Cold Fury

Harshing your mellow since 9/01

An e-mail from Da Nuge!

Made me laugh right out loud, it did.

Friend,

You may know me by one of my many nicknames: “The Nuge,” “The Motor City Madman,” or “Uncle Ted.”

I’m Ted Nugent – guitar slayer, lifelong outdoorsman, and hard core advocate for our sacred American hunting traditions, 1st and 2nd Amendment rights and all our Constitutionally guaranteed God-given, self-evident, truth-driven individual freedoms.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about my good friend and great American patriot warrior, Sheriff Joe Arpaio of Maricopa County, Arizona. I’m writing because my friend Sheriff Joe is back in the ring for you and me – for America – and he needs US to be there for him!

Joe Arpaio has just announced that he is running for the U.S. Senate – and that means Americans have the chance to finally send a real leader to Washington who will defend OUR interests on Capitol Hill!

Let’s Send America’s Sheriff to Capitol Hill to Clean up the Washington, DC Swamp! Join TED NUGENT and SUPPORT Sheriff Joe Arpaio for U.S. Senate TODAY!!

Heh. You gotta love it.

The liberal-left cannot tolerate a straight shooter like Joe Arpaio in the U.S. Senate and they will pull out all the stops to defeat him once and for all.

So will the liberal “right.” Hell, Ryan and McConnell are probably already writing checks and taping ads for whatever Democrat Socialist tapeworm is running.

P.S. Think how amazing it would be to see Senator Joe Arpaio fighting for us as the next Senator from Arizona! Let’s make it happen!

Sheeit, think about how amazing it would be to see CNN anchors having to force the words “Senator Joe Arpaio” out of their yaps now and then. They’d look like they were sucking on pickles brined in arsenic and cat piss every time they did.

I repeat: you gotta love it. And I do.

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On the bright side…

There’s always Bolton.

John Bolton turned up on Fox about an hour before I did last night, and professed to be surprised by the sudden Tweeting of his appointment as US National Security Advisor. The Beltway insiders allege that it was rushed out to distract from Trump’s cave-in on the 2,232-page Schemer-Pelosi Early-Christmas-For-Big-Bloated-Budget-Busting-Bureaucracy Bill that not a single person on this planet has actually read. Oh, and don’t give me that “increased funding for our troops” straw-clutching: every sentient creature from the earthworm up knows that the extra dough’s just going to go to diversity programs and gender reassignment surgery as opposed to anything that might increase the odds of actually winning the next 17-year war.

At this stage the Gullible Old Pussies of the Republican Party are pretty much openly advertising that giving them control of the House, the Senate and the White House is the equivalent of giving Yosemite Sam three sticks of dynamite to shove down his pants – with the additional nicety that this time round they’re actively flipping the finger at their president’s bedrock issue. I reiterate the point I first made on the radio a year ago: On January 20th 2017 Trump should have taken all those showboating showbiz no-shows at face value and held a businesslike inauguration at the southern border while laying the first brick. The brick remains unlaid – not because Vicente Fox refuses to “pay for Trump’s f**kin’ wall” but because Paul Ryan does.

As for the Bolton distraction, it seems to be working. I’ve given up trying to discern ideological themes in Trump’s firings and hirings: as far as I can tell, it’s mostly about people he likes to hang out with. In the case of John Bolton, I first met the new National Security Advisor a decade and a half or so back, in a roomful of European prime ministers and foreign ministers. He delivered a line that stunned the joint:

International law does not trump the US Constitution.

I was standing next to the Finnish Prime Minister, Paavo Lipponen, who had a genuinely puzzled looked on his face and eventually inquired of me: “He is making a joke, no?”

No.

This is a long one, including as it does a repost of a Steyn column on Bolton from 2005. Contained therein are these Bolton quips:

What I love about John Bolton, America’s new ambassador to the UN, is the sheer volume of ‘damaging’ material. Usually, the Democrats and media have to riffle through decades of dreary platitudes to come up with one potentially exploitable infelicitous soundbite. But with Bolton the damaging quotes are hanging off the trees and dropping straight into your bucket. Five minutes’ casual trawling through the back catalogue and your cup runneth over:

The UN building?

‘If you lost ten stories, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.’

Reform of the Security Council?

‘If I were redoing the Security Council, I’d have one permanent member …the United States.’

The International Criminal Court?

‘Fuzzy-minded romanticism …not just naive but dangerous.’

International law in general?

‘It is a big mistake for us to grant any validity to international law.’

Offering incentives to rogue states?

‘I don’t do carrots.’

Steyn also throws in another oldie-but-goodie column peppered with plenty more spicy Bolton haymakers. Whether Steyn’s distraction theory has any merit to it or not, I’m happy to see Big John back in harness as NSA; with Bolton back in their faces and impossible to ignore, the anguished screaming from the usual suspects over his every word is going to be a thing of joyous beauty. However big a fuck-you Trump just allowed the Uniparty to throw at us with his budget own-goal, the one he just lobbed at the UN and the DC Swamp bottom-feeders tops it handily.

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If sheep could cook…

A bit late for Women’s Day. But worth the wait.

…at one of the DC marches some clueless liberal woman carried the following sign. This sign and the text underneath it came from an e-mail sent to me by many readers.

“I dream women will someday have the same rights as guns.”

Does that mean that this brilliant liberal wants…

– women to be banned from entering school and college campuses? (Heh. A woman free zone. – GOC)

– women to be banned from any establishment selling alcohol?

– women to be banned from polling places on election days (That would be the death of the Democrat Party – GOC)

– women to be banned from any official government group meetings?(No women in Congress – GOC)

There’s plenty more, all of which suit me fine when applied to liberal women. And then there’s this one:

– That all women should come with silencers?

That one’s the most important, and it’s nothing short of vital.

I know, I know. Sorry, ladies. As I said, he has more, including a scalding opening riff on Hillary! that even you gals will get a giggle out of. The ones likely to be hanging around this particular den of iniquity, that is.

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Birds of a feather

One big happy family.

Rats — actual rodents — are infesting the newly renovated Consumer Financial Protection Bureau’s headquarters, The Daily Caller News Foundation has learned.

Hundreds of the agency’s employees moved into their beautiful $124 million headquarters across the street from the White House in October as construction was still underway. Upon entering, they discovered rats also were making it their home, according to two sources who spoke to TheDCNF on the condition of anonymity.

The $124 million price tag was double the original $55 million estimate and 25 percent over the $99 million estimate approved by Richard Cordray, the bureau’s first director.

Not one word of this should come as any great surprise to anyone. The building was always going to be infested with rats anyway—of the two-legged variety.

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‘Nuff said

All the gun-control “debate” you’ll ever need.


gun control 23.jpg

Covers it all pretty well, I think.

Update! Aw crap, the image is tiny, and I can’t remember where I first saw it. Let me see if I can dig up a larger version for y’all. It’s a good ‘un, I promise.

Updated update! Blast it, every damned one I’ve found so far is the same dang size, indecipherable for us old folks even with reading glasses. Here’s a link that will hopefully work for ya. I’ll get busy with P-shop later on and see if I can’t embiggen the thing, for the benefit of all.

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Twitter titter

Yeah, like I wasn’t gonna click on THIS link the second I saw it.

Chidera Eggerue has learned to love her body – saggy boobs and all – and now she wants to help others to do the same.

The 23-year-old award-winning British blogger, better known as the Slumflower, is the driving force behind Saggy Boobs Matter, an online movement that challenges unrealistic expectations of what breasts should look like.

“A lack of representation of saggy-looking boobs when I used to go bra shopping in M&S [as a young teenager] made me realise that something is wrong with the way the world views women’s bodies,” Eggerue told BuzzFeed News.

“The packaging would always have a picture of a white woman with perky boobs, yet when I’d try on the same bra in my correct size, my boobs just wouldn’t look like the model pictured.”

Pretty soon she had developed a complex and started to resent her boobs. “It was so bad that at that age I had already decided that I’d get a boob job once I got my first job at 18,” Eggerue said.

“I reached 18 and didn’t get a job, let alone a boob job, so I continued self-loathing until I reached 19 and became tired of feeling like a stranger in my own body. I decided I’d had enough and made the choice to stop wearing a bra.”

I’d never claim to be a support-garment expert or anything, but I’m pretty sure that ain’t helping your situation any, my dear.

Before we go any further with this, I’d like to reiterate a position I’ve outlined here once or twice before: namely, the ass-backwardness of trite, feel-good assertions like “everyone is beautiful.” No, everyone is NOT. The value we place on beauty is directly because of its scarcity, its distinctness. Leaving aside both cultural and individual differences in taste, which span a VERY wide range, if “everybody is beautiful,” then nobody is; it renders the word devoid of any useful meaning.

To make things even more confusing, standards of beauty are remarkably malleable even within a single culture, and are constantly changing. The American ideal in what you might call the modern era went pretty quickly from Shelly Winters to Raquel Welch to the emaciated-junkie look we’ve been saddled with, who even knows why, for entirely too long now. When I lived in NYC back in the 90s I frequently had occasion to be in places where well-known fashion models were also likely to be disporting themselves, and I can tell you that most of the poor scrawny things were ugly as a mud fence up close and personal-like.

We already have words adequate for describing the majority of us without taxing “beauty” beyond repair: ordinary, average, mundane, common, nondescript. Doesn’t mean we aren’t attractive, mind, nor does it mean that there ain’t at least one half-blind sucker out there who might find us completely alluring against all odds.

All that said, though, I’d like to reassure this woman that there really aren’t all that many of us males who are terribly troubled by titties sporting less pop and more flop. In fact, I know for reals that there are huge numbers of us horndogs out there who greatly prefer ’em that way. As for boob jobs, umm, no. Seriously, just…NO. I know there’s absolutely no reason this woman should care about what I think, but if there was ever one thing guaranteed to get me pondering whether to throw rocks or head for the hills where a prospective romantic partner was concerned, it was unleashing those puppies only to be greeted by a set of store-boughts. That’s a deal-breaker for me every time, not that it ever has actually happened; I’ve always been pretty adept at spotting the horrible mutilations even before the giftwrap comes off. My God, I think I’d almost rather unzip the fly to find a dick than that.

Or, y’know, maybe not.

In any event, don’t agonize over your natural gifts, girl; relax, be of good cheer, and be happy with what you got. Trust me, there’s somebody worthwhile out there who will be thrilled to death with ’em, and will enjoy each and every opportunity you give him to see, admire, and touch them. There’s a reason we call ’em “fun bags,” a perfectly apt term that does not come with any qualifiers, disclaimers, or caveats attached. In the end, all they really gotta be is titties and most of us will be pleased as hell to stand up and cheer for ’em every time. If you run across some putz who seems unabashedly unhappy about yours—no matter what style, size, or shape they might be—just walk away and be glad you found out fairly early how incompatible you were without wasting a lot of time trying to convince yourself it might be otherwise.

Hey, how do you make five pounds of ugly, useless fat irresistible to men? Put a nipple on it.

I know, I know. Sorry, I just couldn’t resist.

(Via Sarah and the Post)

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A tale of woe

I’m sure you all know by now that I have an enduring enthusiasm for and interest in aviation, military aircraft in particular. Planes captivated me way back when I was a kid, and that love has stayed with me. Even after working at the airport in the air freight biz for more than 22 years, I have never yet tired of seeing the things take off and land, and to this day will watch them doing it every single chance I get.

As much I’ve studied them over the years, there remains plenty I don’t know about the wondrous machines, and I ran across one example of that shortfall here: a 50s-era jet built by Republic, the F84F Thunderstreak and its variants. I’d never heard of the danged thing at all, which is actually not too much of a shock since for some reason my interest in roughly Korean-War-era jets pretty much begins and ends with one of my all-time favorites: the beautiful and formidable F86 Saber, one of the most wildly successful fighters ever built by anybody.

So I see this Thunderstreak mentioned peripherally in the above-linked ONT post and naturally Googled it right away, my curiosity piqued. As it happens, my prior lack of any awareness of this thing’s existence can be attributed to more than just my general lack of knowledge of aircraft from that era; the thing was a turkey, a near-complete failure, and was abandoned in relatively short order as these things go. It was a disaster right from the git-go. To wit:

Production quickly ran into problems. Although tooling commonality with the Thunderjet was supposed to be 55 percent, in reality only fifteen percent of tools could be reused. To make matters worse, the F-84F utilized press-forged wing spars and ribs. At the time, only three presses in the United States could manufacture these, and priority was given to the Boeing B-47 Stratojet bomber over the F-84. The YJ65-W-1 engine was considered obsolete and the improved J65-W-3 did not become available until 1954. When the first production F-84F finally flew on 22 November 1952, it differed from the service test aircraft. It had a different canopy which opened up and back instead of sliding to the rear, as well as airbrakes on the sides of the fuselage instead of the bottom of the aircraft. The aircraft was considered not ready for operational deployment due to control and stability problems. The first 275 aircraft, equipped with conventional stabilizer-elevator tailplanes, suffered from accelerated stall pitch-up and poor turning ability at combat speeds.

Um. Well, okay, so there were some early bugs; these things happen in the military aviation field, certainly. But they usually get ’em worked out, right? Design flaws, production problems—these things can be and are addressed and corrected fairly promptly as and when they crop up, right? Resulting eventually in an at least serviceable and useful platform, sometimes even going on to excel in a role quite different from the one envisioned in the original concept. Right?

The Thunderstreak suffered from the same poor takeoff performance as the straight-wing Thunderjet despite having a more powerful engine. In reality, almost 700 pounds-force (3.11 kN) or ten percent of total thrust was lost because the J65 was installed at an angle and its exhaust had a prominent kink. On a hot day, 7,500 feet (2,285 m) of runway were required for takeoff roll. A typical takeoff speed was 160 knots (185 mph, 300 km/h). Like the Thunderjet, the Thunderstreak excelled at cruise and had predictable handling characteristics within its performance envelope. Like its predecessor, it also suffered from accelerated stall pitch-up and potential resulting separation of wings from the airplane. In addition, spins in the F-84F were practically unrecoverable and ejection was the only recourse below 10,000 feet (3,000 m).

Aw, dammit. But still, the thing couldn’t have been a total botch, could it? A wholly irredeemable comedy of errors, a curse, justly loathed by all those unfortunate to be tainted by even passing association with the whole mess? Especially not coming from as experienced and competent a manufacturer as Republic, the creators of some truly outstanding planes over many years, the P47 Thunderbolt and the venerable, remarkable, and much-loved A10 Thunderbolt II among ’em. In fact, Republic is still around today, kinda sorta. Not as an independent company anymore, having been bought by Fairchild in 1965, who retained Republic’s naming convention with the A10. There’s also a museum on Republic’s old Long Island factory site, including a still-airworthy P47, bless their hearts.

But back to the F84F. Was it in truth a complete and total failure, an unpolishable turd of an airplane? Does its pitiable legacy consist entirely of being absolutely no use to anyone for anything besides killing pilots, auguring into the ground, vanishing into a blinding fireball, or unexpectedly flying apart on the rare occasions it was actually capable of flight under its own power?

Project Run In completed operational tests in November 1954 and found the aircraft to be to USAF satisfaction and considerably better than the F-84G. However, ongoing engine failures resulted in the entire fleet being grounded in early 1955. Also, the J65 engine continued to suffer from flameouts when flying through heavy rain or snow. As the result of the problems, the active duty phaseout began almost as soon as the F-84F entered service in 1954, and was completed by 1958. Increased tensions in Germany associated with construction of the Berlin Wall in 1961 resulted in reactivation of the F-84F fleet. In 1962, the fleet was grounded due to the corrosion of control rods. A total of 1,800 man hours were expended to bring each aircraft to full operational capacity. Stress corrosion eventually forced the retirement of ANG F-84Fs in 1971.

Well, that’s depressing. But wait!

On 9 March 1955, Lt. Col. Robert R. Scott, in a F-84F Thunderstreak, set a three-hour, 44-minute and 53-second record for the 2,446 mile flight from Los Angeles to New York.

Alright then, that’s cool.

With the appearance of the Republic F-105 Thunderchief, which also used wing-root mounted air intakes, the Thunderstreak became known as the Thud’s Mother. The earlier F-84A had been nicknamed the “Hog” and the F-84F “Super Hog,” the F-105 becoming the “Ultra Hog”.

The F105, of course, was a highly capable and successful aircraft, used pretty extensively in Vietnam and other places in various roles.

In what is probably one of the very few air-to-air engagements involving the F-84F, two Turkish Air Force F-84F Thunderstreaks shot down two Iraqi Il-28 Beagle bombers that crossed the Turkish border by mistake during a bombing operation against Iraqi Kurdish insurgents. This engagement took place on 16 August 1962.

Hm. Well, it ain’t a hell of a lot, but I’ll take it, I guess. It does ease the miasma of depression enveloping this stinking pile’s history somewhat.

The F-84F was retired from active service in 1964, and replaced by the North American F-100 Super Sabre.

NOW you’re talking. The Super Sabre, as it happens, is another of my all-time faves (despite serious problems of its own, resulting in a pretty short operational lifespan), which lends the sad saga of the hapless Thunderchump a little luster by association, at least. Rest in peace, poor thing. Or pieces, more like.

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The only New Year prediction you’ll ever really need

Schlichter has it, and it’s a sure-fire can’t-miss:

The fact is that no one knows what’s going to happen next year, but we can make educated guesses based on trends, probabilities, and past performance, or lack thereof. Sometimes that prognostication goes really poorly, as President Felonia Milhous von Pantsuit can attest between eager gulps of Chardonnay – oh sweet, life-giving alcohol. For a little while, it deadens the pain.

So what will happen in 2018? Well, it will either be terrible, or great, or kind of both. You can take that to the bank.

Follows, some more prognosticatin’, and then a caveat:

So will 2018 work out this way? Maybe. But maybe there will be some stunning sideswipe that will knock civilization off its feet. A war with North Korea. An asteroid strike. Ben Sasse going a week without saying something obnoxiously condescending and sanctimonious. Anything is theoretically possible.

Place your bets, folks!

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Quote of the year

Via Bill:

I think what you said is bullshit. No, wait — it’s worse than that. We talk about the black people in Uganda, and the brown people in New Guinea, and you say that we push our cultural artifacts upon them…You mean, medicine? You mean, TV? You mean, cars? Those people are just as smart as we are. They’d love to sit around a swimming pool and drink lemonade and listen to Eminem and get flu shots when they need them.

You want to keep them in some kind of crazy zoo, hunting with spears, so we can look at them and study their culture. I’ve done that. I lived in a zoo. I lived in a tent when I was a kid and drank sewage and had the shits for six years in a row. I’d kill somebody to keep from going back to that. I can goddamn well guarantee if you took one of those guys out of the jungle in New Guinea and gave him some jeans and T-shirts and a good pair of shoes, he’d cut your heart out before he’d let you send him back.

I’d bet you anything that they’d rather live in a nice apartment with a stereo and a toilet and running water that you can drink. So what I think is, you’re arguing that you have to allow the niggers to stay in their place. That’s about half a step from we gotta keep the niggers in their place. Simple racism is what it is.

Naked Prey by John Sandford

Fake but accurate, fictional but not false, from first to last.

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Chowing down

Klavan continues to come around, step by halting step.

Donald Trump — a political neophyte, a New York loudmouth who plays fast and loose with the truth, a massive egotist and a not altogether pleasant human being — has delivered conservatives one of the greatest years in living memory and has made our government more moral in the process. The left and many on the right didn’t see it coming because they hate the man. And because they didn’t see it coming, they won’t see that it’s come.

The first assertion is easily proven. After a year of Trump, the economy is in high gear, stocks are up, unemployment is down, energy production is up, business expansion is up and so on; ISIS — which took more than 23,000 square miles of territory after Obama left Iraq and refused to intervene in Syria — is now in control of a Port-o-San and a book of matches; 19 constitutionalist judges have been appointed and 40 more nominated; the biggest regulatory rollback in American history has been launched (boring but yugely important); the rule of law has been re-established at the border; we’re out of the absurd and costly Paris Accord; net neutrality, the most cleverly named government power grab ever, is gone; our foreign policy is righted and revitalized; and a mainstream news media that had become little more than the information arm of the Democratic Party is in self-destructive disarray. If the tax bill passes before Christmas, it will cap an unbelievable string of conservative successes.

Now you can tie yourself in knots explaining why none of this is Trump’s doing or how it’s all just a big accident or the result of cynical motives or whatever. Knock yourself out, cutes. For me, I’ll say this. I hated Trump. I thought he’d be a disaster or, at best, a mediocrity. I was wrong. He’s done an unbelievably great job so far.

Trump has made our government more moral by making less of it: fewer regulations, fewer judges who will write law instead of obeying the law, fewer bureaucrats seeking to expand the power of their agencies, less money for the government to spend on itself. He has made government treat us more fairly and equally by ceasing to use the IRS and Justice Department for political ends like silencing enemies and skewing elections.

This is what moral government looks like. And if every male senator in America is grabbing the buttocks of some unsuspecting female while, at the same time, voting for more limited and less corrupt government, the senators are immoral, yes, but the government is more moral. That is why we should never let the leftist press game us with scandal hysteria, but should keep focused on voting in those who will help fulfill government’s moral ends.

Trump has delivered conservatives an astoundingly successful year and made the government more moral in the process. You don’t have to like him, to salute him. I salute him. Well done.

He throws in the usual obligatory slams at Trump here and there in the post, of course. But this amounts to a heaping enough helping of crow for just about anybody, and Klavan swallows it right on down without a whole lot in the way of complaint. So what the heck, I’ll take it, and continue to monitor his progress with, umm, relish.

Yeah, I know. Sorry.

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Unfair, unbalanced, untruthful, untrustworthy, unhinged, unravelling, unimportant

Just another thing Trump has been right all along about.

The mainstream liberal media is primarily composed of stumblebum leftist jerks who want all the glory and respect due a caste of objective, moral truth-seekers, yet who don’t want to do the hard work of actually being objective or moral or seeking the truth. “I can’t pass, and I can’t tackle, and practice is really a hassle, but I’m wearing a sportsball jersey so I want your adulation and a Super Bowl ring!

Remember, to our intrepid media, news is only news if it helps the liberal narrative. If it doesn’t, it’s not news. It’s not anything. It’s un-news. Like the stock market boom. Like wiping out the ISIS caliphate. Like Mueller’s manifest conflicts of interest. Un-news. Remember, half the job of the mainstream media is generating metaphorical tumbleweeds.

And then there’s Brian Ross, the ABC News goof whose 100% false claim about candidate Donald Trump cavorting with Russia gave millions of mouth-foaming anti-Trump weirdos like Bette Midler doppelgänger Joy Behar a collective Muellergasm at the thought that the Flynn plea might not turn into yet another disappointment. And of course it did. Talk about un-news – they were giddy and, as a real journalist demonstrates, the plea means nothing. They were looking for Mueller to convict Donald J. Manson of mass murder and all Mueller’s managed to do was write one of his girls a ticket for double parking outside Sharon Tate’s house.

What kind of nut might think a mainstream media outfit would lie about a conservative who is about to take a critical Senate seat? That’s crazy talk. Sure, Fusion GPS (the group of ex-journalists that manufactured and promulgated the fake Trump dossier) had unnamed journalists on its payroll – gosh, the WaPo and the rest of the media sure aren’t curious about who they are – and yes, WikiLeaks revealed journalists working for Democrat campaigns, but it’s super paranoid nutso crazy to think this Moore thing smells fishy. Heck, no one covers the backcountry of Alabama beat better than the Washington Post, certainly not the local Alabama media that has covered Moore for 30 years and never gotten wind of this bombshell through Moore’s multiple elections! How dare you hicks not immediately accept at face value everything the liberal media says!

If (when) Roy Moore gets elected he ought to send the liberal media a dozen roses to thank it for his victory; their coverage is an in-kind campaign contribution. No one but Moore and his accuser knows whether Moore cavorted with an underage girl or not, but the voters of Alabama have a perfectly legitimate basis to disbelieve the media’s claims – the sordid track record of the media itself. Would the liberal media lie to hurt a conservative? Are you kidding? It does that every day, and the difference is that now we’re woke.

And that right there is their biggest problem, and will prove to be their undoing in the end. It’s a joy to behold, made more so by watching them flail away and knowing that there’s nothing they can do about it, because they cannot stop, and probably wouldn’t if they could anyway.

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Tis the season

For predictions of what might take place next year, and Schlichter goes ahead and gets himself an early start.

THE DEMOCRATS, THE GOPe, AND THE MAINSTREAM MEDIA WILL NOT TAKE A PERSONAL INVENTORY AND THINK ABOUT THEIR ROLE IN ELECTING ROY MOORE. (Confidence Factor: 95%)

Nah, it’s much easier, and so much more self-satisfying, for urban elites to pretend that the people of Alabama are a bunch of pro-pedo freaks than to consider that they actually don’t believe the charges, in large part because they don’t trust their establishment and media betters. Oh, and it’s easier to pretend that Alabamians don’t see the incredible hypocrisy being rubbed in their face by people who protect their admittedly guilty establishment fellow travelers while demanding that these red staters submit to years of representation by an ardent leftist based on hotly disputed claims.

TRUMP WILL TWEET ABOUT SOMETHING AND THE LIBERALS AND WUSSY NEVER TRUMPERS WILL FREAK OUT AND WE CONSERVATIVES WILL LAUGH HYSTERICALLY (Confidence Factor: 100%)

I mean some freakoutrage besides Pocahantasgate. While the libs and Never Trumpers were wetting their collective collectivist selves, we normals were rolling and those awesome Navajo Code Talkers were totally thinking, “I was at freakin’ Iwo Jima – I think I can handle a joke.

Yeah, that prediction was almost too easy.

That might just be the worst of it: these greasy degenerates have become so predictable. Our present-day political class has lost whatever entertainment value they might once have had, and have shriveled into something boring and banal.

I mean, come on, remember Wilbur Mills and his stripper girlfriend, “The Argentine Firecracker,” splashing around in the DC Tidal Basin nekkid after getting popped for a late-night drunk drive around the DC environs? Now THERE was a scandal worth paying attention to, I tells ya. There were giants in them days, folks, real lowlifes who knew how to fuck up properly, and disgrace themselves with style.

Pygmies. They’re all just pygmies now, feeble shadows of the truly amusing miscreants that roamed the earth before them. It’s kinda sad, and certainly disappointing.

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Point, counterpoint

Our like-minded criminal co-conspirator SteveF, from our Partners In Hate over at DP, lays out a fine strategy countering all those “How to harangue your hoggish, drunken, fat, conservative relatives at Thanksgiving—because they’re stupidstupidstupid, and you’re so SMART!” articles targeted at neurotic, callow, obnoxious, ignorant, and inexplicably arrogant college kids we have to endure every damned year.

They’re sort of like the Terminator: They can’t be bargained with. They can’t be reasoned with. And they absolutely will not stop, ever.

Unlike the Terminator, progtards aren’t dangerous except in large groups or if they’re in position to ambush you from behind or to file a bogus complaint with your employer. Progtards are mostly pathetic, and they’re even more amusingly pathetic when they’re angry and self-righteous.

Herewith, a guide for dealing with the tard at the table.

And with that he’s off and running, leading to my favorite section:

Communism, Socialism, and Progressivism
Don’t miss the chance to bring up the repeated failures of socialism and its inbred kin. You can’t quite say that every progtard truly believes that socialism et al would make the world a better place, but if you did say that you’d be off by only a few. Note the comment above about getting the stupid knocked out of you — socialism and such are stupid ideas that sound like they should work, and they sure do appeal to the lazy and untalented and envious, and you don’t realize they don’t work until you’ve had the stupid knocked out of you by the real world. Students, educators, bureaucrats, and some other so-called adults who have lived their lives as hothouse flowers never quite learn that a lot of nice-sounding ideas don’t actually work.

“You know the amazing thing about socialism? It’s so good at destroying wealth that it doesn’t matter if everyone’s equal. They’re poorer than even the poor people in the oh-so-unequal capitalist countries.”

“No, I take that back. The most amazing thing about socialism and communism is the number of people they’ve killed.”

“Tell me, how many more times does socialism need to be tried before it’s ‘real’?”

“Have you ever noticed how often socialist countries have to be bailed out by capitalist countries after natural disasters? Why doesn’t it ever go the other way?”

“Socialized medicine. What a cute idea! Too bad it never works for long. Back in the 1980s, American socialists pointed at England’s national health system as the best example of how nationalized medicine would work for everyone. Then when that started to show problems, they started pointing to Canada. Canada’s socialized medicine had just started and looked good … until rationing and problems became obvious a few years later. Now anyone wanting to show an example of socialized medicine done right has to just lie about all the problems it has everywhere. But next time for sure, right?”

Lots more, including some really useful short takes in the “Keeping the poo flying” section.

Upon which I’ll seize the opportunity to wish all you fine folks out there a most joyous and bountiful Thanksgiving, just in case I forget to do it tomorrow. May all of you find yourselves with a long, long list of blessings to give thanks for, this and every year. And even if not, it’s been my habit since my blessed wife died to remind myself that we should always resist as best we can the urge to be bitter over what we’ve lost, and rather strive to be grateful for what we have. The one attitude will make for far more happiness and contentment than the other, guaranteed.

Update! Ace has one too, but I don’t think it’s as efficacious as SteveF’s is. Of course, it was originally posted way back before the Brat Left went completely loco and there remained some small hope in trying to blunt their dementia with a more gentle approach that took their crippling, destructive affliction into consideration.

Given that the progressive elder-children-yet-not-quite-adults you’ll be encountering this Thanksgiving (who I will henceforth refer to as “grownchildren”) will be armed to the teeth with Vox explainers and Obamacare propaganda, I herewith humbly submit these first sketches of a new branch of Lifemanship I call “Thankgivingmanship,” which I define as the gentle art of insulting the stupid without alerting them to the fact that they’ve been insulted at all.

It is the goal of the dedicated Thanksgivingman, then, to achieve the sublime art of giving offense without offense being taken.

My basic strategy is thus: It would be as rude of you as it is rude of your cretinous grownchildren kin to allow a Thanksgiving dinner into a stupid game of Rachel Maddow Talking Points and their rebuttals.

So, rather than confront the unemployed idiots who will be assailing you, I propose instead to superficially avoid conflict and engagement on their dummy mouthflappings, and appear instead to agree with them.

But — and here is the point — a skilled Thanksgivingman will only appear to agree with the grownchildren to feeble intellects, such as those possessed by the grownchildren themselves. Instead of disagreeing with them — which will cause argument and anger — you will instead claim to agree with them, while in fact contradicting them, subverting them, of baffling them with statements that nearly, but do not quite, make sense.

That’s all well and good, and probably would work as intended well enough. But after this past year’s numerous rank displays of irrational hatred and contempt, dumping bucket after bucket of shit over our heads and then following up with a beating at the hands of a cowardly, drooling, imbecilic mob, I can’t say I’m much interested in that kind of subtlety. I am much more inclined instead to make it immediately clear and certain that I have NO intention of taking even ONE SECOND’S worth of shit from them any longer.

I can also say, though, that the chances of any such human carbuncle blighting my family gathering tomorrow is pretty much zero, unless one somehow wanders in by mistake—an error Xher, Xhim, or Xhit will instantly be given cause to regret.

The Neutral or Nonsensical Statement Disguised as Agreement. Progressives do not process language the same way human beings do; they chiefly adduce meaning from tone and body language, like dogs.

This means that you can say many things which are either irrelevant, nonsensical, or otherwise not in agreement with the progressive subcreatures you’re temporarily amidst so long as you deliver your words with a warm smile and a lot of nodding.

You may also use uptalk to express an insincere solidarity. As with dogs and babies, progressives find artificially high-pitched vocal tones to be soothing and possibly a prelude to Walkies and Snackies.

Whenever a progressive grownchild says something stupid and ignorant, which will be always, do not engage on the merits. Progressive grownchildren will become highly emotional and agitated at the slightest show of disagreement, and may wet the floor or claw at the furniture.

Heh. That would seem to call for judicious but swift application of Aesop’s Rolled Up Newspaper Method. But being the extremist H8TR!™ that I am, I’m more attracted to the use of an electric cattle prod, a stun gun, or perhaps even one of those captive bolt guns used to deadly effect by the villain in No Country For Old Men.




Problem being, they’re kind of bulky and unwieldy—probably too inconvenient to be lugging around the table in a crowded family dining room. Oh well. This bit is funny as hell, too:

Fake Statistics. It was my old friend Boston Irish who alerted me to this ticklish little trope, when he observed that no matter how absurd the statistic you proposed to a progressive, if that statistic seemed to call attention to whatever bugaboos xhe was excited about, xhe would respond with a gushing “I know, right?!

He demonstrated this to me at a party by interrupting a couple of liberals talking, and announcing to them:

“You know, based on current statistics, in ten years, the entire state of California will be homeless.”

Right! I know!” came the response.

By the way, that is not schtick. That is not a joke written for this blogpost. I was really there, he really said that, that really happened.

After having secured the agreement to his obviously-crank “statistics,” he turned to me with a slightly arched eyebrow and sipped his beer in quiet triumph.

I dunno, maybe there’s something to be said for Ace’s kinder, more genteel approach after all.

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Unleashing the power of NO

Or, as I prefer to phrase it, the power of “go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut, asshole-eyes.

I don’t care what the SJWs say, think, or do. When they demand that I conform to their dictates, I’ve got a counter-offer.

How about I do exactly what I want and you stand there and suck it up?

See, these idiots have no power if we just laugh at them and say “No.” That’s all it takes to stop all this stupidity cold. What are they going to do? Force us to conform? Unlikely – most of them couldn’t even do a push-up, especially the ones that identify as male. No, they seek to impose a Dictatorship of the Scoldatariat, clinging to power not through bayonets but by constant braying and badgering.

It’s so simple to resist them – we just have to start giggling and saying, “Yeah, no, I’m not going to do that. Take your literally shaking self on a long walk off a short pier.”

Why some people don’t just tell these morons where to get off is baffling.

After all, they’re full of it. You just need to understand that these people don’t care about other cultures – if they loved other cultures so much their sole experience with other cultures would not be accusing their immigrant housekeepers of stealing the silverware.

It’s a pose, a scam, an okie-doke. They want you to shrug and comply. Their strategy is to whine, complain, and annoy you until you become accustomed to obeying. They want to exhaust you with a never-ending litany of accusations of breaking the unending supply of new rules you didn’t know existed before you broke them.

This endless series of new rules is supposed to keep you off-balance and constantly vulnerable to their correction and guidance. You will never, ever be right – there’s always some new infraction for which you must submit to further restrictions of your right to self-governance. And the rules don’t make sense. Remember how you thought it was important for girls to be empowered by play where they model themselves after strong girl characters like Moana? Wrong! You’ve failed again, because in attempting to comply with their gender dictates (and make no mistake – SJWs have just as firm ideas of gender roles as normal people, except their ideas are terrible) you will inevitably run afoul of some other dictate. It’s intersectional all right, like an intersection with no traffic lights where you’re going to end up in a wreck one way or the other.

You can’t win, so why do some people play this game instead of telling these buffoons where to get off?

Because they hope—a singularly vain hope, it is—that eventually, the miserable fucktards will go bother somebody else, and the Normal being harangued can go back to just, well, being normal…thereby avoiding a meaningless, fruitless confrontation with a worthless slice of detritus who was never going to be persuaded to realize the moronic error of his/her/its ways by mere logic anyway.

Unfortunately, misery loving company as it does, said weedy fucktards won’t just dry up and blow away. They just keep popping up again and again, zombielike—their success, as demonstrated by Normal acquiescence, only serving to encouraging them to come back for more and ever bigger bites of our freedom and right to be left the hell alone.

As ever: they will NOT stop. They will have to BE stopped. A good first step towards stopping them might well be to start doing as Schlichter suggests and bluntly inform them, in terms that do not allow for any possible misinterpretation, that you will NOT be paying the slightest attention to their juvenile shrieking, that you hold them in no small contempt, and that their “concerns” are more properly a matter for psychotherapy than they are a legitimate basis for public policy.

Then tell them to eat shit and die gagging on it, and walk away laughing.

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Good riddance, redux

Fuck Flake.

This guy, Jason Johnson, is a former Ted Cruz strategist, and now is at an outfit called J2 communications.

He posted a series of tweets discussing the #SalonHot25’s/Weekly Standard’s/Chuck Schumer’s favorite liberalitarian Senator.

1) Tempting to comment on Flake’s floor speech. Instead, offering context on his view of “governing” by highlighting a few of his votes.

2) Jeff Flake was 1 of 10 Republican senators who voted to confirm Loretta Lynch for Attorney General
3) Flake voted to fund President Obama’s unconstitutional executive amnesty.
4) Flake voted against Sen. Mike Lee’s 1st Amendment Defense Act
5) Flake voted for Obama’s $1.1 trillion Cromnibus 2015 spending bill
6) Flake voteed to reauthorize the Export-Import Bank
7) Flake voted for S.2114 which increased Russia’s power at the International Monetary Fund
8) Flake voted for a CLEAN debt limit suspension (2014)
9) Flake was 1 of 11 Republican senators who voted to confirm Janet Yellen
10) Flake voted for the Ryan-Murray budget which lifted spending caps & raised fees (taxes) in exchange for promises of future spending cuts
11) Flake voted for the Gang of 8 amnesty bill
12) Flake voted for the post-Newtown gun grab
13) Flake voted AGAINST The Defund Obamacare Act of 2013 (S.1292)
14) Flake voted to increase debt by $900 billion in exchange for the promise of discretionary cuts in the future (2011)
15) Flake preferred John Kasich over Cruz or Trump in the 2016 GOP Primary.

The Republicrat collaborationist organization truly lost themselves a staunch defender of the DC status quo with Flake’s decision not to run for re-election as McCain’s trusty buttboy-alternate. Guess even a slimy dumbass like him is not too stupid to see the humiliating writing on the wall eventually. Those rock-ribbed conservatives at CNN were crushed by his preemptive capitulation, naturally, but found themselves deeply moved by his “this is not the Swamp I know and love!” speech, as you’ll see if you click on through to the rest of Ace’s post.

One down, a whole gaggle more of ’em to go. For myself, I’ll just repeat yet again: guys like you are PRECISELY why we elected Trump, you two-faced, fork-tongued frauds.

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Devil’s Dictionary redux

If Bierce could only see us now.

Brave: The Progressive religion is built around the concept of the struggle. Prog loonies all imagine themselves as paladins fighting the monster called fascism. Therefore, anyone who sallies forth into the public square to preach the good word is called brave. The irony is that it is totally safe. Antifa is called brave, while the people they are beating with clubs are called cowards.

That’s not who we are: This is one of those phrases that is not intended for the wider audience. It’s almost always said by a so-called Conservative in reaction to something normal people are doing. The person saying it is trying to signal to The Hive that they are not associated with the bad thing in question. When Paul Ryan says to his voters, “This is not who we are” he literally means he is not one of the dirt people in his district.

Send a message: This is another code word that people in The Hive use in public, but it is not intended for the public. When a politicians talks about “sending a message” he means to signal his virtue to the rest of The Hive. The message to the rest of us, if any, is that the person saying it should probably be hurled into the ocean before she gets us killed.

Problematic: This is a favorite of Prog loonies. It means the speech or act in question could be ruled heretical. The problem is they lack the words to condemn it and an easy escape route to run away from it.

Troubling: This is the same as problematic.

Vibrant: This is a favorite term to mean no white people. A neighborhood is vibrant when it is full of boarded up houses and gang-bangers with pit bulls.

Sustainable: This is one of those words that should be included in the humor section, but the people who coined it have no sense of humor. Anything that is labeled “sustainable’ is always something that is not sustainable. Alternatively, it may be sustainable, like organic farming, but will require a great die off of humans. Whenever you hear this word, assume the person using it fantasizes about putting you in an oven.

Of course, the all-time champ would have to be Liberal: Reactionary; not even remotely liberal at all. Or, say, Mostly peaceful: Violent.

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Tear down all the things!

T’is a consummation devoutly to be wished.

The proper response of conservatives to the moronic and vicious attack by leftists toward any monument that could conceivably offend the highly developed leftist sense of aggrieved feelings is to join the campaign by identifying monuments to corrupt leftists who have been eulogized in politically corrupt history.

There is no problem finding such corrupt leftists. Consider JFK and all the wicked machinations involving his sordid career. He used organized crime to win the West Virginia primary in 1960, which paved the way for his winning the nomination. JFK stole the 1960 election through massive voter fraud. JFK had affairs not only with movie stars like Marilyn Monroe, but also with underage interns whom he tried to entice into using drugs. 

Or consider Betty Friedan, another idol of the far left. This Marxist toady fought ferociously for America not to send help to Britain when Britain was standing alone against Hitler. Friedan took the position that there was no difference between Britain and Nazi Germany right up to the day Hitler attacked Stalin. During the period in which this ghastly woman was on the side of both Hitler and Stalin – what could be more evil? – she followed Moscow’s party line slavishly.

Friedan rewrote her life into something that never resembled truth. She wrote of the drudgery of housework, though she had household servants who did the real work. She invented whatever was needed to fill her narrative as an exploited woman.

Might we also want to remove all public images of Franklin Roosevelt, who allowed the internment of Japanese-Americans during the Second World War and who sold down the river all those people in Eastern Europe who had been victims of Nazism – Poles, Czechs, Estonians, Lithuanians, Latvians, and Yugoslavs – into being victims of Stalinism? These were not people whose government had sided with Hitler. They had resisted Hitler.

FDR tried to pack the Supreme Court. He created fascist-like government departments whose oppression of ordinary Americans was well documented at the time. FDR might have even allowed the attack on Pearl Harbor – John Tolland and a number of other historians found that argument compelling, which would surely qualify FDR as the most monstrous president in history.

Surely also America ought to remove every monument to Robert Byrd, the middle-level leader of the Ku Klux Klan, who elicited not the slightest protest from “Civil Rights” leaders, lackeys of the Democratic Party.

If Americans could be persuaded to remove these goons and creeps of the left from all monuments and buildings, then who should replace them? Barry Goldwater would be a good choice.

He damned sure would. I like it. Ohhhh, how I like it. But should this delightful idea ever somehow come to pass, you can be sure it won’t be Republicans who make it happen.

Certainly another candidate is President Reagan, whose life was another example of courage, wisdom, and strength and who, like Goldwater, had not a hint of scandal, bigotry, or self-indulgence. If everywhere that a statue of Robert E. Lee was taken down, a statue of Ronald Reagan were put in its place, that might cool the left into reluctant quiescence. 

Okay, now you’re just dreaming, man.

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The Democrats haven’t been this pissed off since Republicans made them give up their slaves

Let’s ban all the things! And I do mean ALL if them. Starting here:

As an African-American, Sharpton believes that using federal tax dollars to subsidize the Jefferson Memorial is wrong. And even though the flames of Cultural Revolution are burning hot, you can understand this.

History is important, but history can also be quite offensive.

But there’s one thing wrong with Sharpton. It’s not that he goes too far. It’s that he doesn’t go far enough.

Because if he and others of the Cultural Revolution were being intellectually honest, they’d demand that along with racist statues, something else would be toppled.

And this, too, represents much of America’s racist history:

The Democratic Party.

The Democratic Party historically is the party of slavery. The Democratic Party is the party of Jim Crow laws. The Democratic Party fought civil rights for a century.

And so by rights — or at least by the standards established by the Cultural Revolutionaries of today’s American left — we should ban the Democratic Party.

Not only get rid of it in the present, but strike its very name from the history books, and topple all Democratic statues of leaders who benefited, prospered and became wealthy by cleaving to the party. And shame Democrats until they confess the truth of it.

the new Cultural Revolution was serious, wouldn’t it also demand that the Democratic Party be put in a museum somewhere, away from decent people, along with those Confederate statues?

We could put Democrats in exhibits, behind glass, watching white political bosses chomp cigars and pass out goodies for votes, as minorities were relegated, as they are today, to failing schools and lost educational opportunity and neighborhoods that have become killing fields for the young and old.

And in great museums, the Democrats could be studied, safely, without endangering the sensibilities of the children.

Of course, the Democrat-Socialists, being fucking lunatics to a man/woman/amorphous non-gendered blob/thing, are well on their way to rendering themselves electorally extinct anyway. But why shouldn’t decent Americans express their disgust with the Party of Slavery by making it legal and official through a legislative ban?

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Credit where due

Okay, I’ll give these chuckleheads props for being creative, at least. And amusing.

Don’t have a whole lotta love for Robert E. Lee Road? There’s now a movement to give the street’s name to another Robert.

A group calling itself “Keep Austin Weird. Not Racist.” released a “peaceful video-proposal” Wednesday to rename the South Austin street for Led Zeppelin frontman and former Austin resident Robert Plant.

lant, the video proposal says, embodies Austin’s values better than Lee.

“Robert E. Lee Road is not what represents us,” the group behind the video said in a news release. “If anything, we’re more like Robert Plant Road. Aren’t we the ‘Live Music Capital of the World,’ after all? Plus, the dude actually lived here.”

Y’know, I ain’t the biggest Zep fan in the world. But I could live with this, I think.

(Via Austin Bay)

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Can’t appease them, can’t accommodate them, shouldn’t try

Worse than a waste of time.

I’m gonna tell you this. It isn’t gonna be over. This is not gonna stop, the haranguing. And what does that mean? It means even though the president gave these groups that have been bellyaching the exact words they want to hear, they’re not going to stop, which means they’re actually after something else. And whatever it is, it isn’t peace, and it isn’t justice, and it isn’t freedom, and it isn’t tolerance in America. And they’re going to continue because their objective is to totally turn things upside down. They’re not interested in resolutions.

And on the other side of this where you have the Nazis and the white supremacists, they’re told every day that they’ve benefit from white privilege. That’s the latest rage on campus, white privilege, understanding your whiteness, understanding the problem. These people can’t even find jobs, for crying out loud, and they’re being told they’re benefiting from white privilege, so they’re ticked off. And there are people benefiting from both sides of this being ticked off. Find them. Find who benefits here. Financially, politically, however it happens, somebody is benefiting, somebody wants these kinds of things to happen.

There IS no appeasing or placating them; even this wouldn’t do it.

I’ll tell you what else let’s do. Let’s not stop at Robert E. Lee statues. Let’s ban Gone With the Wind. Let’s ban the book, and let’s make sure the movie can no longer be purchased, rented, or exhibited anywhere. We will get rid of not just Robert E. Lee. We’ll tear down anything that tells anybody where Gettysburg is and what happened there. (interruption) Well, now wait. No, Gettysburg will stand.

Gettysburg will stand ’cause that’s where they had their lunch handed to them, so Gettysburg will stand. But we’ll go all the way back to Lincoln. We’ll take Lincoln’s name off of Mount Rushmore and we’ll put Trump up there. (I’m only kidding.) But, I mean, let’s do this. Let’s get rid of all of these outdoor signs of the nation’s injustice and unfairness. Get rid of everything so that American slavery is never known to have existed in any way. All monuments, all battlefields, all reenactments will be erased.

We shut down any restaurant that serves chicken fried steak, that serves biscuits and gravy. I mean, anything that can be traced back to that evil heritage of the Confederacy. Get rid of all of it! That would make everybody shut up, right? That would just silence everybody about the inherent evil of the United States related to slavery. Make it disappear, and then everything would be okay, right?

Of course not. But therein lies the beauty of it, if there’s any to be found: the Left has been reduced to a constant state of abject, perpetual misery and fear. Consider: they’re afraid of internal combustion engines. They’re afraid of guns. They’re afraid of the naturally-occurring and unalterable condition of climate change. They’re afraid of storms, and believe they must certainly herald planet-wide doom and disaster. They’re afraid of violence—when they’re not perpetrating it themselves, usually in massive groups against a handful of people.

They’re afraid of red meat. They’re afraid of genetically modified vegetables, even though every vegetable currently extant is genetically modified to one degree or another. They’re afraid of literature that contains words or concepts they disapprove of. They’re afraid of large corporations, especially pharmaceutical companies. They’re afraid of tobacco. They’re afraid of the Russians—for now. They’re even afraid of their own bloated government, in those periods when they’re not actually in control of it.

They’re afraid of Donald Trump, Rush Limbaugh, Republicans, and conservatives generally. Deathly afraid. It’s why they hate them all so implacably, of course.

They’re afraid of coal-fired power plants—and nuclear ones too, and pretty much any other kind that can actually provide enough energy to be effective. They’re afraid of cops. And soldiers. And Christians. Deep down, they’re actually afraid of Muslims too, which is why they so obsequiously suck up to them. In truth, they’re actually deathly afraid of men—the ones they haven’t emasculated, feminized, and steercotted, that is. The ones they have managed to de-ball, they’re contemptuous of. Which is an especially fine sort of poetic justice if you ask me.

Strangely, the one thing they don’t seem afraid of is Nazis. But then, since 1945, there’s always been too few of those around to really matter much anyway. Being so close together ideologically, maybe there’s a familiarity there that they find comforting, who knows.

With all that fear and angst driving them, they’ll never run out of things for their Big Daddy Government to protect them from. Which is exactly where their tremulousness becomes OUR problem, too. But it’s also what makes observing their now-daily nervous breakdowns so much fun.

Can you smell it update! A certain stench is a-rising.

Details remain thin. It is not clear, for example, how many alt-right demonstrators were there, though many reports indicate that they were substantially outnumbered by counter-demonstrators, largely drawn from the same crowd that has been rioting at the drop of Donald Trump’s name since November 9.

So, obviously, this was a fraught moment. But what would have been the outcome had the police and the Virginia National Guard—both on hand in strong numbers—done their duty, enforced properly obtained demonstration permits, and preserved the right of the warring parties to make their respective points without being physically attacked, one by the other and vice versa? It’s worth remembering that Charlottesville did everything it could to prevent the demonstrations, issuing permits only after being sued by the ACLU. And when push came to shove—literally—on Saturday, police and National Guardsmen were to be found only on the periphery of the brawling. Indeed, the Virginia ACLU reported that police were refusing to intervene unless specifically ordered to do so.

Almost at first contact, Charlottesville mayor Michael Signer and Virginia governor Terry McAuliffe declared a state of emergency and cancelled the demonstrators’ permits, whereupon police began funneling the alt-right protestors away from the designated demonstration site—and, some reports have it, toward the counter-protestors. The carnage followed in short order. Whether the breakdown in police protection was purposeful—that is, intended to quash a constitutionally protected demonstration and provoke a violent confrontation—is a question unlikely to be pursued in Virginia’s present political environment. As partisan eye-gougers go, Governor McAuliffe, a Democrat, is near the top of the list; Mayor Signer, also a Democrat, seems to be cut from the same cloth.

But deliberate or not, the effect was the same: when the sun went down over Charlottesville Saturday, the First Amendment was lying in the dust, and the civic ties meant to bind all Americans were just that much weaker.

Thanks to the unbridgeable chasm between Statists and lovers of liberty, those civic ties are all but extinct anyway, and rightly if tragically so. The First Amendment, along with the rest of the Constitution, isn’t far behind. Scapegoat them all you may like, but it wasn’t the Nazi boobs who killed ’em off, either. As Limbaugh says above, somebody wanted this to happen, and from the official maneuvering before and during it seems to be fairly clear who. The question we need to be asking is: why?

(Via Insty)

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In defense of…whaaaaat?

Brace yourself for a real shocker here, folks.

Though I’ve never been anything more than an infrequent pretender myself, I’ve always been partial to cigarette smokers. Perhaps I developed my taste for second-hand smoke during childhood flights from my Texas abode to visit East Coast relatives on (now defunct) Eastern Airlines. There, while eating your rubber cold-cuts sandwich and sporting your pilot’s clip-on wings (distributed by sunny stewardesses who did not yet realize it was a hate crime for them not to be called “flight attendants”), you’d be entrapped in a tubular suffocation chamber for hours on end, with no escape, smokers happily puffing away all around you as you tried to read your in-flight magazine through a Marlboro smog.

Nowadays, this would be litigated in The Hague. But to me, back then, this was not only the smell of adventure, but of adult compromise. I’d entered a more sophisticated sanctum than the one I typically inhabited. In my elementary-school world, if I had a classmate with an atrocious personal habit—say, little Ricky who wouldn’t stop eating his snot, and whose breath smelled like it—I’d either tell the teacher or chuck a dirt clod at his head during recess. But on the plane, non-smokers and smokers alike all breathed the same air, and stayed civilized, with nobody losing their cool. Long before I went on to become a civil-rights pioneer, this was my earliest lesson in tolerance.

I didn’t merely tolerate smokers, however—I actually quite liked them. Maybe because my first chain-smoking acquaintance was my Great Uncle Phil. He smoked Kools and drank Pabst long before it became the beer of choice for people who wear ironic facial hair. We’d sit on his backyard patio, and while away the day. He’d pour me a tall glass of chocolate milk if it was before noon; a few slugs of Blue Ribbon if it was after. He’d occasionally concoct a mission, declaring that we needed to head “to the boondocks” to look for rattlesnakes and deer sheds.

But mostly, we just enjoyed each other’s easy company, him puffing away on Kools all the while, laconically drawing one after another out of the soft pack in his terry-cloth shirt pocket, like he wasn’t in a hurry to break his lungs but eventually would get around to it. (Which he finally did.) He’d drop pearls of adult wisdom on me, saying things like, “Yep, yep, yep …”, as though he was answering a question that had never been asked. And I took it all in. Along with his second-hand smoke.

I’m not pretending that my seven-year-old self had a clean fix on Uncle Phil, what he wanted out of life, or what doubts or fears he secretly harbored, as all men do. I just knew that we had plenty of time to figure out what it all meant, because he wasn’t going anywhere. He still had a half a pack left to smoke. I’ve always divvied up the world into two kinds of people: stayers and goers. Uncle Phil was a stayer, as most smokers are. They are people whose pleasure shaves years off their lives, as the surgeon general forever reminds us. But maybe they know better how to savor the often truncated lives they live. Smokers tend to be people who prize fellowship, discourse, conviviality, and who know how to stop time, or at least to take the edge off its fleetingness. Because they have to linger long enough to finish up their smoke.

I’m well aware that smoking is bad for you. As Mensa member Brooke Shields once put it, “Smoking kills. If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life.” Yeah, fine. I don’t smoke, nor will I let my children. But if we’re picking nits, what doesn’t kill us these days? Trans fats, artificial sweeteners, stress, ISIS, etc. The list is long. As other health-science types promise: “What doesn’t kill us, will eventually kill us.” Lately, there’s been a rash of stories that taking too many vitamins can lead to fatal illnesses. In other words, the very supplements you swallow to elongate your life might be snuffing it out like a cigarette.

I like the cut of this fellow’s jib. And hey, in the words of a great old Stray Cats song: how long you wanna live, anyway?

When I was a kid, my family doctor was a wonderful, kindly old soul named Richard E Rankin. I had seasonal asthma something awful, and he would treat me for it with a cortisone shot every spring while chaining Lucky Strikes the whole while, lighting one off the butt of the other. That would be the unfiltered, he-man ones, not the lights, mind you.

Dr Rankin was such a sweet old guy, and even though I was terrified of him because of those shots, I loved him too, even back then. He even came out to our house once at two in the morning to administer one of those dreaded injections, which will probably seem stunning and bizarre to you younger readers out there, if any. I remember well his coming through the receiving line at my dad’s funeral, so bereft and grief-stricken as to be literally speechless: he tried a couple of times to choke out a few comforting words, failed to manage it, and just took me in a bear hug and moved on. He was a gruff but soft-hearted old small town family doctor, a once-common type they ain’t making anymore, to the huge detriment of all of us.

Dr Rankin lived into his 90s, bless his heart—yes, after all those Luckies. My dad, of course, died relatively young of emphysema, after kicking the habit years before via hypnosis. Hey, you never know, right?

Here’s perhaps the funniest bit of all, though: back in the early 90s, I moved to New York City…and started smoking. I was in my thirties, so I was what you might call a late bloomer. But here’s the part nobody believes, and I make no claims here about causality, but…well, after having been plagued with asthma my whole life, since I started smoking, I never have had it again.

I know, I know. It’s bizarre. Maybe smoking has so degraded my lung capacity that I just don’t notice the asthma anymore; maybe breathing all those airborne NYC toxins toughened me up, thereby inuring me to further trouble. Like I said, I make no claims one way or the other. But it’s the truth, I swear it.

I saw one of those Truthout.com government anti-smoking TV commercials once some years back wherein it was claimed that one out of every three smokers would eventually develop heart or lung disease. It struck me right away that that would mean that TWO out of every three didn’t. Hey, I thought, I like those odds. Talk about undermining your own message.

Maybe I’ll quit someday, if I get tired of it. Given what happened with my dad, I don’t worry much about it either way, because I know that after I go through the hassle and heartache of quitting and denying myself one of the few simple pleasures left in life, the very next day I’ll get hit by a bus instead. Or get caught up in one of those Allah Akbar! incidents that so baffle the FBI, maybe, and end up shot, stabbed, clubbed, or otherwise mown down.

These days, I have a cigarette shooter for hand-rolling my own personal lung-busters, with pure tobacco, pre-made filtered tubes, and no strange chemicals dumped in ’em by government mandate. They taste better, they smell better, and the price works out to about eighty cents a pack. I don’t wake up hacking in the morning anymore with these self-rolled dealies, and seem to smoke a good deal fewer of them too, who knows why. Takes about five minutes to roll myself a pack of what they used to call “pure tobacco pleasure,” and I have a fancy-schmancy engraved silver cigarette case that belonged to my late wife to carry ’em around in.

As I told my mother in law a while back, to her enormous amusement: if I couldn’t have a smoke with my morning cup of coffee, I wouldn’t even consider it worth bothering to get up in the morning.

After all that wayward rambling, I guess there’s really only one way to close this post:




Don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful, y’all.

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Some things never change

Curious, isn’t it, how you can reach back and pluck one of these commie swine right out of the antebellum era, plop them down in the middle of present-day New York City or San Francisco, and they’ll fit right in perfectly with their fellow Progressivists? They’ll be mouthing the same platitudes, pushing the same program, and complaining about the same “issues.” The only difference will be the hairstyles—maybe.

Guess that’s what these new-ideas people consider real “progress.”

Born in 1866, Magie was an outspoken rebel against the norms and politics of her times. She was unmarried into her 40s, independent and proud of it, and made her point with a publicity stunt. Taking out a newspaper advertisement, she offered herself as a ‘young woman American slave’ for sale to the highest bidder. Her aim, she told shocked readers, was to highlight the subordinate position of women in society. ‘We are not machines,’ she said. ‘Girls have minds, desires, hopes and ambition.’

Travelling around America in the 1870s, George had witnessed persistent destitution amid growing wealth, and he believed it was largely the inequity of land ownership that bound these two forces – poverty and progress – together. So instead of following Twain by encouraging his fellow citizens to buy land, he called on the state to tax it. On what grounds? Because much of land’s value comes not from what is built on the plot but from nature’s gift of water or minerals that might lie beneath its surface, or from the communally created value of its surroundings: nearby roads and railways; a thriving economy, a safe neighbourhood; good local schools and hospitals. And he argued that the tax receipts should be invested on behalf of all.

Determined to prove the merit of George’s proposal, Magie invented and in 1904 patented what she called the Landlord’s Game. Laid out on the board as a circuit (which was a novelty at the time), it was populated with streets and landmarks for sale. The key innovation of her game, however, lay in the two sets of rules that she wrote for playing it.

Under the ‘Prosperity’ set of rules, every player gained each time someone acquired a new property (designed to reflect George’s policy of taxing the value of land), and the game was won (by all!) when the player who had started out with the least money had doubled it. Under the ‘Monopolist’ set of rules, in contrast, players got ahead by acquiring properties and collecting rent from all those who were unfortunate enough to land there – and whoever managed to bankrupt the rest emerged as the sole winner (sound a little familiar?)

The purpose of the dual sets of rules, said Magie, was for players to experience a ‘practical demonstration of the present system of land grabbing with all its usual outcomes and consequences’ and hence to understand how different approaches to property ownership can lead to vastly different social outcomes. ‘It might well have been called “The Game of Life”,’ remarked Magie, ‘as it contains all the elements of success and failure in the real world, and the object is the same as the human race in general seems to have, ie, the accumulation of wealth.’

The game was soon a hit among Left-wing intellectuals, on college campuses including the Wharton School, Harvard and Columbia, and also among Quaker communities, some of which modified the rules and redrew the board with street names from Atlantic City. Among the players of this Quaker adaptation was an unemployed man called Charles Darrow, who later sold such a modified version to the games company Parker Brothers as his own.

Here’s the really funny part, in bold:

Once the game’s true origins came to light, Parker Brothers bought up Magie’s patent, but then re-launched the board game simply as Monopoly, and provided the eager public with just one set of rules: those that celebrate the triumph of one over all.

Hm. You mean she sold out her “liberal” values and took money for her idea? From a big evil corporation? This staunch Soljer of the Peepul abandoned her dedication to The Struggle and enlightening the benighted masses, opting to take the Boeing instead? Blithely walked away from Fighting The Power with every fiber of her being, took the easy way out, and cashed in?

And that right there is as good a demonstration of the reason socialism is, was, and always will be a failure you’ll ever see: it never once takes human nature into account. The desire to improve our lot in life by our own efforts is born into each and every one of us…including our socialist “betters,” as will be shown each and every time the opportunity presents itself to them. Even when they’re in full-on lecture mode, they’re keeping an eye out for the main chance. Which is why, in every socialist country you’d care to examine, the nomenklatura are riding around in limousines, surrounded by servants, and availing themselves of every perk they can lay their hands on, and soaking up all the graft within reach.

Cross their palms with silver and Higher Socialist Principle takes a fucking hike every time. They just don’t want any of YOU nasty, grubby, workaday villains cashing in alongside them, that’s all. As another great socialist once said: “I do think at a certain point you’ve made enough money.” Emphasis, always and forever, on “YOU.”

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Hmmmm….

Now here’s an interesting idea.

Trump might recall that “Drain the Swamp” was one of the most effective campaign slogans when he campaigned in Flyover Country.  He now has a taste for just how jaded, how corrupt and how absurd Washington has become over the last half-century.  Trump ought to change the slogan from “Drain the Swamp” to “Leave the Swamp.”

By moving the presidency a thousand miles or so away from Washington into firmly conservative Flyover Country, Trump can tweak the left into madness so obvious that Americans will be appalled, and he can appeal to folks in Missouri and New Mexico and Florida and other places with key Senate races – places he will need if he hopes to win a second term.

President Trump, by telling voters in these swing states he wants to live where they live – and Trump, ideally, could move from state to state every three or four months – can begin to create a narrative that he is for real America, whereas the Democrats (and establishment Republicans) are for the surreal pseudo-America of Washington.

The leftist establishment national media, which do not believe that there is an America outside the Beltway and the Left Coast, would find themselves separated from cozy sources, forced to rub shoulders with hardworking Americans, and exposed to all those imagined yahoos “bitterly clinging to their guns and religion” and living amidst all those “deplorables” Hillary suggested might be one quarter of the nation – the one quarter never seen, never heard, and never noticed by the Washington Establishment.

One can readily see all sorts of practical problems with this, of course. But I love the thought of the “liberal” media being stripped of their perks, pried out of their DC holes, and forced into the Basket of Deplorables to hobnob with us Great Unwashed so much it would be worth making the effort for that alone. Just the looks of horror and revulsion on their faces when they’re told about it would be priceless.

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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

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