GIVE TIL IT HURTS!

Short stop

A few thoughts from Diogenes Sarcastica.

I fully intend to haunt people after I die. I have a list.

Somewhere in the world there is a tree that sprouted the very montent you were born and has grown along with you all this time. And I think that is wonderful!

When my mother was pregnant with my little bro and we were on the side of the road struggling with a flat tire, a car with three men stopped, not to help but to ask directions to a local golf course. Mom sent them 15 mile in the wrong direction. She is the Legend that shaped me.

There are 13 minerals that are essential for human life, and all of them can be found in Wine. Coincidence? I Think Not!

I do feel bad about the confrontation tonight and the lady at Costcos with her son on a leash. Lady I’m sorry I asked if he was a rescue. The profanity wasn’t really necessary, but thank you for not siccing him on me.

Plenty more rich, buttery goodness where that came from, folks.

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Poetic justice strikes again

Horrible, shocking, terrible, UNEXPECTED!

Fully Vaccinated and Boosted Piers Morgan Tests Positive for COVID-19 — Blames “Anti-Vaxx” for Catching the Virus
British television personality Piers Morgan has contracted COVID-19 despite being fully vaccinated and receiving a booster shot two years ago.

The hypocritical host of “Uncensored” announced the news via Twitter, expressed his frustration, and blamed the ‘anti-vaccination’ community for his infection.

The 58-year-old host shared a photo of his positive lateral flow test on Twitter, along with a candid description of his condition: “as rough as a badger’s a***.”

There’s only one way I can adequately express my emotional response to reading this sad, distressing news.

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Too bad, so sad

The heart, it bleeds.

Dylan Mulvaney Suffers Total Embarrassment at Penn State
The “transgender influencer” who destroyed Bud Light is back, and this time he’s speaking on college campuses. Let’s just say that endeavor isn’t going any better than Mulvaney’s excursion into the beer industry.

According to The Daily Mail, Mulvaney was set to charge $40,000 a pop to show up and give speeches on college campuses. Whether Penn State (or whoever on campus brought him in) paid that much isn’t known, but what is certain is that whatever he paid was too much. Take a look at how many people showed up, or rather, didn’t show up.

The room Mulvaney was given holds somewhere around 1,000 people. To say the crowd missed the mark would be an understatement. There might be a hundred people there, and that’s probably being generous. Given this is the quality of what transpired, can you blame people for not showing up?

So, more of that “genocide” we’ve been hearing so much about lately, then.

Why do major brands give this guy money? What value is he providing? What customers are buying a product because they saw that Dylan Mulvaney endorses it? It’s astonishing to me that any marketing department would be dumb to pay him to do brand placement for them. The only thing I can figure is that it’s an easy way to get a company’s ESG score up.

Clearly, aside from being a target for mockery, there isn’t much actual interest in Mulvaney. Student-aged individuals are supposed to be his core audience, and no one is showing up to see him. Imagine being the person who wrote the check for that speech only to see him prance around in a cheerleader outfit for a few dozen people. How many homeless people could have been fed? How many Christmas presents could have been bought for foster children?

You miss the point, which is that you will be made to care—and endorse, and support, and stand up and applaud with utmost enthusiasm. Y’know, OR ELSE.

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Solidarnosc

Fake News work stoppage.

The Babylon Bee Writers Stand In Solidarity With Our Fellow Fake News Writers Going On Strike At The Washington Post
It has come to our attention that the delightfully witty satirists of The Washington Post are going on strike this week. We here at The Babylon Bee stand in solidarity with our fellow comedians and join them in demanding fair wages. The writers at WP work hard to bring us their daring and uproarious brand of comedy every day, and they deserve compensation for their work.

Where else can we find comedic gems like “Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, austere religious scholar at helm of Islamic State, dies at 48” or “Does that Jason Aldean song go on a playlist? Or a watchlist?” Where else can we find stories on race, gender, and foreign policy so consistently hilarious that they brighten our days and keep us hungrily coming back for more again and again?

Not to mention this classic howler:

Stop it, WaPo hacks, you’re killing me over here. Making me kinda hungry, too.

Update! Thought I was joking about that last one, did ya? ’Fraid not.

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Product: ENDORSED

With all my heart and soul.

Saw that this morning, and I haven’t stopped laughing since. Having broken the bank and gone without eating a cpl-three days last month to buy my musically-gifted daughter a 70s-vintage King Tempo trumpet off of eBay, to be specific:

Nickel plated, with raw-brass tuning slides and valve caps for contrast, in A-1 shape for its age—a bit of corrosion at the grab-points from skin oils and/or sweat, along with some very minor scratches and scuffs, as one must expect with anything this old. The case is in slightly worse shape, alas; as you can see from the pic, the felt has separated from the shell up by the grab handle. But no worries: my friend Greg is generously donating his like-new, barely used Benge case to make up for it.

I played a King myself during my band career and for many years after (a 601, if I remember right), and my poor horn was one hell of a lot more battered and beat-up by the time I parted with it than this fine instrument is. Hey, the great Harry James was a King man throughout his illustrious career—what better endorsement could one possibly want?

So you can bet your sweet bippy my young ‘un will be getting herself a BrassTache from dear old dad this Christmas to adorn and enliven her noble old King. She inherited the same silly, juvenile sense of humor her old man has, so I know she’s gonna love it all to pieces. And laugh herself sick over it, like papa did.

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RAYCISS!

Go, little black (and red) face boy, go!


I’m with the esteemed Mr Woods myself, all the way, and with Mr Majesty as well. Another perfect response:


In-fargin’-DEED. Sadly, the shitlibs can no more recognize irony than their own hypocrisy, and are as bereft of a sense of shame as they are of a sense of humor, of humility, or of decency. Remarkable, innit, how these self-proclaimed enlightened, evolved Superior Beings are in truth deficient in so very many ways.

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Break out the Jiffy Pop, everybody!

Stupid-ass Leftard nigger shits, falls back in it.

Deadspin reporter blasted by mom of young Kansas City Chiefs fan he falsely shamed for wearing ‘blackface’: ‘He is Native American’
The mother of a young football fan who wore a headdress and painted his face red and black to a Kansas City Chiefs game has blasted Deadspin for accusing him of “doubling up” on racism against black and Native communities — noting that her son is himself Native American.

Holden Armenta became an unexpected focus of an article by senior writer Carron Phillips that focused on a photo of the boy standing sideways, suggesting he was wearing blackface with no mention of the red side.

“The NFL needs to speak out against the Kansas City Chiefs fan in Black face, Native headdress,” read the headline, which accused the boy of “doubling up on the racism.”

Phillips, a former New York Daily News reporter, also slammed Holden’s Native American headdress and his “Tomahawk Chop” gesture, claiming the boy “found a way to hate Black people and Native Americans at the same time.”

“It takes a lot to disrespect two groups of people at once,” Phillips wrote in the article, which has since been tagged with a community note on X branding it “purposely deceiving.”

No link to Phillips’ original hit-job here, because fuck that noise.

The boy’s outraged mother, Shannon Armenta, shared numerous images of her son getting a warm reception at the game — while suggesting Deadspin focused on a photo that hid the fact that half her son’s face was painted red.

“This has nothing to do with the NFL,” she wrote, suggesting the photo was picked purely “to create division”

“He is Native American — just stop already,” she wrote of her son.

In fact, Holden’s grandfather, Raul Armenta, sits on the board of the Chumash Tribe in Santa Ynez, California, according to the Post Millennial.

Raul is listed as a “business committee member” who was first elected to the board in 2016 on the tribe’s website.

Oooooops. Sorry, Karen, no bonus PC points for you, I’m afraid. Deadspin’s token darkie’s spectacular self-beclownment notwithstanding, shitlibs are rallying behind their latest Courageously Courageous Hero™ by doubling down on dumbass, to the surprise of precisely zero (0) sane, sensible humans.

“The right picked this up and said, ‘Sue Deadspin, bankrupt Deadspin.’ And I can’t help but laugh at the center of this, I can’t help but laugh at the idea that they want them sued for one racism, while the kid is still in full racist garb,” Le Batard said. “The only part of him that’s not intentionally, kind of, racist is the black part! The rest is team colors and he’s going for just being a fan, but the racism is already in there, just not the kind the right is picking up and flogging Deadspin with over a five-year-old kid. Like, the stupidity of this is remarkable.”

Unsurprisingly, Le Batard’s take ruffled some feathers, especially at Outkick, where Bobby Burack authored a post titled “Update: Dan Le Batard defends Deadspin for lying about Chiefs kid wearing Blackface.” The post, which suggested the kid in question’s family could sue Le Batard, would have been ridiculous enough considering the Meadowlark Media co-founder wasn’t defending Deadspin so much as he was mocking the right’s outrage despite his belief that the costume was still racist in nature. But that was before Burack took to social media to produce the a “gotcha” moment: a picture of Le Batard wearing black and red face paint while dressed as the professional wrestler Kane.

Lawsuits all around, I’m thinking, which hopefully will at the very least bankrupt Deadspin, thereby depriving Karen Phillips of gainful employment and forcing him into a field of endeavor more suited to his abilities, such as cleaning hotel rooms or manning a drive-thru window in Keokuk or something.

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T’was the night before Christmas

And thru the White House
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a louse

An Alt Christmas Carol
The White House, Christmas Eve, 2023. Imagine the painfully lugubrious scene….

“Joe Biden” rattles around in the upstairs “residence” like a BB in a packing crate. Nobody is around besides a few secret service agents, so still at their posts they might as well be statuary. The Big Guy is all alone. His spouse, Dr. Jill, had enough of pretend caretaking quite a while ago, and flew off to Oprah’s place in Santa Barbara for counseling and commiseration. Hunter is Gawd-knows-where doing Gawd-knows-what.

“JB” shuffles out of the residence kitchen, where he just demolished a half gallon of Ben & Jerry’s Americone Dream® ice cream, against his doctor’s orders. His gall bladder writhes in revolt, sending a distress signal up the vagus nerve to the shriveled hypothalamus in his brain. A jumbled fugue of emotions — rage, fear, sexual arousal — quickens his step as he navigates by dead reckoning to the executive bedroom where he hurries to bed and falls into leaden slumber — only to be awakened by a cacophony of ringing bells. His eyelids roll open like shades in the windows of a skid row hotel room. Plangent moaning resounds as a mist emerges through the bedroom door and resolves into a mysterious figure garbed in the raiment of the Ku Klux Klan.

“Joe Biden” shrinks under the luxury Boll & Branch signature duvet— acquired when the agriculture minister of Ukraine slipped him an envelope stuffed with 100 hryvnia notes. The spirit wails something that resembles the old Confederate anthem Eatin’ Goober Peas.

“Who are you spirit?” the quaking president asks.

“Why, I am your old pard from the Senate,” the ghost of Robert Byrd declares, removing the pointed hood to reveal his leonine head of hair and scowling face. “Why have you thrown our sacred borders wide open, suh? I should die a thousand times, and see Old Glory trampled in the dirt never to rise again than to see this beloved land of ours become degraded by race mongrels.”

“Y-y-you don’t uh-uh-understand,” “JB” says, his childhood stutter returning. “They are muh-muh-migrants from oppression and vuh-vuh-very fine people.”

“Fine people, my ass,” the former Senator from West Virginia cries and clears the dust of the sepulcher from his throat. “I will send three spirits to you this night as a review of what has been and what shall become, so beware….” And with that the spirit returns to mist and slips back out through the keyhole…

“Joe Biden” is shocked from slumber again as an attractive blond female ghost floats through the bedroom window.

“Don’t I know you?” he asks.

“Cad! That is the very line you used to pick me up on spring break in Nassau, 1966,” says “JB’s” first wife, Neilia Hunter. “Shall I show you the meretricious spectacle you made of our family after that truck driver on Limestone Road ended my life and your little daughter’s too!”

“No-o-o-o-o,” the president moans, but is magically transported to the Wilmington Hospital room where his banged-up boys, Beau and Hunter, are recovering from their injuries. A TV crew is present as “JB” emotes for the camera, a cruel victim of fate, he blubbers, who will yet conquer his grief and go on to forty years of electoral victories and the sedulous gathering of tribute from “donors” far and wide to soften the blow of his loss. The room dims…

Read on for the other spirit visitations: second being the martyred Saint George of Fentanyl, complete with Neegrow dialect deftly translated from the original ghetto-ese, representing the Ghost Of Christmas Present; Christmas Yet To Come I’ll leave unnamed so as not to spoil the surprise for ya, but take my word for it, t’is a consummation devoutly to be wished. Kunstler uncorks his by no means inconsiderable writerly chops and lets ‘em really soar in this one, and it’s a joy and a wonder to behold.

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Denominational cues ‘n’ clues

The handiest, most concise guide for the Christianity-curious you’ll ever find.

It can be so confusing, trying to figure out which of the 437 Christian denominations you want to join. In fact, scientists believe there are almost as many denominations as there are genders. That’s a lot of different ways to do church!

Luckily, we’re here to help you sort through them all. Here are the pros and cons of each of the major Christian denominations:

Baptist

Pro: Potlucks

Con: Diabetes

Presbyterian

Pro: Majestic old hymns that cause your soul to rejoice in God’s glory

Con: You are not allowed to move a single muscle while rejoicing in God’s glory

Joel Osteen’s Lakewood Church

Pro: Positive, uplifting messages

Con: Hell

Eastern Orthodox

Pro: Full, robust beards

Con: The women have them too

Charismatic

Pro: Hit your step goal 20 minutes into service

Con: Non-zero chance of getting knocked over by the pastor and/or bitten by a snake

Anglican

Pro: Can have a beer & cigar with your priest

Con: Decent chance your priest is a drag queen

United Methodist Church

Pro: Cool logo on church building

Con: Rainbow flag on church building

Unitarian

Pro: You can do whatever you want and there’s no God or hell

Con: Oh no! They’re wrong and now you’re in hell

Despite my best efforts, I have been unable to confirm whether the outlet from whence this excerpt was gleaned is a satire site or not, so you’ll just have to judge for yourselves.

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Credit where due

Ken Layne always runs such great memes, I must say; in fact, I’ve swiped a good many of the tremendous backlog currently clogging my hard drive from his excellent establishment, and am grateful indeed for the opportunity. Just now I glommed a particularly good ‘un I’m gonna to dedicate to responsible adult and placental mammal Diogenes Sarcastica, who I am pleased and privileged to consider a blog-pal, just because I’m confident she’ll get a chuckle out of it when it runs here tomorrow evening.

As I like to tell myself I am, Miz DS is a weirdo in all the very best ways, which is why I figger she’ll pick up on it. No, I ain’t gonna say which meme it is, that would spoil the whole thing for everybody. Y’all will just have to figure that out for yourselves.

Happy belated birthday to Pedo Peter!

Now kindly drop dead already, you addle-pated old crook.

Joe Biden’s 81st Birthday Cake Was the Perfect Metaphor for Our Country
Did you know that it was Joe Biden’s 81st birthday on Monday? Because it was Joe Biden’s 81st birthday on Monday. He turned 81 years old—a fairly common occurrence for someone who was born 81 years ago.

Did I mention he turned 81 years old? Because he did, in fact, turn 81 years old. Of course, as PJ Media previously reported, the White House didn’t exactly want to call attention to the fact that Joe Biden is 81 years old, because Americans aren’t exactly comfortable with his advanced age and want him to call it quits and let someone else seek the Democratic nomination. As such, none of the social media accounts connected to the White House or Joe Biden mentioned his 81st birthday on Monday until the evening, when fewer people are paying attention. If the evening news was hoping for an 81st birthday photo op to report on, they didn’t get it in time.

And boy, what a mistake that was.

But what really got me about the photo was how familiar the cake was. Did you notice? It wasn’t just that the 81 candles looked like they were going to burn down the White House, but there was an undeniable resemblance between the cake and something that makes it the perfect metaphor for our country:


As soon as I made this connection, I couldn’t unsee it. Joe Biden’s birthday cake resembled a dumpster fire, and how perfect is that for Joe Biden, considering what he’s done to this country in just a few short years? Of course, there are a variety of fire metaphors that could work, but I think the dumpster fire is the most spot-on. I’m not sure who thought putting 81 candles on such a small cake was a great idea, but I’d be willing to bet there was some debate over whether a raging inferno was politically safer than a cake with two candles reading “81.” In the end, they clearly figured the cake requiring a fire extinguisher was the way to go, which tells you exactly how much the White House public relations team understands that Joe Biden’s advanced age is a problem. I suspect they figured it was literally worth the risk of setting the White House ablaze rather than publishing a photo with Biden in front of a cake with candles reading “81.”

Heh. There’s another humorous angle to the photo which Matt doesn’t touch on here—apart from the obvious Reichstag fire one, I mean—but Steve Miller helpfully did.


Thanks to Ed for the steer to that last.

Update! Jacked from WRSA. Thanks!

AmericanTurkey

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The Pissing Tree of Montenegro

I thought this vid was pretty funny, and no way was I going to miss out on using that title, which sprang to my warped mind immediately upon seeing it. “Sprang,” get it? A-HENH!


Piss on, O mighty Pissing Tree! Even the angle at which it leans gently back while the internal pressure is, um, relieved is perfect. The only thing missing is one branch thrown forward, arm-like, as if to brace itself against the bathroom wall above the pot.

Good thing trees don’t wear pants, as the wet spot left thereon by the splashback from such a copious flow would be quite embarrassing—a spot which not even the most extravagantly long untucked shirttail would be adequate to conceal from disdainful public scrutiny after exiting the facilities. The blushful stagger back to the bar is always a Walk Of Shame of sorts, made with one’s head hung down in hopes that no one will see his face and recognize him.

Trees being immobile, our friend PToM is also cruelly robbed of one of the primary pleasures of stand-up urination, namely writing one’s initials in the snow. Every man reading this knows exactly what I’m talking about here. And is probably smiling at the memory of the last time he did it.

Via our esteemed chum KT, whose own title is a real gem of sly, understated wit in its own right: Ah, Nature. Ahhh, indeed.

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Holy Hell – Girls in Paris

Muslims everywhere are quaking.
Girls. French girls. I do love them.

Via: Whatfinger News

UPDATE: As Skeptic point out in the comments, a “context” comment has been added – “The video is a choreographed stunt featuring professional trainees at the Campus Univers Cascades, a stunt training centre in France.”

Appears to be accurate.

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A little good news

Contra the self-obsessed blubbing of shitlib idiot and sportsball also-ran Megan Rapinoe, God is real, and He’s laughing His almighty ass off.

Guest Column: God Here. Megan Rapinoe’s Career-Ending Injury Is Proof That I’m Real.
I thought it would be hilarious, and it was.

KINGDOM OF HEAVEN—Hey, folks. God here. I’m writing in response to recent comments from Megan Rapinoe, a human female best known for playing the so-called sport of soccer, or “Satan’s Folly” as we call it up here.

Rapinoe invoked my name on Saturday after injuring her Achilles tendon in the opening minutes of the National Women’s Soccer League Championship. It was the final game of her professional career.

“I’m not a religious person or anything and if there was a God, like, this is proof that there isn’t,” Rapinoe told the demonic cretins you call journalists during the post-game press conference. “This is f—ed up. It’s just f—ed up. Six minutes in and I eat my Achilles.”

LOL!

I knew this would happen, obviously, but that doesn’t make it any less hilarious. The last game of Rapinoe’s career—the league championship, no less—and she injures herself immediately then has to watch her team lose from the sidelines. I’m still laughing about it.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I technically “created” Rapinoe and “love” her the same as all my “children,” even the ones who deny my existence. Even the ones who worship Satan and play soccer, to the extent there is a difference.

Nevertheless, I think we can all agree Megan Rapinoe is an obnoxious shrew who had it coming. Right? I’m willing to forgive almost anything, but one thing I simply can’t abide is disrespect for my country, the United States of America. Just ask Gabe Kapler or Colin Kaepernick.

Did I take it too far? Maybe. When the U.S. women’s soccer team protested the National Anthem during the World Cup earlier this year, I made sure they were humiliated by Sweden, an inferior country. I engineered it so Rapinoe, playing in her final World Cup, would contribute to the loss by whiffing a penalty kick, one of the easiest shots ever invented in the history of sports.

“That’s like a sick joke,” Rapinoe said after the crushing defeat. It sure was. “Sick” as in awesome.

Heh. Seconded from here below, dearest Lord. Many humble thanks for checking in and keeping Your obedient, devoted children hip to the Heavenly haps like this.

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