GIVE TIL IT HURTS!

Eyrie up!

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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Eyrie up!

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.

Eyrie up!

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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Eyrie up!

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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Eyrie up!

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.

Eyrie (not) up (yet)!

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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Eyrie up!

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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Eyrie up!

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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Eyrie up!

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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Eyrie up!

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.

Eyrie up!

The Monday Eyrie post has gone up a day late due to my recent calamitous loss of Internet access, but it can in no way, shape, or form be considered a dollar short. Entitled “Fake phony frauds,” this one covers plenty of ground: from limousine-liberal Bruce Springsteen, to Bob Grant, to Curtis Sliwa, to disgusting blob Al Sharpton, difficult though it might seem to discern any connection betwixt such a, ummm, diverse cast of characters. Preview ‘graphs:

Ah, how well I remember hearing Curtis Sliwa nail infamous shitstain Al Sharpton to the wall on the Bob Grant show with a tape Sliwa had recorded at now-defunct Freddy’s Fashion Mart up in Harlem, featuring the bloated, Marcelle-grease-stained bottom feeder calumnifying “white interlopers” and urging his biddable, low-IQ followers to violence.

Said incitement bore deadly fruit when a mentally-disturbed spook-a-loo and “protest” attendee finally heeded Sharpton’s blatant call to action, walking into Freddy’s carrying a full gas can and a loaded .38 and shooting several people in the course of burning the place to the ground, and leaving several corpses in his wake. Sharpton, of course, had denied ever saying anything at all in his daily “protests” that could possibly be construed as incitement to violence, which was just a bald-faced lie. 

And then Sliwa and Grant played, over and over again, the tape which exposed Sharpton as the liar, agitator, and all-round scumbag he always had been. It was beautiful, is what it was. It was beautiful, is what it was—a golden radio moment those of us who were around to hear it will never forget. SIDE NOTE: It was Sharpton’s use of a bullhorn to amplify his exhortations to violent action against Freddy’s that inspired Paul Shanklin to have Conk Boy always speak through one in his note-perfect parodies for the late, lamented Rush Limbaugh show.

And if that doesn’t constitute enough enticement to get you clicking on over to read the rest, I don’t know what on Earth might be.

Update! Humble thanks yet again to CA over at the indispensable WRSA, who has once again blowed up the ol’ Eyrie hit counter with a link, in the process including a most apposite quote:

If you aren’t stopping by Mike’s alternative station on a daily basis, you are missing a lot.

And that’s from a guy who firmly believes (or wants to believe, more likely) that his life was saved by the line from Thunder Road, “It’s a town full of losers and I’m pullin’ out of here to win”.

That would be the Springsteen song, not the classic Robert Mitchum flick, which is going to require another liberal dose of palate cleanser, I’m afraid.

For those who didn’t know already, Thunder Road was pretty much a Robert Mitchum joint entirely: he wrote the script; wrote and sang the title tune; produced it via his production company DRM; and cast his son James as his own character’s younger brother after Col Tom Parker had scotched Elvis Presley, for whom Mitchum had originally written the part. The movie also features a star turn by the delectable Keely Smith, who also sang the movie’s main theme, the haunting “Whippoorwill.”

Keely Smith, a most toothsome babe if I ever did see one, rose to stardom as the confection her real-life husband Louis Prima spent the majority of his onstage time mugging, clowning, and generally hamming it up around, to her bored, eye-rolling indifference. To wit:

Not the best example of what I was talking about, perhaps, but whatevs, I just like the song. There are better examples out there, if you care to look ‘em up. The Prima band was blessed not just with the enormously talented Smith and Louis himself, but with one of the all-time great sax players as well:

Sam Butera (August 17, 1927 – June 3, 2009) was an American tenor saxophonist and singer-songwriter best noted for his collaborations with Louis Prima and Keely Smith. Butera is frequently regarded as a crossover artist who performed with equal ease in both R&B and the post-big band pop style of jazz that permeated the early Vegas nightclub scene.

Butera was born and raised in an Italian-American family in New Orleans, where his father, Joe, ran a butcher shop and played guitar in his spare time. He heard the saxophone for the first time at a wedding when he was seven years old, and, with his father’s encouragement, he began to play.

Butera’s professional career blossomed early, beginning with a stint in big band drummer Ray McKinley’s orchestra directly after high school. Butera was named one of America’s top upcoming jazzmen by Look magazine when he was only eighteen years old, and, by his early twenties, he had landed positions in the orchestras of Tommy Dorsey, Joe Reichman, and Paul Gayten.

As the big band era wound down and heavy touring became less common among jazz musicians, Butera re-settled in New Orleans, where he played regularly at the 500 Club for four years. The 500 Club was owned by Louis Prima’s brother, Leon, and it was this connection that led him to his much-heralded Vegas-based collaborations with Prima and Smith.

Prima transitioned from big band to Vegas somewhat hastily, having signed a contract with the Sahara without having first assembled a back-up band. From his Vegas hotel room, Prima phoned Butera in New Orleans and had him assemble a band posthaste. Butera and the band drove from New Orleans to Las Vegas in such a hurry that they had not taken time to give their act a name. On opening night in 1954, Prima asked Butera before a live audience what the name of his band was. Butera responded spontaneously, “The Witnesses”, and the name stuck.

Butera remained the bandleader of The Witnesses for more than twenty years. During that time, he performed with Louis Prima and/or Keely Smith on such Prima-associated songs as “That Old Black Magic”, “Just a Gigolo/I Ain’t Got Nobody,” “Come on-a My House,” and “I Wan’na Be Like You” (from Disney’s The Jungle Book). Richard and Robert Sherman, composers of the songs for the Disney animated film, agreed to cast Prima, Butera and their band after executives from the Walt Disney Company urged them to travel to Las Vegas to witness the band’s live act in person.

Butera is noted for his raucous playing style, his off-color humor, and the innuendo in his lyrics. The arrangement he made with Prima of “Just a Gigolo/I Ain’t Got Nobody” has been covered by David Lee Roth, Los Lobos, Brian Setzer, The Village People, and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. In addition to his accomplishments as a saxophonist and composer, Butera is widely regarded as the inspiration for the vocal style of fellow New Orleans-born jazz singer Harry Connick, Jr.

There, see what I was talking about when I mentioned all those great music-biz stories the other day?

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Eyrie up

PHEW! Okay, the Friday Substack has gone live at last. Titled “The sanction of the victim,” this one’s a lengthy treatise on exactly that, kicking off with some quotes from the redoubtable Ayn Rand. Those salutary musings are immediately followed by the usual hot-mess eructation of offensive, obnoxious, and hate-sodden prattle for which I have become so justly renowned. Such as:

Thus is the inevitable question presented: Was Ayn Rand prescient, some sort of predictive genius? Or was she merely talented enough to recognize and expound (at great length!) on the fairly mundane, perhaps even puerile, conception of eternal ideals as the harbingers of eternal conflicts: between liberty and tyranny; between the meddlesome busybody and the independent-minded individual desirous only of being left alone; between over-powerful government and certain of its own subjects?

In each of those cases, the critical factor is the sanction of the victim. Throughout the ages, that is what determines the final outcome. Regardless of our sophistication, our astonishing technological advancement, and our societal wealth, present-day Americans cannot expect to be treated otherwise by history. Should the current melancholy trend of blithe disregard for the most basic natural rights in combination with sheep-like docility and obedience continue very much longer, the task of reclaiming those abandoned liberties and fundamental rights will go from “difficult” to “utterly impossible.”

I don’t even have to say it by now, do I? Y’all just go ‘head on and do it, then.

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Eyrie up!

Today’s Eyrie peroration— “In praise of teachers?”—has just been posted. This time out, we delve into the wildly overblown lionization of teachers as “heroes”—which gross mischaracterization cheapens the word and amounts to an indirect insult to, as the post has it, “those who pull people from burning buildings or dodge bullets on the battlefield”—and the damage such a stretch has done to society at large. A taste:

I well remember, during the dark, dismal days of the Great Scamdemic Lockdown, being greatly annoyed by all those “Heroes work here!” signs all over the place exalting essential workers ordinary Janes and Joes—from hospital staff to the most humble WalMart employee—for the saintly sacrifice of just, y’know, doing their jobs. Fine folks? Of course, most of them anyway. Heroes? Well, no, not exactly, not quite.

Funny, innit, how most if not all of our seemingly-insuperable contemporary predicaments share a common solution—ridding ourselves of the plague of Progressivist locusts that is devouring our society. Seems as if there ought to be some action Normal Americans could take to resolve the situation in their favor and re-balance the scales, so to speak. If we could only figure out what *cough-cough FUMIGATION cough-cough* it might be.

Read of it, gang, for It. Is. Good. Hell, at one point I even work in a little sympathy for the modern primary-school teacher’s plight, believe it or not.

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Eyrie up!

Friday’s Substack has been posted—“Excuses, excuses,” a dissertation on the Transgender Jihad and its unwholesome ramifications, concluding with a hate-laced diatribe about our supposed “domestic migration crisis.” Appetizer ‘graphs:

The Welsh’s terror at living in the nightmarish, intolerant hell of Texas is nothing but vapor and paranoia, all hat and no cattle as a native Texan might put it. To date, there is absolutely NO record of LGBTQXXXZYXP39+++etc Persons Of Penis being slaughtered wholesale by marauding bands of Lone Star H8RRZZZZ™ looking to bathe in the blood of gender-confused lunatics—NONE.

This auto-generated fear is as phantasmagorical as the “genocide” supposedly being carried out even now against such mentally-disturbed people across the nation, and is based on the same idea: that merely refusing to stand up and cheer for their pitiable delusion is the exact same thing as wreaking violence upon them. And that’s just contemptible, self-serving nonsense.

On the other hand, the harassment and hatred endured by the Kohls for having the heartless temerity to fly a US flag outside their humble Kaliforny abode is all too real, as anybody who’s ever been visited in the middle of the night by hordes of bullhorn-toting, torch-bearing pAntiFa and/or Burn Loot Murder rioters or had their car vandalized in a public parking lot because there was a Trump sticker on the back bumper can truthfully attest.

One of these things is NOT like the other. Indubitably, definitionally, and demonstrably, one of them is REAL. The other, not so much.

Read, subscribe, all that schtuff. Try it, you’ll like it.

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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

Claire's Cabal—The Freedom Forums

FREEDOM!!!

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

“When I was young I was depressed all the time. But suicide no longer seemed a possibility in my life. At my age there was very little left to kill.”
Charles Bukowski

“A slave is one who waits for someone to come and free him.”
Ezra Pound

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If the laws of God and men, are therefore of no effect, when the magistracy is left at liberty to break them; and if the lusts of those who are too strong for the tribunals of justice, cannot be otherwise restrained than by sedition, tumults and war, those seditions, tumults and wars, are justified by the laws of God and man."
John Adams

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

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

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

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

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

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