A becoming modesty

It ain’t bragging if you can DO it.

Many people are asking, so I’ll give it to you now, it is 100% true. While playing with the legendary golfer, Ernie Els, winner of four Majors and approximately 72 other tournaments throughout the world, Gene Sauers, winner of the Senior U.S. Open, Ken Duke, and Mike Goodes, both excellent tour players, I made a hole-in-one. It took place at Trump International Golf Club in West Palm Beach, Florida, on the 7th hole, which was playing 181-yards into a slight wind. I hit a 5-iron, which sailed magnificently into a rather strong wind, with approximately 5 feet of cut, whereupon it bounced twice and then went clank, into the hole. These great tour players noticed it before I did because their eyes are slightly better, but on that one hole only, their swings weren’t. Anyway, there’s a lot of chatter about it, quite exciting, and people everywhere seem to be asking for the facts. Playing with that group of wonderful, talented players was a lot of fun. The match was Ernie and me (with no strokes) against Gene, Mike, and Ken. I won’t tell you who won because I am a very modest individual, and you will then say I was bragging—and I don’t like people who brag!

Oh, of course not, Mr President, sir. Perish the thought. Your well-known modesty is in fact what so many of us admire most about you.

AHEM.

1

Tilting at windmills

An idea whose time has come—but will never arrive.

It is time to impeach and convict Joe Biden.

The nation and the West cannot take another two-three years of this criminally corrupt and inept disaster.

They’re gonna have to, alas. The chances of the House actually sending articles of impeachment to the Senate, even moreso the Senate voting to convict, hover somewhere between “Zip, zero, nada” and outright “Laughable.” That sad fact notwithstanding, there’s an airtight case to be made in favor of it.

Every day it seems, despite the censorship and the fake de-bunking, we get more and more evidence of Biden’s criminality. He and his family, of course, have been long known as crooks and liars in the pockets of Delaware-based credit card companies.

The lies told by Joe are legion. His brother is a well-known and unsavory character as is his son, Hunter; and they have dealings with Joe, the “big guy” who gets ten percent.

We now suffer the worst presidency in our history; none other comes close.

Biden moved into the White House thanks not only to massive electoral fraud, but to an unprecedented support by big tech and media firms who carefully edited and suppressed information hurtful to Biden. In addition, Biden, and many of those around him, e.g., Jake Sullivan, helped created the fake Trump-Putin hoax, which not only almost brought down the Trump presidency, but made it impossible to have normal relations with Russia–and we are paying for that now as we face the possibility of a major war in Europe. The DNC, with the active participation of Joe Biden, FBI, CIA, and the media engaged in a massive criminal conspiracy against a sitting president.

Let us not forget that Trump’s great “crime” in the second impeachment was to ask too many questions about the Biden-Ukraine link. That, my friends, was the great driver of that most fake of fake impeachments. Trump was getting close to upsetting the whole cart of rotten apples. He was asking dangerous questions.

Which reveals the main reason impeaching Biden is the real-world embodiment of Don Quixote’s Impossible Dream: it ain’t just Biden that should be impeached; in fact, removing him from office would do little or no good. It’s the federal government entire that needs to be removed. Until it is, we’re doing no more than shuffling deck chairs on the Titanic. Biden is merely the frontman for the true source of our problems, the Invisible Ones who cannot be touched.



The banality of evil update! Is unleashing the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse an impeachable offense?

The four horses and four afflictions, conquest, war, famine, and pestilence, neatly encapsulate the administration of Joe Biden. Old Joe himself is to a great degree responsible for this impression, as he seems to like to sound apocalyptic notes. He certainly has done so more than once, particularly when he declared on Dec. 16, 2021, “For unvaccinated, we are looking at a winter of severe illness and death — if you’re unvaccinated — for themselves, their families, and the hospitals they’ll soon overwhelm.” There’s the Biden pestilence. Yes, COVID-19 came upon us during the Trump years, but Biden promised to end it, and that turned out to be yet another of his empty promises. With Anthony Fauci threatening that “more rigid” restrictions are in the offing, pestilence looks as if it’s going to be a permanent feature of the Biden era.

The Biden famine is more of a threat than reality as of yet, but it could come to us any day now. As PJM’s Athena Thorne noted, Biden said Thursday, “With regard to food shortage, yes, we did sss- re- re- s- talk about food shortages. And, uh, and it’s gonna be real. The price of these sanctions, ahem, is not just imposed upon Russia, it’s imposed upon an awful lot of countries as well, including European countries and our country as well.”

Biden’s war is obvious: it is happening in Ukraine now. However much the establishment media tries to blame Trump for Putin invading Ukraine, and pretend that Trump would be applauding his move if he were still president, the ineluctable fact remains that Putin moved against Ukraine and occupied Crimea while Barack Obama was president, did nothing while Donald Trump was president, and launched the present invasion while Old Joe Biden was pretending to be president. And conquest? Look at the people streaming into the country across what is officially known as the Southern border. If they keep coming at the rate they came in 2021, Biden’s threat to transform America fundamentally will be a reality.

Joe Biden has not just unleashed the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. His entire political career as a serial liar of marginal (at best) competence, cheerfully savaging Clarence Thomas and others for political gain, parading his religiosity while going to war against actual religion, presents us once again with the age-old theological problem: why do the wicked prosper? Whatever the answer may be, Joe does prosper, and that means we don’t.

The entire premise driving Mordor On The Potomac could be put thusly: Here, the Wicked shall prosper, to the enormous cost of those they falsely purport to “serve.” So Uncle Gropey didn’t have to unleash the Four Horsemen; that was done long, long ago, a preexisting condition he merely inherited, that’s all. Which, naturally, would never stop him from claiming credit for it anyhow, as we already know.

Alternate reality update! For God’s sake, this man cannot remain in power.

Last week, Joe Biden made three serious gaffes, forcing the White House to “clarify” or walk back his statements. But when he was called out on them on Monday by Fox News White House correspondent Peter Doocy, he denied that any of his remarks were ever walked back.

“Are you worried that other leaders in the world are going to start to doubt that America is back if some of these big things that you say on the world stage keep getting walked back?” Doocy asked?

“What getting walked back?” Biden demanded, apparently seriously.

“It may sound like, just in the last couple days—it sounded like you told U.S. troops they were going Ukraine. It sounded like you said it was possible the U.S. would use a chemical weapon. And it sounded like you were calling for regime change in Russia and we know—”

“None of the three occurred,” Biden insisted.

“None of the three occurred?” Doocy asked, shocked.

“None of the three,” Biden insisted again. “You interpret the language that way.”

Wow. I mean, just…WOW. Just when I think this duplicitous clown can no longer surprise me with shit like this, the bar gets raised yet again, leaving me speechless with stupefaction and disbelief.

1

Sticks and stones

Two funnies to enliven your Saturday evening: one via Revolver, one purloined from our chum Miguel over at GFZ. I’m happy to supply my own headline for tonight’s first selection: Dumb bint opens yap, beclowns self.

To the people who think Tucker Carlson and Donald Trump are crazy but that trans people are made up, that “cancel culture” has gone too far, that “men should be men and women should women” — congratulations, you agree with Putin. You are his ideological ally.

Yeah, okay, okay, sure. I agree with Putin, whatever. I far prefer that than ever being seen in public agreeing with the intellectually-stunted likes of you and yours. About anything at all. Ever. Now go swing that cute little butt of your’n on out to the kitchren and fetch me a beer and a samwidge, whydon’tcha.

This next one I like a lot better. It dovetails kinda nicely with my previous post, I think.

david-goliath.jpg

Continue reading “Sticks and stones”

1

As if mean Tweets weren’t bad enough

Another riotously funny move, from the Grand Master of ’em.

Trump Sues Hillary Clinton, DNC, James Comey, and Dozens of Others Over Russia Collusion Hoax
ormer President Donald Trump filed a bombshell lawsuit on Thursday, accusing 2016 Democrat Presidential nominee Hillary Clinton, former FBI Director James Comey, former FBI Deputy Director Andrew McCabe, the Democratic National Committee, Democrat law firm Perkins Coie, Fusion GPS, and dozens of other bad actors of working to destroy his presidency with the Russia collusion conspiracy theory.

“In the run-up to the 2016 Presidential Election, Hillary Clinton and her cohorts orchestrated an unthinkable plot – one that shocks the conscience and is an affront to this nation’s democracy,” the lawsuit states. “Acting in concert, the Defendants maliciously conspired to weave a false narrative that their Republican opponent, Donald J. Trump, was colluding with a hostile foreign sovereignty.”

Other defendants in the case include former State Department official and spokesperson for Clinton, Philippe Reines, former FBI counterintelligence agent Peter Strzok, and former Clinton campaign advisor Jake Sullivan, who is currently Joe Biden’s National Security Advisor.

“President Trump is going on offense,” Trump spokeswoman Liz Harrington told Just the News Thursday. “He’s naming names, and he’s going after these liars who tried to rig the 2016 election, and when they failed with the fake Russia collusion hoax, when they failed to stop President Trump from winning the presidency, they used it to spy on him, to try to derail  his presidency and his administration.”

Harrington said that up until the 2020 election, the Russia collusion hoax was “the biggest political crime in our history.”

Boy oh boy, can’t wait until it finally makes its way into a courtroom, in about 2056 or thereabouts. The rest of the piece makes for entertaining reading, entertainment being about all the subject of it can ever hope to amount to in Amerika v2.0’s “swift and scrupulous” system of “justice.”

Wonder if Trump is fully cognizant of the unique position in US history he occupies: the victim of not one, but TWO, of the “biggest political crimes in our history,” he was. It’s a sort of left-handed badge of honor, to be persecuted and abused by such vile dung beetles as these “people.”

A compendium of Stupid

Having savaged the droolcase Biden, slashed Veep Kumswalla into kibbles and bits, and torn Andy Koo-mo a new squeakhole, Matt the Merciless saves the best for last.

Speaking of fossils desperately trying to rise from the tar pits, Mitt Romney is back. Like we needed this? A man too dumb to beat Barack Obama. A man who took his beating lying down and apologized to his attackers for it. A man named fucking Willard.

Yes, Mitt, you were right: Russia is the main antagonist. Unfortunately, you could not make that case during a time of bad economic policies, rising world tensions, complete catastrophe at home, the attempted destruction of the American Health Care System (COVID did that, so maybe the Chinese warranted attention, too?), and an apparent regime of compete jackasses who couldn’t find their own asses with both hands and a flashlight, on a good day, many of whom have risen from the Obama Mausoleum to reoccupy the White House.

How much it must rankle you, Willard, that the man who accused you of wanting to reintroduce slavery on the campaign trail is now sitting in the Oval Office, eating pudding and soiling himself, while you howl from the wilderness about how right you were.

Here’s your fucking cookie. Now beat it.

And then there are the (allegedly) 81 million idiots who voted for, or vigorously advocated/defended this sort of stupidity. They’re ultimately responsible for this pile of dogshit.

Where is Darwin when you need him?

Where indeed. Via MisHum.

Unkinked, unserious

Or, as Arthur labels it, Justice for Cornrows.

House passes CROWN Act, banning race-based hair discrimination
The House passed legislation on Friday that would prohibit discrimination against people with hair styles associated with a particular race or national origin.

Lawmakers passed the bill, titled the Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair, or CROWN, Act, largely along party lines, 235-189. Only 14 Republicans joined Democrats in support of the measure.

Don’t ever let it be said that the US Congress can’t, or won’t, tackle the truly serious issues.

“For too long, Black girls have been discriminated against and criminalized for the hair that grows on our heads and the way we move through and show up in this world,” said Rep. Ayanna Pressley (D-Mass.).

Black women in particular are more likely to report feeling discriminated against because of their hairstyles.

Or just because, y’know, reasons ‘n’ shit, nomesayin? Back over to Arthur for some closing hilarity.

I love the name, the CROWN Act, cuz dey be thinking dey dreadlocks be crownz and sheeit. See also: Kangz, We Wuz.

Criminalized you say? For your hair and the way you “move through…this world”? This is a choice example of how blaque gals move through this world…

[…a few clips of random black-beeyotch violence and mayhem…]

Whenever they “show up” in the world, chaos and violence seem to follow them. 

A serious nation doesn’t devote even a second of time to the “problem” of racist hair rules.

Nope. Then again, all sense of seriousness and mature propriety fled Mordor On The Potomac and its environs long, long ago, alas.

OUCH!

Also: OOF.

GOP Sen. Mitt Romney still has his moments,

He does, does he? Name three. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

but it seems like those moments are becoming a bit less frequent lately. He still deserves an apology from Joe Biden and the Democratic Party for being right about Russia back in 2012, because he absolutely was. But over the weekend, he made a statement for which he should be the one doing the apologizing.

Yesterday, he accused former Hawaii Democratic congresswoman and military veteran Tulsi Gabbard of “parroting false Russian propaganda” and declared that “her treasonous lies may very well cost lives.”

As we pointed out in our post about it, the Russian government apparently appreciates Gabbard’s comments about U.S.-funded biolabs in Ukraine and has in fact been airing her interview on Tucker Carlson’s Fox News show on Russian state TV. But even taking that into consideration, Romney’s tweet goes way too far.
And, needless to say, Gabbard herself is quite angry about it. So this morning, she took to Twitter to take Mitt Romney to task over it…

Follows, a long and blistering Twitter thread from Gabbard that leaves Mittens a smoking ruin. Sad to say, the Threader unroller seems to have made a deal with the devil, sold for a mess of pottage and hidden behind a paywall, so I can’t do a plain-text excerpt of this glorious and richly deserved burn and assuredly ain’t about to transcribe all that myself. But it’s well worth the click-over, believe me.

I keep saying it: yeah, I know, dear Tulsi’s a Shitlibocrat, bassackwards and completely wrong about plenty and to spare. But dammit, I still like the cut of her jib. Unlike any of her fellow Demonrats, she actually does get one right now and then.

2

Another brief check-in from Ye Olde Bloggehoste

It may not seem like it from here, but progress is indeed being made on the not-keeling-over-stone-dead front, or so I am assured by the small army of medical personnel burdened with the task of fixing my broke-down ass. In fact, some of them are so enthusiastic about my prospects as to appear almost ready to burst into song and/or go capering about in a Happy Dance over this whole thing, well over and above the usual sunny optimism a decent Bedside Manner requires.

I now have less than thirty (30) days trapped in the rehab center, while I complete a final round of IV antibiotics they tell me I simply must have. After that, I’m a free man once more, for the first time since…

uhhh…

Dec 14th?!? No, srsly? That CAN’T be right. Can it? Ah well, my thanks to all you miscreants once more anyhoo for your attendance, and another special mention for BCE, whose unwavering support and encouragement provides the pluperfect example of what the word “brother” really means.

Back soon. Mean it.

24

A night in Hell

BCE posts on his stay in one of THOSE hotels; most of the saltier old road-dogs among us will need no explanation of what I mean by that, I trust. Naturally, BCE’s nightmarish and all-too-familiar story put me in mind of one of the single most atrocious dumps I can remember staying at: the Admiral Benbow Inn, in Memphis Tn. Regrettably, I made the mistake of DDG’ing the God-forsaken pit and wound up falling into the dreaded Search Engine Sinkhole, hitting links like a blow-junkie lab rat fiending for another sweet, sweet hit, sucked in by article after article chronicling the poor old Benbow’s rise and fall. Never woulda thunk it, but there’s some truly interesting history there, great gooey gobs of it. The backstory:

Dear Vance: Who the heck was Admiral Benbow, and what happened to all those motels here that were named after him? — J.F., Memphis.

Dear J.F.: Just like Colonel Harland Sanders with his Kentucky Fried Chicken empire, John Benbow (1653-1702) was a real person, an admiral in the British Royal Navy. During a long career at sea, he served as the commander of several vessels against various enemies, ranging from Barbary pirates to the French fleet, and I don’t have the time or energy to go into that here. Benbow died from injuries received in battle, with a biographer noting the cause of death was “the wound of his leg, never being set to perfection, which malady being aggravated by the discontent of his mind, threw him into a sort of melancholy.”

The admiral was buried in Jamaica, and his fame was so great that Robert Louis Stevenson, author of the 1883 classic, Treasure Island, named a tavern in his book the “Admiral Benbow Inn.”

Many years later, another enterprising gentleman in Memphis would do the same.

Allen Gary was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, in 1913. Somehow he ended up in Memphis, as so many men and women from the Magnolia State do. In the mid-1930s, he attended Central High School and Southwestern at Memphis (now Rhodes College). At some point, he met up with a business partner, George Early, and together they converted a nineteenth-century stable on Bellevue into a popular eatery called, quite naturally, The Stable. When it opened in 1941, it might be considered one of this city’s first theme restaurants. Not only was it decorated, inside and out, like a rustic barn, but the menu for this “Dispenser of Southern Horse-pitality” included such dishes as the Stagecoach, Hack, Hansom, Buggy, Surrey, and Sulky.

By all accounts, the Stable, located at Union and Bellevue, was a success, and quite a few readers have asked about it over the years, remembering good meals and good times there. But Gary and Early decided to branch out, forming other enterprises. Gary had befriended two of this city’s leading “hospitality men” — motel king Kemmons Wilson and drive-in operator Harold Fortune — and after serving for a time as manager of Fortune’s Belvedere, one of the chain’s largest and fanciest locations, Gary worked out an arrangement with Wilson to open restaurants at Holiday Inns around the South.

This wasn’t quite enough, though. In 1950, Gary and Early converted a brick cottage at Union and Willett into a cozy restaurant that they named the Admiral Benbow Inn. So the first Admiral Benbow in Memphis, or anywhere else for that matter, wasn’t a motel. Newspapers admired the new venture, noting that “its interior furnishings are completely modern in contrast with the fifteenth-century atmosphere.” Even though the tiny building sat just 20 feet from Union, “in the Terrace Room, eating pleasure blends with the busy traffic scene.” Just like in the fifteenth century!

At some point, it seems Early dropped out of this enterprise; I don’t know why. By 1960, Gary was operating 18 restaurants, an accomplishment that earned him a place in American Restaurant magazine’s Hall of Fame. A story about Gary in that publication — perhaps you saw it? — observed, “A restaurant operator whose receipts his first day in business totaled $7.10 [they are talking about the Stable] is today doing a business volume that exceeded $2 million in the fiscal year that just ended, operating restaurants in hotels in six Southern states.”

That still wasn’t enough for Gary. He next conceived Benbow Snack Bars, free-standing diner-type establishments, which often had little more than a counter and 12 stools, much like the nationwide chain of Toddle Houses. These were designed to be erected near motels that had no restaurant of their own, you see, but I was never able to determine how many Benbow Snack Bars were actually constructed. American Restaurant magazine, packed with helpful information, does say that Snack Bars “have been added in Memphis and in Laurel, Mississippi, and Gary is currently studying sites in 10 states” but didn’t say where, exactly, the Memphis locations were.

In 1960, Gary returned to his roots. He tore down his first venture, the old Stable, and erected the first Admiral Benbow Inn — this time a motel — at Union and Bellevue. The modern styling was certainly eye-catching, with lots of white concrete, bright colors, and suspended walkways linking what was considered this city’s first two-story motel. Of course, it included a restaurant along with a lounge called the Escape Hatch. He soon opened others — on Summer, next door to Imperial Bowling Lanes, and on Winchester, close to the airport.

As you can see from the images here, the Admiral Benbow Inn was certainly a nice-looking place and stood out from most of the hum-drum motels being constructed at the time. During its first years, it boasted occupancy rates of 100 percent. But for reasons that I don’t fully understand (since the Lauderdales never frequented such places), the motel developed a bad reputation. In fact, by February 2000, Admiral Benbow had declined to the point where my pal Jim Hanas wrote a Memphis Flyer cover story about his brief stay there. With a title of “Broken Palace: The Last Days of the Admiral Benbow,” you can tell it’s not a flattering portrait.

It was here, in fact, at the Admiral Benbow in Midtown that a fellow named Malcolm Fraser woke up one morning in 1986 to find himself without clothes, luggage, or money. Now this would be disconcerting for anybody, but Fraser just happened to be the former prime minister of Australia, in town for a business visit, and was supposed to be staying at The Peabody. The whole matter was never sorted out, but it’s typical of the decidedly unusual events that seemed to plague the Admiral Benbows in Memphis over the years.

So what happened to them?

Okay, so far, so…well, so dull, honestly. Aside from the mysterious Fraser saga, it’s the sort of dry, aggressively mundane stuff only a Memphian with an obssessive local-history fetish could find interesting, or maybe somebody who was being paid to act as if he had such a fetish. Hang in there though; we’re just about to hit the motherlode.

Memphis celebrates, occasionally even enshrines, its motels. The Lorraine has been encased for future reference as the National Civil Rights Museum; the Heartbreak Hotel, once a mere metaphor in the spiritual neighborhood of Lonely Street, now stands in literal glass and stone on Elvis Presley Boulevard; and the success story of Kemmons Wilson and Holiday Inns Inc. is eclipsed only by that of Fred Smith and Federal Express in the local mythology.

Even the dutiful Gideons have abandoned the Admiral Benbow at the corner of Union and Bellevue, however. There is no trace of either testament in the several drawers in room 245, one of which has had its front torn off and placed neatly inside it where the Bible ought to be.

The television is cockeyed from a failed attempt to rip it from its security mooring, although it doesn’t work so well anyway, and like most everything else in the room, it is rutted with burns from careless cigarettes and/or crack-pipes.

Seven doors down, a man was once stabbed with such a pipe by his so-called boyfriend, or so he said when, out of breath, he waved down a police cruiser at the corner of Madison and Cleveland. The boyfriend told a different story. He himself had been savagely beaten with the room’s telephone by the first man, he said, who had then stabbed himself with the crack pipe. He was only giving chase, he explained, so he could help.

The phone in 245 looks as though it may be the veteran of a beating or two. The plate over the keypad has disappeared, and much else in the room has been either picked clean or otherwise rendered useless. The cover of the heating duct leans beneath the sink. The bathtub faucet leaks hot water and cannot be made to stop. Pee-colored formica peels from the sway-topped sink and the flesh-colored stucco walls crack indiscriminately. The door’s security latch is no longer secure (nor any longer technically a latch, really), the hidden workings of the light switch are not hidden, and the peephole — the one you’re supposed to look through before, ever, ever opening the door — has been plugged with a tiny piece of cloth.

And not a Bible in sight, here when you really need one.

Unlike Memphis’ celebrated motels, the Benbow does not represent anything prized about the city or its history, anything people actually draw paychecks promoting. It is not a monument to the civil rights movement, the birthplace of rock-and-roll, or Memphis’ role as a universal crossroads.

Instead, the Benbow represents another side of the city, a side people draw paychecks keeping quiet, a side that’s as old as the city’s days as a rough river town and crime capital of the known universe.

It’s here that Little Pete, a 19-year-old gangsta from South Memphis, got pinched for shooting a man just off Elvis Presley Boulevard. Where a man once celebrated Valentine’s Day by flying into a drunken rage, trashing his room, and slapping his girlfriend around, all before 10 a.m. Where guests have occasionally tried to off themselves with excess anti-depressants, detergents, and razor-blades.

If, as everyone seems to agree, the Mississippi Delta begins in the lobby of The Peabody, then it just might end somewhere in the tomblike parking lot here at the Admiral Benbow.

The Benbow’s seediness comes only in part from its dilapidation. Part of it is a matter of architecture. The elevated rooms, once a clever parking solution, create a claustrophobic above-ground subterrain ricocheting with shadows and echoes. A series of catwalks connecting the motel’s four buildings makes you feel as though you may already be in prison, so, well, what the hell anyway. In urban planning lingo, these effects might be described pathologically, symptoms of a property that is “sick.”

Once, when the Monkees stayed here, the parking lot and catwalks were overrun by screaming, teenaged girls.

A half-naked woman lies bloody and motionless beside the bed. G-men let a tabloid photographer into the room to snap some shots of the corpse, of the spectacle of blood and breasts and the 9mm cupped in a cold hand.

Nothing serves to verify the Benbow’s status as a dive — with all the campiness that implies — quite like this scene from The Sore Losers, the burlesque allegory from local cult filmmaker Mike McCarthy.

Mid-scene, there is an establishing shot of the motel’s neon sign and marquee, and audiences are expected to get the joke. “Cheap applause for the local crowd,” McCarthy explains.

Everyone knows you haven’t slummed until you’ve slummed at the Admiral Benbow.

Although McCarthy had his car vandalized while filming at the motel, it didn’t keep him from putting out-of-town talent up here during the filming of his latest movie, SuperStarlet A.D., at least for a night.

“The surreal charm wears off when we realize the doors are broken,” co-star Gina Velour writes of the place in her diary of the shoot, which appeared in Hustler’s Leg World last year. “The moldy ceiling is hanging like fog, and there is a single, bare 60-watt bulb, just like in the movies. It’s the worst night I can remember in all my travels. I can’t do this for the next three weeks.”

And she doesn’t, demanding from McCarthy better digs in the Red Roof Inn up the street.

“They didn’t share my sense of humor,” McCarthy admits.

Evidently camp has its limits, even for aspirant B-movie starlets.

I have to say, Ms Velour’s Admiral Benbow experience closely corresponds with my own.

Even more fascinating Admiral Benbow lore at the linked articles—some of it amusing, some of it terrifying, none of it in the least shocking or too far out for Benbow survivors. And we are legion, because some years back just about every bar, theater, or other mid-level and below music venue in Memphis, as well as independent bookers and promoters, made it their practice to book hotel rooms for bands on tour at the Benbow. The place was filthy. It was dangerous. It was run down, literally falling apart in whole sections. And it was positively crawling with drunks, junkies, crackheads, hookers, johns, flim-flam men, muggers, and other fascinating specimens from every strata of Memphis lowlife, criminality, and dysfunction. There are roaches crawling up the walls of the rooms as big as your thumb—bigger, even. Go ahead, ask me how I know.

But for promoters and venue owners and such, the Benbow wasn’t entirely without its charms nonetheless. It was dirt cheap, and for people working that side of the music-biz street, cheap trumps all else. Especially when you know you don’t have to spend the night there your own self.

The first time a promoter tried to shoehorn us into the Benbow box, we took one look at our assigned room, looked at each other in horror, and agreed immediately that we would NOT be staying at this wretched shitpit after that night’s show, taking it upon ourselves to speedily flee to someplace fit for human habitation and just foot the bill ourselves, even though our contract rider called for two double-occupancy hotel rooms, comped. If I remember right, we ended up at a Red Roof not far away, likely the same one Gina Velour wisely decamped to.

Our next time in town, the guy who had booked us met us at the venue seeming quite pleased with himself at having procured our two rooms already, saving us the trouble of checking in. We pounced without delay: might these rooms happen to be at the Benbow, perchance? Sensing there was trouble afoot, his cheery face fell as he admitted that it was so. We informed him sharply that no, we would NOT be staying at the Admiral Benbow, neither tonight nor ever again. As a compromise measure, we WOULD be willing to hold off on starting the show until he got us rooms at an acceptable hotel, so he wouldn’t habe to miss anything.

It’s common knowledge in the rock and roll universe that when two touring bands hit the road together, even if only for a few days, there is a kind of accelerated bonding between the two camps which takes place, formed initially around all the experiences they have in common: days on end eating nothing but horrible food and the inevitable distress that comes along with it; hot, easy women in specific cities; crippling hangovers and how best to deal with ’em; where the closest liquor store might be, and who’s going to have to shag his ass over there after sound check but before downbeat to fetch a jug for the green room, and such-like topics. Included among these topics: the Admiral Benbow, and how incomprehensibly skeevy it was.

I mean, ALL of our peers knew the place; everybody had a horror story, each more grisly than the one before, and not a one of us doubted for a moment that every word was gospel truth. No one that had actually been there doubted, at any rate. Those who had lived to tell the tale KNEW the truth, having survived the trauma, learned the lessons, and earned the scars. The rest? Well, they’d be finding out soon enough, poor things.

Any hard-touring band that’s put enough miles under their asses can tell you that there are indeed places dotted all across the American road atlas which no normal person knows about, nor will ever see. We’ve all spent our share of sweaty, sleepless nights tossing, turning, and scratching our fresh insect bites in hotels and motels Normals wouldn’t even believe exist. But they do. Those squalid dens are indeed out there…WAITING.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Money shot!

Wasn’t gonna bother with this one originally, since it’s just not the sort of “news” item I give a crap about ordinarily. But then I read the New York Post’s write-up, which is so wonderful I just can’t help myself. First, you get the archetypical Post grabber-headline.

Woman fires gun at her vagina in cam show crotch shot gone horribly wrong

Heh. You begin to see what I mean right off the bat, I betcher. Right smack in the Post’s wheelhouse, a real gopher ball for those guys. But then, this IS the iconic tabloid that gave us the most famous headline in newspaper history, after all. On to the, umm, juicy bits.

Georgia webcam model Lauren Hunter Daman, 27, redefined “crotch shot” after discharging a firearm into her vagina during an alleged sex stunt gone awry.

“The female had shot herself in the vagina accidentally,” paramedic Brittany Rivers reportedly told responding police officers of the incident, which reportedly occurred on the morning of Nov. 9 at a residence in Thomaston, per a report by the Upson County Sheriff, the Smoking Gun reported.

Later interviews with witnesses revealed that the sex pistol-turned-gunshot victim was apparently alone in her bedroom when the weapon — a 9mm handgun — went off.

Officers were first alerted to firearm fiasco after receiving an “accidental gunshot wound” call from the residence, according to the police report. Upon arriving at the scene, a sheriff’s deputy encountered EMS Rivers, who was holding the unloaded handgun and a spent bullet casing in her hands.

She told the officer that Daman had blasted herself in the netherregions.

Police then conducted interviews with Daman’s three housemates, two of whom were present during the accident, to try and shed light on the alleged boudoir backfire.

Jordan Allen, the reported owner of the firearm, told officers that he was “in the kitchen walking back to the bedroom when he heard the gun go off.” Upon reaching the bedroom, Allen discovered Daman with “a small amount of blood” on her leg, at which point she reportedly informed him “that she shot herself accidentally” and apologized.

Meanwhile, a second witness named Cody Starnes told deputies that his mother Addie Ruth Johnson came into his bedroom and reported that “Daman had been shot.”

Allen revealed to officers how her inadvertent vagino-blasty allegedly transpired.

“Boudoir backfire”? “Inadvertent vagino-blasty”? COME ON, MAN!!! Pure, classic Post-age right there, and no mistake about it.

Now, like most of you miscreants and ne’er do wells out there in CF Land, I wouldn’t give a greasy Biden-shart if every last “newspaper” in America went under and ceased all publishing operations by mid-morning tomorrow—excepting the New York Post. Them, and only them, I would truly hate to see close up shop, and would mourn deeply if they did. The loss of such a wonderful news outlet would be a grievous one indeed, a bona fide catastrophe not just for NYC but for the entire nation. Long may those rascals wave, I say! America needs the Post, now more than ever before.

Fire In The Hole update! Pics of Miss Smokin’ Snatch—the Vented Slotte Girl, Kid Kordite Krotch herself—over at the Daily Mail. I have to admit, she’s rather cute in most of ’em, in that gormless-yet-worldly, slutty-naif way you often come across in the better, more upscale trailer parks. Way more so than I expected she would be, anyhoo.

3

Happy Thanksgiving

Hope all you CFers enjoyed the many blessings of this most uniquely American holiday to the very fullest. For those of you out there cursed with a foul, bitter Leftist at your family’s table every year—contra the all-too-familiar avalanche of “How To Scold Your Loathsome, Racist, Homophobic, Non-Woke Relatives During Thanksgiving Dinner” articles shat forth by the MFM every year, there are quite a few who aren’t so afflicted, the fortiunate sods—may your circle’s gathering have been happy and fulfilling enough to intensify said Lefty ghoul’s self-inflicted wretchedness and misery by orders of magnitude, leaving him with a tale of familial horror, suffering, and despair none of the other insufferable ingrates in the dorm or residence hall could ever hope to top.

7

An unlooked-for victory: SUCK IT, BITCHES!!!

Whenever they’re unhappy, Real Americans should rejoice.

Anytime you feel froggy enough, Commie. As another great American once put it, I have five dollars for each of you.


If they couldn’t lie, they’d be unable to speak at all.

Whatevs, assholes. I believe Kyle Rittenhouse to be a genuine, true-blue American hero, and don’t give a single shit that you consider him, me, and every Dissident Right patriot white supremacists, fascists, Nazis, racists, and extremists. You and all your fellow-traveling Reds please do feel free to go fuck yourselves blind, then die in a fire and descendeth into Hell to burn for a thousand years. NOW what?

With that brief sampling of The Enemy’s excruciating agony upon witnessing the scarifying spectacle of actual justice being done despite all their best efforts to prevent it, we’ll leave off pointing and laughing at them for the nonce to bring you this deathless reminder that, for all sane, upstanding, non-evil folks, their bitter tears are as the sweetest wine.


Lap it up, fellow Hitlerians. I insisted Kyle would go down, making this another of those extremely rare (a-HENH!) occasions when I have to admit I was wrong, and couldn’t be happier about it. Not a difficult thing, in this instance, this being by far the best-tasting crow I ever had to eat.

Update! To anyone in need of an explanation as to why the Rittenhouse verdict might cause such anguish in Progtardia, there’s a very simple one.

Swiped from WeirdDave, with my thanks.

Update! Courageous, unflappable under unimaginable pressure in the heat of battle, supremely competent, a bona fide hero? One of Herschel’s commenters concisely lays out the case for why you just better believe he is, bub.

This 17-year-old kid was alone, under attack on his life, and beaten to the ground. And in defending himself he managed to harm exactly zero people who were not actively attempting to kill him. Think about that for a moment. How many trained adults could keep their heads — and their aim — that steady under anything like those circumstances? Have to hope he manages to bankrupt several MSM outlets and personages; he’s going to need years to recover from what just happened to him, and he’ll need all the resources he can get.

Agreed, right down the line, without hesitation. This admirable young man is nothing short of exemplary, a marvelous role model every Real American can only hope and pray their own teenagers will try to emulate.

3

Necktie party!

The Thinking Housewife opens with a real gem of a quote.

“…Federal bureaucrats have been feeding on red meat, but their appetites have only been whetted. They are the most dangerous wielders of power in the nation. They will use that power to redesign society according to their own arrogant notions of egalitarianism.

“What, I wonder, would the Founding Fathers have done with these bureaucrats? I mean would they hang them immediately or, being reflective men, would they save that recreation for dawn tomorrow, the better to start a new day?”

Amazingly, that note-perfect assessment was written by…wait for it…wait for it

A fucking journalist? SRSLY?!? Specifically and to wit, “Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter Edwin A Roberts, Jr.” Those sagacious words appeared way back in 1975; obviously, “Pulitzer Prize-winning reporters” were a totally different breed of animal than the miserable Progtoads we’re cursed with today. Just you wait, though, it gets even better from there.

2) In ancient Athens, a scaffold stood in the center of an amphitheater.

“Anyone proposing a new law, or a change in an old law, had to ascend that scaffold and stand beneath a dangling noose while he made his suggestions to the assembly. If his suggestion was approved and enacted into law, the innovator had to ascend that scaffold once again a year later. When the results of his suggestion had been to worsen instead of to improve conditions, he was hanged….”

            — Historian Otto Scott, “Why the Ancients Hanged Do-Gooders”, Conservative Digest, Dec. 1985, p. 93

If modern Americans had any sense and any understanding of individual rights against the police power of The State, they would make sure that Do-Gooders like Biden, Fauci, and CDC bureaucrats, among others, were escorted to an equivalent scaffold and noose. Because they are obviously above the law, such Do-Gooders do not stoop to anything so petty as proposing new laws. Instead, they issue edicts and lockdowns and mandates they fabricate out of the blue.

Then, when such Do-Gooders are made to stand beneath that noose, Americans should ask themselves whether the results of those edicts and lockdowns and mandates have made their lives better or worse than they were two years ago, including such impolite questions as how many tens of thousands of people are now dead or maimed for life as a result of those things, how many small businesses have been destroyed, and why anyone should thank those Do-Gooders for those things or for the obliteration of Americans’ rights, political liberty, freedom of commerce, and freedom of travel.

Funny, innit, how each successive problem besetting society today is reflexively assumed—in our stilted, forgetful vainglory—to be wholly without precedent, stupefyingly complex, and most likely insuperable without applying extravagant effort, painful sacrifice, and ruinous expenditure of wealth to it.

T’ain’t so, McGee. Turns out the Bible had it right: there really IS no new thing under the sun. Our woes belong not just to modernity, but to ages past also. Common societal problems, obstacles, and conundrums can be thought of as threads woven into the fabric of human civilization, ever since humans have HAD one. As the example of our Athenian forebears demonstrates the solutions and/or preventives, far from being impossibly complex or unworkable, come to seem like simplicity itself if you examine them thoughtfully.

Can anybody doubt the wisdom, the basic fairness, or the efficacy of the Athenian way of dealing with the related problems of corruption and how a keen sense of responsibility and probity might be nurtured in its lawmakers? Do we arrogantly flatter ourselves that the Athenian approach is a primitive, even barbaric one that the far more enlightened inheritors of Western Civilization have thankfully left behind? Suffused with pride, do we tell ourselves that—with all due respect (ahem!) to the wisdom (for their time, poor dears) of the Greeks—they would surely find our modern dilemnas to be well beyond their ability to comprehend, let alone cope with—overwhelming and terrifying for aboriginal throwbacks who walked around in public comically dressed in togas, sandals, and grape-leaf headbands of their own free will. Able as they may have been when dealing with the simpler challenges of a simpler time, the Athenians of antiquity would no doubt be awed into catatonia if brought face to face with even one of the more trivial of our Modern Problems™—as helpless as a toddler in a bear-baiting pit.

Only one slight problem with such modern egotism: The Athenian idea worked pretty well for them then, and it would work pretty well for us now. Lord knows what we’ve been doing ain’t. Plus, I dunno, but it seems pretty damned cheeky to me, this whole notion that the people who ran Western Civ into the ditch and totalled it would have the gall to spurn those who created it as inferior specimens—pretty hip for their time, maybe, but total cave-tards compared to us. If Modern Man was anything like as clever as he thinks he is, he’d be reading and re-reading every book he could get his hands on chronicling those who came before, treating every scrap of knowledge he could glean as the priceless treasure it is.

Instead of remaining steeped in the sour bouillabaise of historical illiteracy, unfounded assumptions, and smug banality, perhaps we’d be better served by boning up on how the world we live in came to be; learning the lessons history has to teach us; and coming up with ways those timeless lessons might be applied to help us out now, no? If all we got out of the effort was the heartwarming spectacle of Little Mengele Fraudci being dragged onto the hangman’s scaffold, pale and bugeyed with terror, pleading for a mercy that will not be forthcoming, it would be well worth a try. I’m betting we’d get a lot more than just that, though, beginning with the re-instilling of an appropriate reticence in the hearts and minds of those who fancy themselves our masters, then moving onwards and upwards from there.

2

Publick Notice

I had forgotten it, but as it happens I have an old alternate image, part of a much older CF Xmas theme, which might make a worthy stand-in for my beloved Scrooge Picard—of whom I shall brook no evil spoken, ever—buried deep in the Trusty iMac’s file catacombs. This alternate is a real humdinger itself, featuring as it does my all-time favorite pinup hottie, Bettie Page—of whom I shall also brook no etc etc.

Upon stumbling across the Bettie header by a stroke of sheer good fortune, I piddled about some with the thing and found its dimensions to be all out of whack with what this current theme calls for, tragically enough. So I’ma do a little mild immersion into P-shop World and see if I can’t make things right. Then, if all goes well without undue hassle, maybe I’ll poke around a bit for a header-image-switching script that will work. Should that endeavor prove fruitful, well…we shall see what we shall see.

Why yes, I DO in fact just loooove tinkering with shit that I should probably leave the hell alone, always have. Why do you ask…?

1

Words mean things…until they don’t

In order to subvert and then bring down any free society, first the Marxist counterrevolutionary must degrade the very language itself into a tangled, incomprehensible thicket of utter meaninglessness and confusion.

I have been writing a lot about the politically inspired perversion of language. The name “Orwell” crops up in any such discussion, as does the word “Newspeak,” that twisted mode of language that Orwell outlined in the appendix to Nineteen Eighty-Four. The goal of Newspeak, Orwell said, was to replace standard English with a sharply diminished patois whose linguistic poverty was its prime political advantage. By reducing the suppleness of language, the elites who controlled society hoped also to reduce dissent — not only the activity of dissent, but also the thoughts and emotions that guided it.

This has been a perennial dream of budding totalitarians, from the French Revolution to the varieties of communist tyranny. In our own society, the disease began, as do so many species of spiritual sickness, in the university, but it has metastasized into the body politic, infecting primary and secondary education, the media, commerce and even government. The current name of this nightmare is “wokeness,” but a swamp by any name smells as bad.

Hold the presses! The American Medical Association, together with the Association of American Medical Colleges, have just issued Advancing Health Equity: A Guide To Language, Narrative And Concepts. Is this the item of supreme self-infatuation that will begin the great awakening from wokeness? Maybe.

From first sentence to last, the aroma of scolding virtucratic entitlement is by turns noxiously cloying and comically rebarbative.

For the comedy, try on these opening words: “The field of equity, like all other scholarly domains…” You snorted, didn’t you? You know that “equity” — which is Newspeak for Marxoid attacks on private property and merit-based advancement — is not a “field,” much less a “scholarly field,” but a vapid epithet chosen because it conjures edifying moral associations.

I freely acknowledge that I’m just an elderly, out-of-it old geezer and all. Nonetheless, I seem to recall that back in the Cretaceous Period “equity” usually referred to the amount a homeowner has invested in his house, determined by the total of all mortgage payments made so far. His equity, if sizeable enough to qualify, could then be used as, say, a down payment to secure a second mortgage or other loan.

All of which has been redesignated by the Good People™ as nothing but racist, white supremacist Hate Speech by now, I’m sure. Maybe the aged and decrepit “equality” just wasn’t working well enough to be effective as a club against their hated enemies anymore, huh?

No sooner have we stumbled over the “field of equity” than we’re clobbered with a “Land and Labor Acknowledgement.” The Association of American Medical Colleges’ headquarters is “located in Washington, D.C., the traditional homelands of the Nacotchtank, Piscataway and Pamunkey people.” The headquarters of the AMA — the American Medical Association, for God’s sake — are “located in the Chicago area on taken ancestral lands of indigenous tribes, such as the Council of the Three Fires, composed of the Ojibwe, Odawa and Potawatomi Nations, as well as the Miami, Ho-Chunk, Menominee.”

It never stops. We must use capital-B “Black” when referring to black people but never capital-W “white.” “It is critical,” we are told, “to address all areas of marginalization and inequity due to sexism, class oppression, homophobia, xenophobia and ableism.” Whom have we left out?

At the center of this compact of rancid woke vocables are a number of tables listing deprecated words or locutions alongside their approved, “equity-centered” alternatives. Don’t say “illegal immigrant.” Say “undocumented immigrant,” because “illegal is a dehumanizing, derogatory term used to describe a person who resides in a country without proper documentation. No human being is illegal.” We can leave that ontological assertion to one side: plenty of human beings engage in illegal behavior, and that’s what we’re talking about here.

We’re not supposed to say “minority” anymore, but rather “historically marginalized or minoritized or BIPOC.” Don’t say “sex.” Say “sex assigned at birth.” Don’t say “slave.” Say “enslaved person.” Spartacus always did that, didn’t he? And I am sure the Islamic slavers in Africa are careful about their language right now, today.

Okay, I am so tuckered out and weary of all this happy horseshit that I’m willing to go all the way out to the very tip-end of the limb I’ve been forced onto at this point.

SO. You Leftard goosesteppers think you can tell ME what I’m allowed to say and not say, do you? Let’s just see how that works out for ya.

“Hate Speech” that I might or might not use, according strictly to my own whim, mood, or wish to piss all over some random Woke idiot in hopes that the inferno of apoplectic fury ignited in him will bring on a heart attack powerful enough to kill his stupid ass dead

Nigger, jigaboo, spearchucker, spook, burrhead, coon, bluegum, moon cricket • Jewboy, kike, yid, Bronx indian, Christ-killer • Limey, Pom, Frog, Hun, Jerry, Mick, bogtrotter, Dago, Guido, Wop • Spick, beaner, wetback, greaseball, taco bender • Raghead, sand nigger, camel jockey, Muzzrat • Chink, dink, zipperhead, slant, slope, gook • Dyke, bull-dagger, flatrocker, lesbo • Faggot, queer, rump ranger, ass pirate, turd burglar • Slut, tramp, roundheels, cockhound, THOT, cum dumpster • Honkey, cracker, white-ass, Casper, blue eyed devil, Yacoub

And if all that ain’t offensive enough to jack any shitlib’s blood pressure straight up to lethal levels and beyond, I got one more arrow in the quiver:

LET’S GO BRANDON!!!!

Now go ahead and try to tell me something else you think you’ll forbid me to do, Proggy shitstain.

Tooting his own horn

An ill wind that blows nobody any good.

He is supposed to be committed to reducing emissions – but when President Joe Biden produced a little natural gas of his own at the COP26 summit, it was audible enough to make the Duchess of Cornwall blush.

An informed source has told The Mail on Sunday that Camilla was taken aback to hear Biden break wind as they made polite small talk at the global climate change gathering in Glasgow last week.

‘It was long and loud and impossible to ignore,’ the source said. ‘Camilla hasn’t stopped talking about it.’

This summer, Johnson praised Biden as being ‘a big breath of fresh air’ on climate change compared to his predecessor.

Appropriately, Biden has urged world leaders to cut methane gas emissions by 30 per cent by the end of the decade. Cows and other livestock contribute substantially to global methane levels.

The White House declined to comment last night.

Oh, I just bet they did. What’s there to say, after all? Here we have this decrepit old near-cadaver, fraudulently installed as “leader” of the “free” world, in so advanced a stage of decomposition and decay he’s utterly helpless to prevent himself from shitting all over the friggin’ Pope—staggering around all befuddled and confused, muttering incoherently, tripping all over every set of stairs he wanders within ten feet of—so who among us is gonna bother complaining about the occasional sounding of the ***”Presidential”*** butt trumpet?

I must admit, as entertaining as President Trump was, the sheer hilarity Flatulent Zombie Brandon brings to the table puts ’em all in the shade. Every successive self-beclownment makes it seem more and more as if God Himself was exacting Heavenly Justice from the raddled old crook for all those years of unpunished kiddie-diddling, graft, and sundry petty crime. In fact, if you listen hard enough you might just hear Him laughing right along with the rest of His Chilluns.

9

How invective is DONE

As DuToit says, this here is the gold-plated, professional-grade stuff.

The Diclofenac pills do actually relieve the pain quite a bit but they, too, are a bit what we used to call spacey and I was up all night, between here and watching the telly. It was a wee small hours, musical interlude, on Channel Four, firstly a film of Liam Gallagher’s new ensemble, Beardy Eye, playing their new album in the Abbey Road studios. Liam is the truly neanderthal, younger brother from Oasis, a thick, grunting Manchester-Irish fuckpig, dumb as shit, you can hear the wind whistling between his ears, if he was any more stupid he’d have to be watered twice a week; makes Manchester United’s Wayne Potato look like a full Mensa meeting, does Liam. Nothing wrong with stupid. There’s lots of people like Liam, their oil just doesn’t reach the dipstick. He’s not as stupid as he looks, mind, because he looks like he was beaten with the Ugly stick and then ate it, ugly as fucking sin, is Liam Gallagher, ugly as a hatfull of arseholes; if your dog had a face like Liam’s, you’d shave its arse and teach it to walk backwards. Stupid, ugly and nasty, that’s Liam Gallagher, a truculent moron, charmless, graceless and entirely without discernible musical talent, a sign, in fact, of Ruin’s corrosion.

His new band, anyway, consists of four competent but unimaginative player-songwriters, and him. And the album’s a turgid lukewarm brew of reworked Oasis numbers which Liam’s brother Noel, every bit as ugly, every bit as unpleasant but a fraction less stupid would have rejected; the  band switch between a dazzling selection of Rickenbaker and Gretsch guitars -funny, isn’t it, how a fiddler will manage with one Stradivarius, Robert Johnson played only a two-dollar guitar, Rory Gallagher the same battered old Strat and yet the current lot switch from one expensive instrument to another between songs, maybe even during songs, the rock’n’roll of Consumerism – to produce the  same sounds, the same chords, the same figures over and over, to sing the same harmonies,  the same shouty, angry, miserable, hateful, retarded adolescent drivel, tripe, every fucking bar of it; Liam, stooped inside his ugliness, howling and frothing his whining, meaningless  doggerel; forty year old men, there oughta be a law against them doing this shit. Liam, rock hero caricature posturing, grunts at one point that this is whaditsallabout knoworramean, fucking keeping on playing and touring, selling the albums, to the kids, otherwise I’d end up working in fucking McDonalds, knoworramean; setting his sights way too high, there, overestimating his personal qualities, I mean, Billy Bragg might get a job in McD’s, on the mop bucket, Paul Weller, maybe, but they wouldn’t let Gallagher within a hundred yards.

Can’t say I know a whole heck of a lot about either Oasis or Liam Gallagher, and probably care even less. However, if I was him and somebody showed me this my career would be well and truly over before I finished reading the first paragraph. I mean, I’ve been on the hurty end of a negative review or three in my life; it smarts a little, then you shrug it off and get on with your day. But this? Jeez Loo-WEEZE, man!! No way could I ever walk out onto a stage again after a savaging that ferocious. Not even at gunpoint, I couldn’t.

2

My apologies

It hit me ike a brick in the teeth on the way from work tonight just how badly I screwed the pooch with my “Brandon drops a deuce” title. What I should have gone with, what I fervently wish I had gone with, is this: Brandon drops an Il Dook-ay. Y’know, since the ***”Presidential”*** loss of bowel control took place in Italy and all.

Mea culpa, folks, mea maxima culpa. That is all. As you were.

3

Brandon drops a deuce

It was bound to happen, and it was always gonna be gut-bustingly hilarious no matter what august personage ended up bearing witness to it.

Internet Dumps Its Best #PoopyPantsBiden Memes As Rumors Swirl Puppet President Sh** Self at Vatican

I never, ever dared to dream I’d live to see a headline as delightful as that, but incredibly, the subhed is better still.

Just a typical day for the Biden administration.

BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAOOHHHHHSHIT!! Ummm, uhhh……

Oh, dammit all. S’cuse me just a sec, folks. CLEANUP ON AISLE THREE, STAT!!!

Joe Biden made headlines in all the worst ways during his meeting with Pope Francis in Rome over the weekend.

After the Vatican cancelled a livestream meeting with Biden over a media dispute, rumors quickly began spreading online that the cancellation was due to Biden…*ahem*…pooping his pants in front of the Holy See.

Thereby providing me with all the excuse I’ll ever need to run this unforgettable scene from the classic film The Pope Of Greenwich Village.


Eric Roberts has never been better than he was in The Pope, nor will he ever be. Same goes for Mickey Rourke with great big bells on, and possibly even veteran character-actor colossi Burt Young and Jack Kehoe too, among several other notables in the cast. Pope was a quiet little gem that came and went quick without much fuss at the box office to remember it by, failing to even make back its production costs if I remember right. Be that as it may, I saw the flick in the theater way back when, was completely charmed by it, and have adored it ever since. Read the book too, more than once, which was a good bit darker and heavier than the movie was, particularly the ending.

But back to, umm, business, shall we say. Richly blessed as we already have been by this kingly gift of a news item, the boons and benisons don’t stop there, playgoers.

Those rumors soon evolved into dank memes, which were dumped all over social media.

A big ol’ butt-load of funnies follow, none of which you will want to miss. I’ll limit myself to just one embed, difficult as the choice was to make.

Looks as if ***”President”*** Brandon has cranked the stink pickle heard ’round the world, a real stinkburger of a faux pas to put the cap on a long and noteworthy career of blunders, gaffes, and general self-beclownment with one he’ll never, ever be able to live down. How perfect is it that, after interminable decades in desperate, obsessive pursuit of an office he always was manifestly inadequate to successfully occupy, the corrupt old bunco artist finally did somehow manage to hoodwink his way into it…only to find it almost certainly the most miserable, excruciating experience of his entire worthless life?

Think of it: to ascend to the Presidency in his dotage—AT LONG, LONG LAST!!!—via a process so thoroughly tainted and corrupt that not just half the country but half the entire WORLD is deeply suspicious of his regime; has absolutely no respect for him or his plainly-usurped mantle of authority; and scornfully revels in his every successive misstep, on the vanishingly few occasions when people bother to even pay attention at all.

Yep, I think it’s safe to say that being POTUS has NOT turned out like ***”President”*** Brandon hoped or imagined it might, he nor his grabby, grubby show-wife either one. Not at all. They had imagined a plush, highly-remunerative sinecure being obsequiously pampered in the White House, the envious gaze of one and all focused on them with awe and admiration for their nation’s esteemed Chief Executive and his lovely First Lady. Instead, the miserable wretches are caught in the iron clutches of living nightmare, a sweaty horror from which there is no awakening.

And now the raddled old cretin has gone and publicly shat himself, in close physical proximity to the fucking Pope, ferchrissakes. Which Pontiff quietly noted this absolute nadir of humiliation, this total loss of all control of one’s person—even as the thick, fetid stench wafted far enough to invade the Papal nostrils all too swiftly—and dropped the decrepit oaf from his busy schedule posthaste, without offering any official explanation. Not that anybody needed one, after the nasty truth had, umm, leaked.

Couldn’t happen to a nicer asshole, if you ask me.

8
3

T’is the season!

Yeah, yeah, I know, not yet it ain’t. But really, now: breathes there a man with soul so thoroughly enGrinchinated as to be displeased with the seasonal return of CF’s long-time Christmas season mascot, dear old Scrooge Picard, if somewhat prematurely?

Well not me, bub. I don’t care what anybody says. I don’t care how flinty-hearted an old-school Trad-Christmas stick in the mud you might be. I look forward to trotting this entirely original and unique-to-CF makeover each and every year—no lie, I actually get excited like a little kid sneaking into the living room for an early peek at what Santa left under the tree for him well before the crack of Christmas dawn, another Yuletide tradition that I know a little something about myself—and will betcha-by-gosh-by-golly take all of Captain Scrooge I can possibly get.

And I’m in charge here, so there, blast it.

Hey, with all the disaster, trouble, and woe facing us this season and well into the foreseeable future (if any), I’d say we need Scrooge Picard, now more than ever. Enjoy, y’all.

6

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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

"There are men in all ages who mean to govern well, but they mean to govern. They promise to be good masters, but they mean to be masters." — Daniel Webster

“The illusion of freedom will continue as long as it’s profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theater.” – Frank Zappa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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2016 Fabulous 50 Blog Awards

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