a natural target.

In addition, the authorities’ eagerness to assure us that it was an accident at a time when such a conclusion could not possibly be known – and when their own response to the emergency was, to put it politely, somewhat dilatory – was itself enough to invite suspicion: “Sure, it might be an accident. But, even if it weren’t, they’d still tell us it was…”

So, precisely because Paris is full of people who would love to burn down Notre Dame four days before Good Friday, it seems bizarrely improbable that it should happen by accident: that a highly desirable target should be taken out by some slapdash workman leaving a cigarette butt near his combustible foam take-out box – the lunchpack of Notre Dame – and letting the dried-out twelfth-century timbers do the rest.

The cornerstone for the cathedral was laid in April 1163 in the presence of King Louis VII and Pope Alexander III. The builders who raised up those stones through great vaulted spaces soaring to heaven were primitive, ill-educated men who nevertheless had a sense of something beyond themselves and the present tense. Once lost, that’s hard to re-inculcate. Douglas Murray’s Spectator colleague Jonathan Miller writes: “Perhaps this will be the wake-up call that France needed.” Perhaps. But there have been so many others, haven’t there?

And yet the next time in Paris I shall visit again those magnificent rose windows and feel something akin to the connection Keats did to the figures on that Greek urn. Civilization is always a paradox: deep roots and yet a thin veneer. To raze Notre Dame to the ground would have been a grand victory for barbarism. If not a “wake-up call”, the sight that arises this Tuesday on the Île de la Cité is a kind of pre-Easter resurrection, or at least a reprieve.

I expected Francis to have something worthwhile to say about this, and he didn’t let me down.

It wasn’t the most glorious of Christendom’s cathedrals, but it was one of the oldest. It was deeply embedded in the history of France. Now a lot of it is gone. Will it be restored? A good question, given Europe’s flight from Christianity and its welcome of Muslim savages. Indeed, I would expect restoration efforts to be opposed rather vigorously, especially if the French government proposes to lend a hand. Can’t afford to anger the Muslims!

This is what Europe has done to itself. Yes, I know the “official story” is that the fire was “an accident.” I also remember the old maxim about such things: “Never believe anything political until it is officially denied.”

The despicable Ilhan Omar referred to the cathedral somewhat dismissively as “art and architecture.” But then, Omar is a Somali Muslim, and is given to excusing Muslims and Islam for anything and everything. (Hey, so “some people did something.” So what?) On the other hand, she regards depictions of the horrors of September 11, 2001, which I still call Black Tuesday, as a threat to her life. She got some concurrence from the equally despicable Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who called a video of the attack “triggering.”

My God, yes, it’s “triggering.” Any red-blooded American should feel his trigger finger twitching as he watches it. He should yearn for a properly sighted-in rifle, ten thousand rounds to hand, and a federal declaration of “open season,” to continue until every Muslim within our borders is a corpse.

How can any American worthy of the name watch what Europe is suffering yet support the continued importation of Muslims to our shores? For many do, as if we owe them something, though specifics on that matter are sorely lacking. After those Muslim “refugees” have been here a short while, they strat trying to recreate the hellholes from which they emerged, by creating Islamic exclaves, bullying and terrorizing American Christians and Jews, and “progressively” inflicting shari’a law upon regions of American cities. Yet the Left tells us we’re supposed to welcome them, in the name of “diversity.” Note that these selfsame cheerleaders for mass Islamic immigration have no sympathy for Christian refugees from Islamic persecution. I can’t help but wonder why.

Oh, I think we can all take a pretty fair guess at that one.

Eyes on update! My old friend Claire Berlinski provides an up close and personal account:

My doorbell rang insistently. It was my father. “Notre Dame is on fire,” he said through the intercom. I rushed downstairs. “It’s burning to the ground,” he said. I was speechless.

He had been evacuated. He had not brought his phone or his glasses. “You’ll stay with me,” I said. He wanted to go home. He lives by the cathedral. It has been part of his daily life for 20 years. My grandfather gave a recital there once, when I was a child, playing the organ in the stone platform above the West portal. Inevitably, I think of him whenever I hear that organ. (Thankfully, the organ has been saved.)

We walked toward his home together. It was horrible to see. The spire was no longer there. How could that be? It’s always there, rising against a stormy horizon or a clear morning, juxtaposed against the sky. It will always be there, even when we’re long gone, a permanent thing in an impermanent world. But it isn’t. My grandfather is in that cathedral, somehow, and my father will be, too, and somehow, like this, civilization endures. But it doesn’t.

The police wouldn’t allow us back. They were worried that the fire would spread to the neighboring buildings, or that parts of the cathedral would collapse on top of them. So we stood across the Seine and watched it burn, the forest of symbols that had gazed on us with familiar glances.

Read all of it; Claire is just brilliant at real journalism like this, one of the very best I know of out there.

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Version X

Some of y’all might find tonight’s musical interlude somewhat…uhh, arresting, shall we say. But there’s a backstory to it.

See, a lot of people since around the mid-70s or so have been inclined to decry the 50s in particular as a bland, staid, nearly sexless period in American history: uptight, repressed, restrained to the point of dysfunction. But it ain’t so, and it never has been, especially when it comes to music. You can dig as far back as you wish into American pop history and come up with little-known recordings that feature well-known artists singing dirty, scandalous, even downright pornographic lyrics—either reworking old standards or creating new ones of their own. I’ve come across whole albums devoted to these obscure ditties over the years—some of them more or less crap, a lot of them hilarious, inspired gems.

This one, raunchy as it admittedly is, would fit into the latter category. Featuring bona fide legends LaVern Baker and Jackie Wilson revisiting a song whose clean version had already been a modest hit for the duo, “Think Twice (Version X)” below is lighthearted, bouncy, funny as hell, and…uhhh, definitely NSFW. Jackie and Baker clearly had a ball with it; they break up laughing at each other throughout, and so do I. Jackie is one of my all-time favorite singers, as he was Elvis Presley’s. Early in the King’s career he saw Wilson perform in Vegas and was so blown away he asked to come backstage to meet Wilson, where he declared that he would never, EVER follow his act. They went on to become good friends.

In “TTVX,” you get a couple of flashes of Wilson’s incandescent genius, almost as if even for a goofy little throwaway number like this he couldn’t keep the star of his singing brilliance from going supernova for a sec. This, mind, while singing lyrics nobody in the world could possibly take seriously, for a recording he knew very few would ever hear.

Other outrageous rarities you perverts and ne’er do wells out there might want to search out are “Rotten Cocksuckers Ball,” by the Clovers; “Don’t Fuck Around With Love,” by the Blenders; “All Around Man,” by Bo Carter; and “Shave ‘Em Dry,” by Lucille Bogan. One artist, Clarence Henry Reid, did a whole slew of truly filthy albums under the pseudonym Blowfly. His “The Girl Wants To Fuck” is a laff riot, sure to coax a blush from even the coarsest of cheeks. My beloved Spotify, amazingly enough, has the above indecencies and more skulking in their inventory, just waiting to jump out and frighten the horses, corrupt the children, and shock the ladies into a dead faint.

The polite-company lyrics for “Think Twice can be perused here, if anybody wants to compare and contrast.



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Shit sandwich

The monkey speaks his mind.

If I could express all of our country’s problems into one word, I’d say that word is sh*t. We’ve got sh*tty schools filling students’ heads full of progressive sh*t, and when the sh*theads graduate, they start voting for sh*tbird politicians who implement sh*t policies that turn their cities and states into sh*tty sh*tholes. And then, after a few years, when their sh*thole cities get so completely filled with sh*t that it flows through the streets, the sh*theads say, ‘hey, I can’t live here any more, it’s a sh*thole.’ So then the sh*theads move to some other part of the country that’s not a sh*thole, but then, because they’re sh*theads, and not well-versed on the whole cause-and-effect thing, they vote for the same sh*tbirds who implement the same sh*t policies that have turned the places they came from into sh*tholes and their new homes gradually turn into sh*tholes that look just like the old sh*tholes, and they never seem to figure out why. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why our country is turning into sh*t.

Sounds a lot like the ol’ GorillaPundit might live somewhere around the Charlotte area or something. While I’m linking to the good folks at the HQ, allow me to express my complete agreement with Sefton’s assessment, bleak though it may be in parts.

Frankly, there’s really not much to investigate since we know the machinations of the phony Steele dossier being used as a pretext to abuse the FISA courts to spy on the campaign and then use that as propaganda to insinuate Trump was a Russian spy or dupe. The real question is was this done with the knowledge of Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama or was it done directly on their orders?

No matter what, this entire thing is without doubt the greatest political scandal in American history. And that sentence doesn’t even come close to describing the depths to which the barest minimum of character, morality and ethics required of our political leaders, let alone the people we entrust to administer justice blindly and fairly and to ensure our national security have sunk. Look, I wasn’t born yesterday, and I understand the nature of politics and the character of people who seek elected office (or all too often what happens to it once elected). But if the eight years of 2009 to 2016 weren’t enough of a shock, the past two were truly breathtaking. And all that considered, it’s sad to say that I do not expect any of the players involved to feel the terrible swift sword of justice, let alone Clinton or Obama. Compare and contrast the lives of say Andrew McCabe and Peter Strzok today with those of Paul Manafort and Michael Flynn (it may seem out of left field but look at the former two and keep in mind the Ivy League college admissions scandal). Look at the magnitude and gravity of the scandals, crimes and the grand larceny in the tens of millions committed by Obama and Clinton during their years at the controls and how despite all of that, they are given a free ride. Dear Lord, with Clinton’s e-mail servers alone, she was allowed to cherry pick and then destroy evidence while the FBI and DoJ gave her the all clear. It’s not just them but entire instrumentalities of government – the most important ones – that have been thoroughly and completely corrupted from the bottom up.

I don’t mean to throw cold water on you this morning. Along with Barr’s testimony, yesterday saw the re-election of Benjamin Netanyahu, a man loathed by the Left because he’s the leader of a nation they loathe even more, the winning of a crucial Wisconsin supreme court judgeship by a conservative and the delivery of a truth nuke on the Democrats about their guilt in the genocide of black Americans by Candace Owens, and Maxine “Mikvah” Waters forced to swallow her scabies-ridden wig with one of the dumbest gaffes ever, all within a week or so of the dissolution of the Mueller inquisition.

Yes, it’s great that Barr will be investigating what the hell happened vis a vis spying on Trump, but as I stated, I hold no illusions as to what that outcome might be. And the breaking story late yesterday is that Obama’s chief counsel Greg Craig is expecting to be indicted on corruption charges relating to meddling in the Ukraine in 2012 which ironically came to light as a result of the Mueller investigation into 2016. Come what may, at the very least, all of this coming to light is a victory in and of itself.

And now that the shock has worn off, the Democrat-Left-Media Complex is doubling, tripling and now quadrupling down that Barr and Mueller are Trump stooges and the holy-of-holies E-Plebneesta Un-Redacted Report will prove Trump is guilty. Let them rant and rave all the live long day right until November of 2020. What all of this reveals sadly is that there are two Americas: one for the elite who are handpicked almost from childhood to assume the reins of power to transform/subdue America as founded and for the rest of us, the rule of law, morality, ethics and the Constitution be damned. There are also two Americas insofar as the Anti-American Left and the rest of us seeking National Restoration. What all of this reveals, sadly, is that there is no reconciliation. Look at the campuses, look at your television, look at Congress, and then tell me how we E Pluribus Unum our way back.

Short answer: we can’t. But the question I always end up asking myself is: even if we could, should we really want to?

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Atonement

Brother John expresses the racking torment caused by my leaving the walrus pic at the top of the page for a couple of days longer than I normally would have:

Will you please get that thing off the front page already!?

To which I responded thusly:

Maybe I’ll poke around later for a nice Audrey Hepburn or Natalie Wood pic to make it up to you folks.

You CF lifers will know just how transparently flimsy an excuse needs to be to get me surfing around looking at pictures of Audrey, so consider the antidote hereby applied.

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Sigh. What a lovely, lovely woman. Yes, I know, some connoisseurs have always maintained she’s a mite too thin to merit a place in the ranks of your truly classic beauties. But what better to rinse away the foul aftertaste of that tragically misguided tub of goo below, I ask you? Now let’s have ourselves a little Natalie.

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Another treat for the eyes indeed, and as stellar an example of feminine pulchritude as one could wish for. But as gladdening as the above photos are, my heart will always belong to Donna.

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Be still my beating heart! From 1941, apparently, that one’s as downright racy a pic of the winsome lass as I can remember seeing, and as welcome as a frosty glass of lemonade on a Sahara summer day. No need to thank me, folks, I admit I owed ya.

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Concerned American has us concerned

Maybe it was only a passing quip that wasn’t intended to hint at anything, but it’s still a good time for me to put my own endorsement of Aesop’s sentiments out there. First off, CA just sort of offhandedly and without preamble or explanation put this out there:

Anything Left To Talk About?
Before WRSA turns into just another abandoned website, what else needs to be discussed?

Open thread.

And no, not tomorrow.

But sooner rather than later.

He coulda meant a lot of things by it, I reckon, but a lot of folks found it worrisome. So Aesop spelled it out:

Dear CA,
Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re nowhere close to done, any more than the Patent Office needed to be closed in 1875 because “everything has already been invented.”

You have an unavoidable (within the constraints of posting at liberty) set of OCD trolls who just can’t help themselves and won’t take their meds, but in recent go arounds, I counted about a dozen and a half folks calling the Usual Suspects out for their cut-and-paste shitposting and general underbridge-dwelling behaviors. So even trolls can’t stop the signal, Mal.

As to what’s left to cover, we both know the woke fraction is outnumbered 20:1 by the new-to-the-game-yesterday fraction, and probably always will be.

You are John Connor at the end of T3, and your site is the CB.

What you do with it is your business, but beyond the OCD trolls, you still have quite the audience, the vast majority of whom just lurk here and observe. There are maybe 50-100 commenters out of 7K hits/day. And they come there because you’re not pimping anything for personal gain, and have no axe to grind except liberty and common sense. That’s incredibly rare on the net.

And you have a Who’s Who of solid content producers “in the trade” with rock-solid bona fides who read and post in Comments, and have had for some time.

I would argue that if you have the inclination and time, the candle there still has a lot of inches left on it.

Don’t let the turkeys get you down.

Amen to every word of that from here. WRSA is one of my more-than-once-daily stops, an always reliable one-stop repository for links all sorts of stuff. It’s also one of the tiny handful of sites that link back to here regularly, every one of which I am most humbly grateful to for the attention.

As I’ve said before: over lo, these many years I’ve occasionally mulled over packing this blog up myself, and come damned close to doing it too, more than just once. Doing this stuff is work, and it’s time- and energy-intensive, and I find myself with precious little of both these days. But then along would come an email, from a soldier or sailor or Marine or flyboy slogging along out there at the pointy end of the spear, telling me how awfully much the blog means to them. Whereupon I sit right back down and get back to it.

Is there a point to doing this, anything to be accomplished? Probably not, honestly. After years of sincerely and respectfully debating with the libs who wandered in once in a while, it finally dawned on me that I was never going to persuade them about anything. The divide is fundamental, deep, and unbridgeable; debate is bootless now. As I’ve so often said: either you favor a limited central government as the Founders intended and their Constitution demands, or you favor a meddlesome, almighty federal Superstate with no meaningful restrictions on what it may choose to either mandate or forbid. There is no middle ground left. After decades of steady Leftist encroachment and subversion, all that remains now is the desperate struggle for victory…or defeat. It’s like this:

The abyss looms large beneath us. We are stretched closer and closer to our limits.

The people who are eager for a civil war are fools. They don’t understand the catastrophe they’re begging for. But the people who believe that a civil war is now a real possibility are neither fools nor wild-eyed alarmists. Moreover, the people who believe that, grim though the prospect may be, war might be the lesser of two evils have a daily strengthening case. The Left has shown itself to be dedicated to the destruction of Western civilization itself. We have not been faced with such an existential threat since European armies threw the Turks back from Vienna in 1529. The fascists of the mid–2oth century, for all their loathsome policies, were not the kind of threat to the fabric of our society that we face now. Bad as they were, they did not seek the destruction of Europeans as a people, or of European culture as a living, breathing thing. Progressivism does. What could be more worthy of, if you will forgive the word, “resistance”?

We conservatives have let this ideological cancer metastasize for far too long for its excision to be simple or painless. For too long, we have been patient with outrages we should have fought to reverse. We have let our opponents secede incrementally from us for decades.  We have been tolerant and patient. In our tolerance and patience, we have given up our civil society, our political representation, and our freedoms one by one. Our maladies won’t be fixed by delicate adjustments now — half-heartedly performed by yet another generation of narcissistic government planners and invisible elitist bureaucrats. Intellectuals like George Will and think-tanks like the Heritage Foundation have done us little good. Our condition demands a radical, unflinching surgery if we, as a nation, are to survive. Either the cancer wins, and kills us all, or we defeat it — and we accept the scars. Let us not pretend they would not be hideous scars. And let us not pretend it would not be a deeply barbarous and bitter surgery.

The truth is that we, as individuals, have rather few decisions left to make. The titanic nations of the Left and right are rising en masse — flexing their muscles and snorting menacingly at one another. We cannot get out of their way. There is no safe part of the country, nor any genuinely safe haven left in any other country. This is a global conflict. We have run out of frontiers. There is only so much “prepping” one can do for an upheaval of this magnitude. We Americans have not seen such a calamity on our soil for six generations. What our ancestors knew, we have forgotten. The Civil War of our history has become a dim and comfortable myth. A new war leers at us like the devil, but we talk about it like a football game. We may learn as human beings have always learned — the hard way.

Maybe blogs have some useful role to play as we stumble onward towards resolution of this conflict, I dunno. I guess we’re gonna find out, eh? In any event, I’m certainly glad our old friend CA is still out there beside me in the rhetorical trenches, for whatever our efforts might or might not be worth. Speaking strictly for myself, I’ve benefited a great deal from his work, and I hope he’ll keep on keepin’ on at least a little while longer yet.

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Meat-beat manifesto

This culture cannot survive. And it damned well shouldn’t.

College promotes men’s cuddling group to ‘redefine masculinity’

Oh, you’re redefining it all right, I’ll give you degenerates that fucking much.

Dr. Christopher Liang, a counseling psychology professor at Lehigh University’s College of Education, recently came out in support of a Philadelphia area “Men‘s Therapeutic Cuddle Group,” a function advertised by Lehigh University in a news release. The Meetup.com page for the group currently has 69 members and the group has held 46 events so far. The meetups are held once every other week.

Organizers have established quite an expansive set of guidelines for attendees. The men attending must be “hygienically sound” and “remain fully clothed at all times.” The group’s organizers state that all cuddling is “non-sexual.” However, they do note that participants may become aroused during cuddling

Of course they will.

and that if that occurs, it should be treated as a normal thing.

Oh, absolutely.

Liang believes that “these types of groups can be healthy and helpful for men and women,” according to the news release.

Most especially for men who wish they WERE women, or believe themselves to be, or who are, y’know, gay.

“Traditional masculinity is psychologically harmful,” the APA’s news release said

Well, it surely could be—to YOU, if you ever get within arm’s reach of me.

while adding that “socializing boys to suppress their emotions causes damage that echoes both inwardly and outwardly.”

So who advocates such harmful socializing, pray tell? Might it be—hmmm, I dunno, let’s see now—all you fucking liberal degenerate assholes trying to repress innate behavior hard-coded into male DNA and emasculate them instead? Telling boys their natural, immutable male instincts are “harmful” instead of teaching them correct behavior and providing them with positive outlets for their inborn fondness for competition, physical play, aggressiveness, and such? Teaching them to be ashamed of being male, trying to crush out any spark of normal male behavior to instead brainwash them into mincing, namby-pamby, effeminate little pussyfarts? Encouraging grade-school kids to go ahead and chop their fucking dicks off the moment they show the slightest sign of uncertainty about their own gender identity—a perfectly normal and routine part of the process of growing up, one that will work itself out in due course—for Christ’s sweet sake?

Let’s just acknowledge straight up that there are two, and only two, types of “man” who are going to be interested in this “cuddle group” crapola: 1) the exact species of quivering, lily-livered, useless twerp cranked out on purpose by our abominable schools, and 2) gay men. That is absolutely, positively IT.

And I’ll also acknowledge straight up that I have no problem with gay men myself, and don’t give a damn if they want to snuggle up in groups, make cow eyes, and sigh dreamily on each other’s necks til the cows come home, six days a week and twice on Sundays. If they want to call that “therapy,” well, I’m fine with that too. Whatever gets you through the day, fellas. Ain’t really no business of mine.

No, what frosts me about this bushwa is that this isn’t really a legitimate, above-board effort to service a heretofore overlooked market hungry for this sort of thing; no, it is yet another insidious attempt at societal tinkering by Progwits who don’t really care whether it makes anyone genuinely happy or a better, more fulfilled person. The Left intends to rewrite the manual on what constitutes healthy, normal manhood, as the psych prof in charge himself admits, to redefine men as neutered, enervated…well, as women, actually. Being weak sisters themselves, all a-tremble and continuously in need of a “safe space” and a good cry, they hate the thought of being snickered at by far better men than themselves for their sissy-mary pusillanimity.

Ultimately, it comes back to that social engineering I already mentioned. One world; one government; one bland, uninteresting race; one indistinct gender—all distinguishing traits and quirks blurred, individuality subsumed into the collective whole, with the “experts” lording it over the whole sorry shebang. That’s the Progressivist project in a nutshell, folks; always has been, always will be, until either they conquer us or they are stopped. Period. Fucking. Dot.

The nice thing is, I guess, that these self-selected eunuchs show no interest in reproducing, even the cishet binary oppressors among ’em. So all normal Americans really have to do in the long run is just wait them out. They’ll die off quicker than the dinosaurs without our ever having to lift a finger. So we got that going for us.

(Via Insty)

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UNEXPECTED!™

Kanye and his unabashed support for Trump deftly defended against the liberal OUTRAGE!!! machine by…ummm, Bret Easton Ellis?

Instead of getting outraged, they should have realized that a figure like Trump would seem appealing to him: brash, a gangster, his own man whether you liked him or loathed him, a loner, transparent, a truth teller not to be taken literally, flawed, contradictory, a rebel, awful for some or wonderful for others but certainly not vanilla or middle-of-the-road, incapable as a bureaucrat but skillful as a disruptor. This was also, of course, what a lot of other people I knew liked about Trump in the summer of 2018.

The media became derisive and speculated that Kanye had to be on drugs to say anything of the sort. He’s destroying his career! How could a black man like Trump? Anyone but an idiot could tell what Kanye was trying to say, however garbled and clumsy it was, but given the bias infecting everything in 2018, the press worried that he was having “delusional episodes” and probably needed to be treated for drug abuse. The consensus, in postmortem editorials everywhere, was that he would never have a career again after the slavery comment and the Trump tweets. It was all over for Kanye.

Except for the fact that, true to their ignorant prejudice, the Trumpers they reflexively blow off as “racist” are perfectly willing to flout Hollywood-shitlib assumptions and offer their welcoming support to Kanye for daring to exit the Lefty plantation and choosing a different path for himself.

And then Ellis makes the Tinseltown rubble bounce.

I MET up with Kanye during the week those controversies were exploding across social media. Kanye reached out because he was interested in resurrecting a TV project we had discussed in 2015, which he was now considering as a film. I promptly rearranged my schedule and made the drive out to his Calabasas compound, flittingly apprehensive that I might be meeting, as the media kept reiterating, a man who’d lost his mind.

After being ushered in by security, I was brought into a room where he was multi-tasking: assembling the movie team, overseeing his fashion line, rehearsing new material. In the five years I’d casually known him, I’d never seen him so attentive and focused and happy. This was Kanye at his most lucid, and this afternoon confirmed for me that he was, in fact, sane: his own man, no apologies, not some drugged-out freak gibbering on Twitter. People simply needed to acknowledge — not approve or to embrace — that here was someone who saw the world in his own way and not according to how other people thought he should see it.
 
What Kanye was championing in his Trump tweets was an idea of peace and unity, imagining a place where different sides could work together despite vicious ideological differences — that’s it.

Since November 2016, I had heard that a horrendous economic collapse was about to materialize, the planet was going to melt, countless people would die, the fraught situation in North Korea would send the United States into a nuclear Armageddon, and Trump would be impeached, brought down by a pee tape — leaving no jobs for anybody and Russian tanks in the streets.

We also idly noted that the filmmaker David Lynch couldn’t say in an interview that he thought maybe Donald Trump would go down as one of the great presidents in history, not without groupthink forcing him into apologizing for this immediately on Facebook. And where was a resistance that was so attractive and cunning that it managed to sway you, that maybe made you see things in a broader, less blinkered light?

But the one we had in 2018 seemed bent on advocating mostly vandalism and violence. Trump’s star on Hollywood Boulevard was destroyed with a pickax, an actor resembling a septuagenarian Lorax said “F–k Trump” at the Tony Awards, a television hostess called the first daughter “a feckless c–t” on her TV program, another actor suggested the president’s 11-year-old son should be put in a cage with pedophiles. And all of this from Hollywood: the land of inclusion and diversity. Maybe it was just another episode in the reality show that is still unfolding. Or maybe when you’re roiling in childish rage, the first thing you lose is judgment, and then comes common sense. And finally you lose your mind and along with that, your freedom.

Hoo boy, that’s gonna leave a mark.

(Via Insty)

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I’ve been waiting years for this and didn’t even know it

Steyn reviews one of my all-time favorite movies. Alas, he doesn’t seem to think much of it.

The point is Andy and Larry Wachowski figured they’d hit on the perfect wrinkle for a classic postmodern nerd franchise — the Star Wars of our generation. And if you say, “Hang on, old boy, surely Star Wars is the Star Wars of our generation?”, I’d say, nah, it’s too 1930s radio serial, and its grandiosity is plonkingly earnest and squaresville instead of as coolly meta as Keanu Reeves’ too-bored-to-act acting style. The Matrix was quickly followed by The Matrix RevisitedThe Matrix ReloadedThe Matrix Recycled, and Neo got paleo pretty quick. None of the sequels could quite match the initial red-pilling of surface reality, and so they simply dug the rabbit hole deeper. Zion is the last outpost of humanity – but maybe it’s merely a Matrix-within-the-Matrix? Ever consider that, huh? And what if Neo himself is a Matrix-within-the-Matrix-within-the-Matrix? He was supposed to be “The One” – but maybe one of the others is The One. Maybe The One flew over the cuckoo’s nest.

By the sequel, the Wachowskis’ “innovative visual style” (a Cecil B De Mille-scale computer game peopled by sullen pouters) was looking a lot less innovative: they did all the same things they did in the first film all over again, just more expensively and even more arbitrarily — the scene in which Keanu/Neo is fighting a hundred guys in black and doesn’t win, doesn’t lose, but just finds himself fighting vainly the old ennui and so buggers off after 15 minutes pretty much sums it up. By the second movie, Keanu had perfected his morose blank look, and fine actors like Laurence Fishburne were turning in performances so clunkily solemn you’d think they were auditioning for George Lucas. As usual, the subterranean city of Zion proved to be just another generic dystopian underground parking garage; and the orgiastic dance party looked like a weekend rave in Huddersfield.

But by then the Matricians or Matricists or Matrons or whatever they’re called were hooked. In the original film, Neo discovers that the meaning of our lives is an illusion; in the first sequel, the meaning of the film is an illusion. It doesn’t make much sense as it’s flying by, and it makes even less if you pause the tape and copy out all the dialogue. The rabbit hole doesn’t go deep at all; the buck stops about four inches down.

Oh well, no two of us can expect to agree on everything, right? I loved ’em all then, and I still love ’em now. I am willing to grant that the second one was the weakest of the series; that extended Zion-party sequence was indeed tedious at best. It felt like filler, a superfluous time-killer without any real narrative point or purpose. That stipulated, however, I did still like at least some of the rest of Reloaded, and thorougly dug Revolutions start to finish.

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Clarification

Simberg says this quote from a NASA official stuck out to him, and it does me too, though maybe for a different reason.

Neither Bridenstine nor Pence said so explicitly, but these comments reflect their sense that NASA has become too bureaucratic, too tentative, too risk averse. During his town hall this week, Bridenstine had a telling response when asked why, by setting such an ambitious goal of a 2024 landing, was he not putting schedule over safety?

“I would not say it’s a return to schedule over safety, I would say it’s a return to schedule,” he said. “Safety is paramount for everybody at this agency, it always has been. But the number one mission is not safety. If it was, we would all just stay in the ready room and just watch CNN.”

Of course we all already know that safety isn’t the “number one mission” for NASA. “Muslim outreach” is.

(Via Insty)

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Priorities

What to do, what to do?

An illegal immigrant and convicted sex offender has been arrested in Louisiana on more than 100 counts of child sex crimes, including producing child pornography and molesting a minor.

Miguel Martinez, 44, who’d been deported from the U.S. in 2005 and is a registered sex offender in the state of California, was charged after being found with a stash of 100 images and videos of child porn.

He was arrested in Harvey, where he was illegally residing, and also charged with one count of production of child pornography and one count of sexual battery of a juvenile under 13.  

Daniel tries to figure out what’s most important:

I certainly hope that protecting American children from illegal alien pedophiles doesn’t interfere with California’s avocado supply.

Me too. I mean, on the one hand, we have poor undocumented immigrants just trying to exercise their unquestionable right to enter our country without hindrance, attach themselves remora-like to Uncle Sugar’s bounteous welfare teat, and assault and murder our kids at their whim. On the other: delicious, healthy avocados. But as it happens, this near-insuperable dilemna has a cause, and it’s UNEXPECTED!™

But water eventually proved harder to come by than Shanley initially anticipated. On a tour of his 32-acre avocado grove, he pointed out the sparse fields of nearby avocado growers.

“Those were cut down because of lack of water. That farm went bankrupt,” he said, gesturing to one downhill neighbor. Pointing at another hill, Shanley said that neighbor’s grove had been reduced from 220 acres to 170 acres due to water shortages.

Shanley says it’s not just the high cost of transporting water to southern counties that has led growers to rip out groves.

“You don’t have wages going from $10 to $15 an hour in Mexico,” Shanley said. “It’s quite a bit less.”

With the limited number of places avocados are able to grow in, the amount of imported avocadoes has grown to keep pace with Americans’ appetites.

The U.S. government says that in 2013, the country imported more than $1 billion worth of avocados – with most of the imports – nearly 90 percent – coming from the U.S.’s southern neighbor, Mexico.

“We tried to fight it,” avocado grower Gene Nickel said, referring to Mexican imports.

I just bet so, you racist bastard. Daniel gets to the, ummm, nut of things:

I place the common avocado on a scale of edibility somewhere between a live goat and a boiled cactus. But in California, avocados are practically the state fruit, even though they’re widely imported from Mexico. This has led to the clickbait headline certain to fear into every hipster’s heart. If the border is closed, the avocado supply will be cut off.

Two things.

1. Edible avocados are already all but impossible to find in Southern California. They’re either overripe or stony. And horribly overpriced. 

2. California does grow avocados. It could grow more if not for the Democrats. Their artificial droughts and regulations.

I love avocados myself, but Daniel doesn’t seem to care for them at all. Maybe it’s one of those (((((INTERNATIONAL JOOO CONSPIRACY!!!))))) things, I dunno.

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Believe all the wymryns!!!

Will Gropey Joe find himself thrown under the bus? Or will the Democrat-Socialists hypocritically betray #MeToo victims and their own self-proclaimed “principles” to protect yet another of their own higher-tier serial sex-abusers again?

A top Democratic National Committee (DNC) official sided with former Vice President Joe Biden over Lucy Flores, the former Nevada lawmaker accusing Biden of grabbing her shoulders, smelling her hair and kissing her head at a 2014 campaign event.

DNC finance chair Henry Munoz said he doesn’t believe Flores because he doesn’t think she was ever alone with Biden at the event. Latino Victory Fund, a progressive group Munoz co-founded, organized the event where Flores said Biden kissed her.

“As the organizer of the rally in question, I have thoroughly reviewed photographic documentation from the event, and spoken to nearly every principle in attendance, as well as staff associated with the event. To the best of our recollection, at no time were Lucy Flores and Vice President Biden alone,” Munoz wrote in a statement he posted to Twitter on Sunday.

Munoz said he was close friends with both Munoz and Biden, but asserted that “at no time were these two leaders alone together and I, and the organization I cofounded and those in attendance, do not believe that circumstances support allegations that such an event took place.”

Munoz’s defense of Biden appears to have misrepresented Flores’ account. She did not claim she and Biden were alone when the alleged incident happened.

Hell, in all the myriad photos and reported accounts I’ve seen so far documenting Gropey Joe’s well-known penchant for unwanted and inappropriate fondling, rubbing, squeezing, kissing, hair-sniffing (?!?), and the like, he and his victims were NOT alone, but in public—quite often on a stage, in front of a crowd. But it figures this DNC slimewad would try to turn this aside via weasel-words; that’s just one of the things they do.

Gropey’s problem here is a common one nowadays for Democrat-Socialists, particularly the old guard. Having long been accustomed to his bad behavior being indulged or quietly ignored, he suddenly finds himself swamped by the rapidly-shifting tide of Lefty standards for acceptable behavior. It’s understandable, in a way: when your party’s standards and principles are written in quicksand—subject to complete reversal in half a heartbeat without warning, constantly being altered to appease the very outermost fringes of your political base of unhinged, perpetually-aggrieved lunatics—who could possibly keep up with it? And if you’re an upper-echelon-elite type who’s accustomed to wielding great power with total impunity, how could you not be shocked when your number comes up and accountability is demanded of you for stuff you’d gotten away with for years and years? You almost gotta feel sorry for the doddering old fool, really.

Gropey is sure enough a pervy old degenerate though, no fooling. There never was any doubt about that; you’d have a very tough time finding anybody who didn’t know it all along:

Biden’s behavior is so notable that even left-leaning publications have called him out:

  • The Washington Post: “What are we going to do about Creepy Uncle Joe Biden?”
  • Daily Beast: “Dear Lord Would Joe Biden Be a Terrible Candidate for These Times”
  • Huffington Post: “Joe Biden 2020 Is A Terrible Idea In A Post-Weinstein America”
  • VICE: “Joe Biden Is the Last Person the Democrats Should Run in 2020”

Another issue that needs to be addressed with Biden is the allegations that he repeatedly got naked in front of female Secret Service agents who found his behavior to be highly offensive.

Imagine for a moment what the media’s reaction would be if the following photos and videos featured President Trump instead of Biden.

Oh, no need for all that, thanks; anyone who knows his shitlibs is already well acquainted with the state of play here. Enemedia is way more than shameless enough not to fret themselves over how it might look when one of their own finds his butt in the blades and in need of rescue, for flouting the rules they demand the rest of us be rigidly bound by. They just close ranks and lock arms without hesitation, reflection, or remorse. The miscreant issues an apology not for his transgression but for possibly having been offended or put off by it, hustles off for “counseling” or rehab, all is forgiven, and it’s on to the next scandal. Why, he’s a victim himself, when you get right down to it. As are we all.

Nor will charges of hypocrisy give them pause, no matter how apparent or incontrovertible the justification for them. Hypocrisy is their meat, their metier, and their medium. They work in it like an artist in oils or watercolor; it inhibits or otherwise troubles them no more than a fish is inconvenienced by the water he swims in, although shitlibs never disdain to accuse their enemies of it with righteous indignation should they deem it momentarily useful and never bat an eye…thereby compounding their own already-staggering hypocrisy to record levels.

Examples abound, the alacritous about-face in support of gay marriage after revered Democrat-Socialist leaders’ having roundly denounced it only a few short years before being one of the most recent. Of course, Enemedia promptly provided cover for their bosses by conveniently rebranding their politically-expedient hypocrisy as their position having “evolved.”

But maybe Uncle Gropey has, like Her Herness, finally outlived his usefulness to The Cause and will indeed be forcibly put out to pasture. Lifson thinks so:

Joe Biden’s penchant for unwanted touching of women and girls has been a common object of humor on the conservative side of the spectrum for over a decade, ever since he became Barack Obama’s running mate. But even after the dawn of the #MeToo movement, it mattered not at all to the mainstream media and most Democrats — so much so that he continues to be the top choice among Democrats polled on their preference for the 2020 nomination.

But once outed as a creepy groper by Lucy Flores, a Democrat office-holder and former Nevada state legislator who had worked for Bernie Sanders in 2016 and has been photographed recently with Robert Francis O’Rourke, it’s a media scandal. You can call it Democrat privilege or second-class citizenship for conservatives, but the reality is that we don’t matter in the imaginary world the media proclaim to be reality.

Imagine if Biden had been a Republican! He would have been driven from public life long ago.

Now that there are powerful people on the Left who want Biden to just retire and go away, to make room for a candidate with more intersectionality points — race points, sex points, sexuality points, any purported disadvantage that now brings privilege — the blackout no longer applies.

My guess — and it is a pure guess, as I have no connections with the Dems’ inner circles — is that Joe Biden is going to see the wisdom of withdrawing from the race, especially since his son Hunter’s connections in Ukraine are at risk. He’s old and has been making scads of money giving lectures. He has a choice: retire and reap gratitude, honors, and many more lucrative speaking gigs, or else press forward with his candidacy and become an icon of perversion, with his son facing Trump treatment by the media, an old white male whose apologies for his privilege only further enrage the aggrieved.

I’m inclined to agree. Biden was never going to be president anyway; he’s tried and failed, what, about seventeen times already? As an old, white male who’s been repeatedly rejected, with plenty of other deal-breaking skeletons rattling in his crowded closet—plagiarism, influence-peddling, nepotism, a relatively moderate past record, etc—he pushes all the wrong buttons for today’s wild-eyed Woke extremists. He’s a smarmy, transparently insincere, obsequious rumpswab. He’s not very bright.

Apart from his too-evident compulsion to cop a feel off every frail that breaches his plane of vision, Gropey appears to be a more or less garden-variety cis-het-binary of the most uninteresting sort, without so much as a hint of bi-curiousity to liven up his sexual resume. All in all, the Veep slot suited Gropey perfectly, with its primary responsibilities being no more taxing than attending state funerals, dinners, and shaking hands and mouthing inanities at trifling meet ‘n’ greets. As president, though, he’d clearly be in WAY over his head. He may skate out of this yet. But if even one more accuser steps up, he’s surely going to shuffle off into That Good Night, be it Gently or dragged kicking, screaming, and on a leash. He’s nothing but a spavined, broken-down old nag now, and his appointment with the knackers is close at hand.

Update! No sooner do I say it.

A second woman has come forward accusing Vice President Biden of touching her inappropriately.

A Connecticut woman says Joe Biden touched her inappropriately and rubbed noses with her during a 2009 political fundraiser in Greenwich when he was vice president, drawing further scrutiny to the Democrat and his history of unwanted contact with women as he ponders a presidential run

“It wasn’t sexual, but he did grab me by the head,” Amy Lappos told The Courant Monday. “He put his hand around my neck and pulled me in to rub noses with me. When he was pulling me in, I thought he was going to kiss me on the mouth.”

Lappos posted about the alleged incident on the Facebook page of Connecticut Women in Politics Sunday in response to a similar account by former Nevada legislator Lucy Flores, which comes as Biden is considering a 2020 run for president. Flores accused Biden of kissing her on the back of her head in 2014, when she was a candidate for lieutenant governor.

Floodgates: open. Dam: overtopped. Biden 2020: done.

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Going, going, gone

The Brexit that wasn’t.

It’s April 1st, and this was supposed to be the first business day of a post-EU United Kingdom, with planes dropping from the skies, Mars Bars melting in your hand, and doughty Irishmen of north and south paralyzed in permanent immobility by the psychological terrors of an invisible Berlin Wall that had mysteriously arisen overnight across sleepy country lanes in Killeen. Instead, thanks to Theresa (“Brexit means Brexit”) May, Britain wakes up and finds itself still in the EU. It turns out Brexit doesn’t mean Brexit, but, if you give ’em a couple more weeks or months or years, the political class assures us that one day they’ll be able to agree on which unending and degrading vassal status Brussels should get to impose means Brexit.

In the midst of this uprising by the elites against the masses, enter John Major. No, I don’t know who he is, either. Oh, wait …it seems he was the bloke back in the Nineties keeping the “Most Useless Tory Prime Minister” seat warm until Mrs May came along. Just in time for All Fools’ Day, Sir John argues that to solve the “Brexit impasse” Britain may need a national government – ie, Conservative, Labour, Liberal, Scots Nats, Irish Republicans, Welsh Sheep-Dippers, whatever… A Ministry of All the Non-Talents, to modify Lord Grenville.

The press has already moved on to speculating who will succeed Theresa May. But, really, who cares? If Westminster can’t rouse itself to recover the sovereignty of the United Kingdom, what’s the point of a “Prime Minister”?

They’re all “citizens of the world” now, old bean. B eing such, they’re not in the least fussed over so piffling a notion as “sovereignty.” They’re far too sophisticated for such quaint, archaic twaddle, eh wot?

It is now necessary to have a crash-out no-deal Brexit just to teach a contemptible political class the vital lesson that nobody needs ’em.

If there’s ever to be any Brexit—and there isn’t; the EU will magnanimously allow Brits to keep holding votes until the lowing cattle gets this thing right—it will only be by way of a “crash-out” of one sort or another.

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The Final Insult

Steyn reviews “the last hurrah” of the riotously funny Naked Gun series, featuring Leslie Nielsen as the, uhhh, cop’s cop Lieutenant Frank Drebin. This time around Mark’s review is quite brief, so I’ll stick to a short excerpt myself:

The mistake most movies make with comedy is in assuming that, if you have lots of jokes, everyone has to be incredibly frantic. Nielsen imbues Frank, under the bluff cop exterior, with a child-like innocence, all the more remarkable when you consider that in a zillion terrible television movies — one thinks of Shadow Over Elveron (1968) — Nielsen, under the same bluff cop exterior, invariably turned out to be a weakling on the take or a ruthless killer who’d stop at nothing. It’s the same with Priscilla Presley: her trembling wide-eyed sappy love lines are identical to those she used in “Dallas” as she ricocheted week by week from Bobby Ewing to Ray Krebs and back. The only difference is that this relationship is oddly touching: when the marriage counselor asks the couple if they’ve tried alleviating their bedroom difficulties with “sexy lingerie, some lacy underwear, a black teddy”, Frank replies, “I’ve tried wearing them all. They don’t work.”

This provides me with a perfect excuse to mention another of Nielsen’s classic turns as comedic cop Drebin:




The above video consists of the intro sequence to each of the six Police Squad! episodes; each one closes with “tonight’s special guest star” being killed off in some ludicrous fashion (be sure not to miss William Shatner’s appearance, the only guest star to survive his attempted assassination…almost), followed by the narrator announcing the title of the episode, voiced over the text of a completely different title. The intro clips make for a good introduction to the chaotic, slapstick yockfest to follow. Hell, even the show’s theme music was absolutely note-perfect. The show was a Zucker-Abrams-Zucker creation; anyone familiar with their output won’t be surprised at either the seamless, carefully-crafted approach to complete juvenilia and silliness, or at how just plain funny they all are:

While attending the University of Wisconsin–Madison, the trio founded a small theater known as The Kentucky Fried Theater in 1971 which led to their sketch comedy film The Kentucky Fried Movie.

This was followed in 1980 by the trio’s breakout hit Airplane!, which remains a revered comedic milestone. Subsequent collaborations include the TV series Police Squad!, its subsequent Naked Gun trilogy and the films Top Secret! and Ruthless People. All of their projects relied heavily on parodies, visual gags and breaking of the fourth wall, and established a strong cult following. The notable stylistic exception is Ruthless People, a more traditional farce that was directed by the trio but unlike their other productions, not written by them.

Police Squad! just has to be one of the most tragically-underappreciated TV shows of all time if you ask me. Along with another unsung favorite of mine, Firefly (clocking in at only 14 episodes and one movie), it adds up to proof positive that in the world of television one can’t always count on the cream rising to the top. The Firefly series has so far led to only one movie spinoff—Serenity, likewise a good ‘un—whereas Police Squad! boasts the three Naked Gun sequel flicks. There’s been talk over the years about making another Serenity movie, but to date nothing has come of it. A So as of now, the Police Squad/Naked Gun tag team remains the reigning champ. That could change, though, should something as misguided as this proposed travesty ever come to pass:

On December 13, 2013, Paramount announced that a reboot of the franchise was in development, with Ed Helms starring as Drebin and Thomas Lennon and Ben Garant co-writing the screenplay. However, on January 11, 2014, Garant stated that the film will be more of a sequel than a reboot. In March 2015, David Zucker referred to the film as more of a reboot than a sequel, stating that it won’t have same spoofing style as the original series while disagreeing with the choice of Helms as the lead saying “I would want somebody who had never been in a comedy”. Zucker was approached by the studio to produce the film. In August 2015, Helms gave an update on the film stating “You have to make something that a contemporary audience is going to like. We haven’t seen many of those slapstick movies in a while, so I’m not sure what the right angle is on it”, echoing Zucker’s comments on the film’s modern take. Zucker stated in 2017 that he was working on a script for a fourth Naked Gun film with Pat Proft. He described the films plot as being about the son of Frank Drebin.

Oh, great. Just fucking great. Another of the cherished treasures of my youth dug up, raped, and ruined. Thanks a pantload, guys.

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Lost world

Or, how to cow and pussify a nation, and keep it that way.

8 Fun (and Possibly Dangerous) Activities Enjoyed by Past Generations That Today’s Kids Will Never Experience
Children are more coddled and protected than ever in 2019. For kids, it’s oppressive. I know mine listen to my stories of summers full of freedom and independence, running around the neighborhood all day until dark, with wide-eyed envy. These days, kids are hardly free to do anything we could back in generations past.

And yet we marvel in gobsmacked disgust at where in the world such a wretched, emasculated, pitiful twerp as this might possibly have come from:

PajamaPussy.jpg


Somewhere, the Boys of Pointe Du Hoc are weeping. Onwards.

7. Ride in cars without seatbelts

When I was a kid we had a station wagon with blue vinyl bench seats. There were no seatbelts. When we were infants, my mother put us in a laundry basket on the passenger side front seat. When we got bigger, we sat in the back, bouncing around like ping pong balls. We survived several accidents like this. I don’t know how. I vividly remember my face smashing into the back of the bench seat in the front on a few occasions when my mother stopped short, and one scary black ice scenario where we all felt like we had crushed ribs from being flung against one another too hard. While it’s not recommended, there was a freedom and joy about driving that we don’t have anymore in our boosters and five-point harnesses. Gone is the joy of climbing into the back of the station wagon to play cards with your sister on sleeping bags or waving endlessly at the poor guy behind you. Gone is the ability for kids to get comfy and take a good nap on the floor stacked with pillows. It makes me sad that on a twenty-hour car trip my kids are locked into seats with bad neck support, getting numb legs. And while we all know seatbelts are better, and I wouldn’t take my kids out of them, I still wish they could experience a cross-country trip like we did. It might have been stupid and dangerous, but it was a hell of a lot of fun.

It wasn’t all that stupid, and it wasn’t all that dangerous either. Otherwise, how could so very many of us—the OVERWHELMING majority, actually—possibly have survived to adulthood? Megan, I love ya and all, but you’re betraying the lasting effectiveness of your own lifelong obedience training by asserting that it was. Yeah, yeah, the world has changed, technology has advanced by leaps and bounds, all that jazz; I get that, I really do, and I acknowledge that a great many of those societal shifts have been for the better.

But still: allowing ourselves to be panicked into general stampede by the Nanny State’s distressing tales of fatal risk besetting us at every single turn is how we got ourselves herded into the collectivist corral in the first damned place. Don’t think for a minute that it wasn’t on purpose, either. It always sickens me to hear otherwise intelligent, perceptive people say things like this in blithe acceptance of the cultural conditions imposed on us by the nefarious Progtards, as if there was no sensible alternative but to accept their premises without demur.

There are seven more of these, and all in all it’s a sad thing to read for an old fart like me.

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"America is at that awkward stage. It's too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the bastards." – Claire Wolfe, 101 Things to Do 'Til the Revolution

"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." - Skeptic

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

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