The Friday Substack rip is now fully functional. Titled New Yorkers go down without a fight, it’s a blast of shock and high dudgeon at the credulity-straining and utterly, utterly disgraceful news that NYC’s godawful Mayor, in collusion with the NYPD, has just announced that local mosques will henceforth be allowed to blast their obnoxious call to prayer over amplified loudspeaker systems, no permit required, no questions asked—even on 9/11, if you can believe it.

The NYPD in particular REALLY ought to know better, so many of its own officers having heroically given their lives rushing back into those burning towers in hopes of pulling as many as they could from the horrific chaos and destruction alive. But noooo, their latter-day superiors have just brazenly spat on the graves of those courageous men instead, defiling the memory of their sacrifice and dishonoring themselves in the bargain, whether they know it or not.

It is to weep, truly it is. Wonder what the families of those selfless cops and firefighters are thinking and feeling in the wake of this foul, invidious insult. It isn’t merely a slap in the face for them, it’s a shit-smeared brick to the fucking teeth.

The grim conclusion:

We all know the ironclad rule for the Mohammedans: once they have conquered a territory—any territory, anywhere—it is to be considered a Mooselimb fiefdom forever afterwards.

The Moslem call to prayer. Over loudspeakers. IN NEW YORK CITY, ON NINE FUCKING ELEVEN.

Incroyable. And also: sacre bleu, as well as merde, and zut alors.  Been nice knowing ya, NYC; so long, and thanks for all the fun times I had there over the years. I’d say you should all hang your heads in shame, but clearly, you no longer have any. WORD TO YOUR JEWISH MOTHER: get out now, while you still can.

This is another, umm, concise piece, seeing as how it’s extremely hard to even know where to begin with something this outré. It borders on the sacrilegeous; Ground Zero of right ought to be hallowed ground, a site of inhuman slaughter and carnage consecrated by the thousands of souls who were so viciously, gruesomely murdered there.

I knew back then that this dreadful day would come—as I’ve explained before, it’s why I chose the name I did for this blog, in fact—and now here it is. How very quickly we forget. No extra charge for the cussing en Français near the end; consider it a gift, from moi to vous.

Update! Another ugly thing I know will soon be coming: an onslaught of lecturing, posturing, and sanctimony regarding the vitally critically vital necessity of upholding the Mooselimbs’ 1st Amendment rights, from the selfsame shitwits who have repeatedly demonstrated an almighty propensity for trampling those rights underfoot. I can only say that if this provocation—almost certainly wilfull, at best blindly oblivious, disrespectful, and insensitive—doesn’t fall under Oliver Wendell Holmes’s well-known “shouting fire in a crowded theater” free-speech exception, I can’t imagine what might.

Whither your precious “freedom FROM religion”—a “right” neither specified nor implied in the 1A, mind—now, shitlibs? We wonders, yes we wonders.

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Or, in the case of a certain set of sagging manboobs, down—slowly but surely, inexorably, and permanently. Called Expert me no experts, this one is rife with insults both subtle and stinging aimed at Our Global(ist) Lord and Savior (but mostly Lord, mind), Bill Fecking Gates. A bite of the apple:

FUCK Bill Gates, and all who sail in his doughy, baggy ass. His one true moment of innovative spark was not in creating Microsuck and the Winbloze OS, but in perceiving that the best way to force that eternally buggy, bloated, insecure PoS into people’s lives was to cajole its way into American offices and places of business across the blighted plain. Having become forcibly accustomed to using it at work, it only made sense to adopt it at home, if for no other reason to ensure compatibility with their work documents.

That, I will admit, was damned astute of him…and the world has been paying for that unfortunate insight ever since.

Dearly, too. Read of it, for It. Is. Good.

Update! In reference to the aforementioned manboobs, I’m reminded of a maxim I read in National Lampoon many, many years ago: Everything gets fatter, hairier, and closer to the ground. Sounds like an excellent addition to our Mike’s Iron Laws compendium, if you ask me. Not that you did, of course.

Okay, NOW it’s all done and posted: The normalization of mental illness, I call this one. Sample:

More like the lionization, the beatification of it, actually.

And if those two examples—of a steadily-metastasizing number—of daylight barking madness being not just pitied, not just tolerated, but actively endorsed by the ruling political megalith and its pet-poodle media aren’t enough to convince you, Glenn Reynolds would like a word regarding what’s going on here.

This one consists mainly of excerpts from three different articles in support of my central premise—that a certain criminal organization masquerading as a political party finds it useful to promote mental dysfunction among the hapless, and increasingly neurotic, subjects they misrule—without a whole lot of further commentary de moi. Do read it all, folks, and you’ll see that I ain’t wrong here.

No, not yet it ain’t, but fret not, it’s a-coming. Getting a late start on things this evening thanks to some errands and house-cleaning crap I was past due on, but I’ll be back in the saddle blog-wise in just a short.

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Our Monday Substack offering is currently extant and available for the perusal of tasteful and discriminating readers everywhere: Some things really never DO change—a brief, light-hearted treatise on two Subjects Eternal among us mere mortals: sex, and titties. A, umm, taste:

Whodathunkit? Turns out, no matter how frenetically shitlibs rail against reality, two things in fundamental human nature remain constants: sex, and titties.

Well, and beer. Can’t forget that one.

…Not really touched upon (so to speak) in this article is a prank-potential I remember reading about a good while back: the remote-controller switching the vibe or dildo on full-blast in the middle of the subject’s workday, say during an important meeting or some such, setting off uncontrollable paroxysms of squirming, moaning, and general orgasmic frenzy. Then again, that could be considered a feature, not a bug.

And if THAT excerpt doesn’t pique your interest, I’m sure I don’t know what might. Nor do I particularly want to, frankly. For the normal, healthy folks among us (if any), you know what you must do, Glasshoppa.

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The Friday Substack thingamabobber is up: Stupid, stupid, STUPID, concerning the vain but apparently deathless hope that we might vote our way out of this, or that “peaceful protest” will ever avail us a damned thing beyond getting even more of us Gulagged than already have been. It’s an ugly reality, for sure, maybe the ugliest of them all. But reality it indubitably is. A taste:

Uhhh HUH. So it’s your contention, then, that even though they’re perfectly willing to, and I quote, “beg, borrow, cheat, and steal,” along with indicting, trying, and imprisoning Trump on obviously spurious “charges” in defiance of the fact that they’re purportedly “deeply afraid” of him—and by extension, of US—it is nonetheless somehow to be taken as read that after all that rampant dishonesty, skullduggery, and outright criminality, they will somehow feel themselves honor-bound to respect a “political solution” to all this? SRSLY?!?

Thou fool. Thou starry-eyed, wet-behind-the-ears, Pollyanna-esque bloody fool.

Go ye and read of it, for It. Is. Etc.

Owing to the late start I mentioned earlier, and still being not entirely sure that this whole phantom-pain business is done messing me around just yet, I decided to make the Monday Substack outing short, sweet, and straight to the point: “Who says miracles don’t happen anymore?” Since it’s so brief, I won’t bother with an excerpt beyond the opening ‘graph, so’s you’ll know what you’re getting yourself into here:

Last week over at the CF Mothership, Barry posted a heartfelt cri de coeur by a young troubadour by the name of Oliver Anthony, of whom I hadn’t heard before. His is quite a stirring story, as it turns out…

Go ye and read of it, for short as it is, it still packs a mighty wallop.

Update! A-yup, it sure looks as if this Anthony lad’s powerful little ditty has really struck a nerve.

It’s a battle cry for people who want to resist the control of big money and big government but know they are losing the fight. They resent being investigated by the FBI as potential terrorists when they speak out at school board meetings or affiliate with a traditional branch of the Catholic Church. They see a government eager to prosecute political candidates from one party but not the other. They see violent street riots go unprosecuted and the southern border left open in violation of the law, fairness, and public safety. They see their children shut out of public schools for over a year by teachers unions and so-called experts with more power than evidence.

It’s impossible to understand the popularity of “Rich Men North of Richmond” without understanding the widely shared grievances behind it. Anthony voices one of them as, “I wish politicians would look out for miners, and not just minors on an island somewhere.” You don’t have to love coal-fired electric power plants to have sympathy for the people who have lost their jobs, their hope, and their future.

His anguished conclusion follows naturally:

Lord, it’s a damn shame
What the world’s gotten to
For people like me, and people like you
Wish I could just wake up, and it not be true
But it is, oh, it is

A whole lot of people agree, and they’re not passive. They’re furious. Oliver Anthony is the eloquent voice of that fury.

Remains to be seen whether or not they’re passive, actually. But fury will be the determining factor in the transition, if any, from passive to active, just as it ever has been. That transition, should it occur, will take place with a swiftness and suddenness that will take pretty much everybody by surprise—the just and the malificent alike.

Big-time update! I won’t bother chasing down all the links now, but I see from my daily Twitter X email that Lauren Boebert, MTG, the Hodge Twins, and several other “names” have all enthusiastically endorsed Oliver Anthony and his smash-hit tune. Hell, even the illustrious and beloved Catturd has given it a hearty two-thumbs-up.

Kind of a big deal, no?

Fount of wisdom update! The pure 190-proof stuff, straight from the source.

Anthony further discussed this in a video uploaded to his YouTube page. He said, “I know we’re living in dark times, and I know that this is really just the beginning of what’s to come.” His deep empathy for those of us adrift in societal ambivalence was apparent.

“There’s a lot of beautiful people in this world, and I meet a lot of awesome people every day,” said Anthony. “The universal thing I see is that it’s like no matter how hard they push and how much effort they put into whatever it is they’re doing, they just can’t quite get ahead.”

“Rich Men North Of Richmond,” according to Anthony, is relatively apolitical. He said, “It seems like both sides serve the same master. And that master is not someone of any good to the people of this country.”

On skyrocketing suicide rates, he said, “Those aren’t problems; those are symptoms of a bigger universal problem, and a lot of people know that. It’s common sense, but we don’t talk about it enough.”

“If you take anything away from me and the music I write, it’s that this life is a beautiful opportunity,” he said. “There is a divine creator that loves you, and sometimes it takes falling down on your knees and getting ready to call things quits before it becomes obvious that he’s there. He’s always there; you just gotta look out for him and listen for him.”

In this next, umm, Tweet (am I still allowed to call it that?), Oliver announces his first-ever live gig:

So how did it go, then? Swimmingly, to say the very least.

Saturday (Sunday, actually—M), Oliver Anthony held a free performance at Morris Farm Market, in Currituck, N.C., and was joined by country music star Jamey Johnson. According to the Rumble video version of the performance there,

[w]e filled 25 acres with cars and an entire venue of amazing people. I wanted to share so you could all see it. I am still blown away. Thank you for everything. I will never let you down.

Bold mine, because, I mean, just WOW. The upshot: Oliver Anthony is the real deal, no pretense or pose, no phoniness or artifice about him anywhere to be seen. He’s forged an incredibly powerful connection with the millions of Real Americans just like him out there owing to that simple fact—a connection the scum-sucking ProPols “north of Richmond” can only stand in awe, envy, and stark incomprehension of.

Why, it’s almost as if those Real Americans in their multitudes had been just waiting for someone like Oliver to come along and speak the honest truth to them, without any of the condescension or pandering they’re used to getting from their self-proclaimed “betters.” It’s a safe bet that at least some of them had begun to lose hope that he ever would.

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Just posted tonight’s Substacker: Bits & pieces of dis and dat. This one’s a lengthy treatise on the incomparable Vince Guaraldi, with a leavening of nasty scumbag Saul Zaentz thrown in just for spice. A taste:

Guaraldi, see, was what I’ve for many years referred to as a Player—first, last, and always. And as it happens, that means something your everyday squarejohn type of person can never fully grasp.

See, over lo, these many years, as a Player my own self I’ve had quite a few conversations with friends, acquaintances, and even veritable strangers about this very distinction. Eventually, as I’d be boring all and sundry to tears with stories describing the travails of the Player’s life, one well-meaning soul or another would always say it: “Wow, you most really love it, huh?” To which close-but-not-quite assertion I would usually respond thusly: No, it isn’t that. I DO love it, of course, but really, it’s more that I’m incapable of NOT doing it. It’s just who I am, it’s what I do.

Same-same with Vince Guaraldi: he didn’t merely love doing it, he HAD to. His entire identity, his sense of self, was inextricably entwined with being up on that stage—playing before a live audience, spreading the joy as far and as wide as he possibly could, right up until his heart literally gave out.

Go ye and read the rest of it, gang. There’s even a lovely little musical interlude included with the rest of the bouillebaisse, one I’m sure you’re gonna enjoy.

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Got ‘er done way early this time, and since I couldn’t find a way to save the piece without actually posting it, I figured it’d be better to go ahead and get it on up there rather than risk losing the entire thing should the compooter crash or the power go out or some other nightmarish something.

Titled “Autonomous plane?”, this one uses the somewhat disturbing news of the USAF’s launch of a plane they call the Valkyrie which is powered completely by AI as the springboard for a look back at what I consider to be the REAL Valkyrie, the XB70. We go on from there with a photo-rich ramble through the catalog of early-jet-age fighters, all the way back to the unstoppable F86 Sabre. Kinda tough to excerpt this one, but I’ll take a stab at it anyhoo.

The diminutive Starfighter was conceived and built as a replacement for North American’s F100 Super Sabre, shouldering it roughly aside before the F100 had even had its maiden flight. The Super Sabre was itself the successor aircraft to the famed F86 Sabre, America’s very first swept-wing fighter and quite a pretty l’il gal her own badass self.

And what a badass she was, too, eventually turning the tide against the once-invincible MiG 15 over Korea to close out the conflict police action war with a convincing 10:1 kill ratio. So successful was the F86, in fact, that it remains the most-produced Western jet fighter by a hefty margin, at nearly 10,000 units built.

A fun post to write for sure, I think y’all will really enjoy this one.

Gonna be a slight delay, I‘m afeard, due to some compooter issues I’m trying to work out. Namely, a 1t flash drive I’m trying to use to back up the main HD on Ye Auld iMac, which for some mysterious reason locked up during formatting. Think I may have gotten it sussed out, I’m just waiting to find out now. Back in a bit…hopefully.

Update! Okay, the Friday Substack is now officially available for the perusal of you more discerning gourmands. Entitled “When the White Hats have switched to Black,” concerning cops, and what they might be likely to get up to at the behest of the ruling regime, here’s a taste:

As went the “justice”system, the US Constitution, and the greater Republic for which they once stood, in a manner of speaking, so went the police—exactly as they did in Hitler’s Germany, Mussolini’s Italy, Stalin’s USSR, and every other vile shitrapy controlled by the Left. When history has spoken as loudly and clearly as this, we should all spare ourselves the misery which will result from deluding ourselves otherwise.

In a different guise, perhaps, but the one crucial question remains before us, continuing to haunt our thoughts and aspirations until it is answered, in full and unequivocally.

Read on to learn what question I’m talking about, as if CF Lifers couldn’t have already figured it out.

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Monday’s Substack offering, He’s all about “family”, is now live and kicking in its stall. It’s a horrified and disgusted screed delving into the Biden Crime Family’s disgraceful mistreatment of four year old Navy-Joan Roberts. Sample:

Basically, then, what we’re left with is a four-year-old girl whose whole life so far has consisted of an ongoing series of court battles trying to force Biden fils to admit he’s her father, and strongarming Biden pere to openly admit what everyone already knows: that he in fact has seven grandchildren, not six. Gee, wonder if that’s gonna leave any residual emotional damage?

What a guy, eh? If you ever wondered how it came to pass that Hunter is so profoundly, profligately fucked the fuck up, the answer isn’t too terribly hard to descry. Just a quick glance at his decrepit, vicious “father,” along with his greedy, grasping, overly-ambitious step-mom “Dr” Jill, makes the answer all too apparent.

Once again, we see the wisdom of the old homilies: like father, like son; as the twig is bent so grows the tree, from which the apple never falls very far, &c. The Biden Crime Syndicate are all peas from the same pod, pluperfect examples of absolutely everything wrong with this ersatz nation today.

Go ye and read of it, for It. Is. Good.

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Just a reminder: today’s Substack column was actually posted yesterday, early instead of the usual late-or-even-totally-forgotten-about. Tenk Yew.

A rare treat this week for Eyrie subscribers: after waking up needing to pee, then knowing I’d be unable to get back to sleep right away, I whipped up a stiff pot of Java and got to work on tomorrow’s Substack post. Having completed the thing early, I then decided what the hey and went ahead and posted the thing a day in advance. No need to thank me, gang, I’m a giver like that.

Entitled “The wit and wisdom of Erma Bombeck…plus, ALIENS!!!”, the topic is one you decrepit oldster-types among us will likely recognize right off the bat with a warm, fuzzy feeling of nostalgia. Younger CF readers, if any, won’t know what or who the hell I’m talking about. Which beings us right to our appetizer ‘graphs.

What terrible things it says about how very far our society has fallen that Erma Bombeck’s gentle humor would be incomprehensible to contemporary “Americans,” the timeless perspective therein either disdained as “dated” and therefore irrelevant or just condemned outright as being the product not of insight and intelligence, but of some nebulous, unspecified form of “bigotry” and/or “privilege.”

Said insights and humor were once universally understood and appreciated in America That Was, just part of our shared cultural experience. How very sad that today they come across almost like bizarre artifacts from some far-distant alien planet, transported to us across galaxies in a funky flying saucer.

Which, natch, is where those aliens I mentioned before come into the picture. Whether you’re at all cognizant of Erma Bombeck and/or believe in beings from another planet or not, this is one my better pieces yet, or so I believe, of which you should definitely read the all.

Update! Taking advantage of an old man’s habit of insomnia to muck about with the Substack CP a bit, in this case by inserting a couple pre-formatted “Subscribe now” buttons in the Bombeck post. I’d LOOOVE to be able to find some way of altering font sizes within otherwise-normal text and such, but thus far no joy with that one.

Pay no attention to me, folks, I’m just playin’ around here.

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Time once again for The Monday Substack Thang: “In praise of…wait, WHAT again, now?” Wherein we lament the loss of…of…well, after working on this post a good chunk of yesterday and today, I can’t even bring myself to type it again. The springboard for all this grief and mourning is another characteristically excellent (if UNEXPECTED!) outing from our compatriot Eric Peters, who successfully unearths the Devil in the details, then re-plants it good, deep, and HARD. A taste:

The dealer was familiar with my dad’s habit of cruising around various car dealerships of a Sunday afternoon with the fam in tow, just doing a casual looky-loo type thing without any serious intent at all of allowing himself to be talked into a purchase. Additionally, he’d never been in the least susceptible to the impulse-buying phenomenon, particularly not when the “buy” in question was an exorbitantly-expensive 4-5 thousand dollar (!!!) luxury automobile.

What with all that, plus the dealer’s foreknowledge of my pop’s devotion to the Blue Ovals, this [EXPLETIVE DELETED] was no way no how gonna sell itself. So the proprietor went straight for the jugular with the ol’ hard-sell:

Y’all just take this low-mileage, well-cared-for beauty on home for an extended test drive; bring it back in, say, no sooner than three weeks or so. Here’s the keys.

And we did that thing.

Read on for the gripping—if not exactly so UNEXPECTED! as all that—denouement.

Update! Eyrie post has now been updated with some Bonus Content you’ll almost certainly find…dare I say it…UNEXPECTED!

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Friday’s Substack-a-palooza is up. Titled Pardonnez Trump, this one laughs away the ludicrous notion that Bribem, or any other D卐M☭CRAT for that matter, might ever seriously consider “pardoning” Trump (kinda tough to pardon someone who isn’t guilty of one damned thing) in the interest of saving the nation. Excerpt:

What you ought to fear much more is that “the part of the country that still loves Trump…” will instead not do a damned thing more than sit on its fat ass and complain on the Innarnuts about it. As dreadful a prospect as civil war and violent, bloody revolution no doubt are, the dissolute and degraded complacency that would render Real Americans passively inert whilst the Neo-Marxist mob subjugates them and destroys the very concept of Law And Order itself will bring about a nightmare far more iniquitous and enduring than even civil war ever could.

It is to laugh. As if there has, for years if not decades now, been the slightest sign that they’re even capable of acting wisely, or that they understand what “acting wisely” might consist of, or have any regard for that at all.

Read the rest, subscribe for free, or select one of the pay-sub options to comment. Y’all know wassup.