A night in Hell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what happened to them?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Mini-Mengele done unto death

Julie Kelly tears the Malignant Dwarf a richly-deserved new one.

It’s nearly impossible to select the most maniacal comment made by Dr. Anthony Fauci in his nearly 70-minute interview with “Face the Nation” host Margaret Brennan that aired over the weekend. Joe Biden’s chief coronavirus advisor and miniature global menace spent more than an hour denying responsibility for his documented mistakes, bragging about his self-appointed role as the world’s doctor, hogging credit for the vaccines, and attacking anyone who has challenged his unrivaled ego and track record of failure.

Portraying himself as a victim rather than the cruel, megalomaniacal tyrant he is, Fauci took aim at Donald Trump, Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, Senators Rand Paul (R-Ky.) and Ted Cruz (R-Texas), and Congressional co-sponsors of the “Fire Fauci Act,” which would zero-out the salary of the federal government’s highest-paid bureaucrat and audit Fauci’s correspondence and financial transactions during the pandemic.

While declaring, “I represent science,” Fauci humbly graded the scientific approach to the pandemic an “A+” while incongruently  warning about a “fifth wave” of the virus and explaining away one scientific stumble after another, from useless temperature checks to the need for bi-annual booster shots and randomly claiming the virus spread is “40 to 50 to 60 percent…asymptomatic.” 

Science!

Of all his alarming remarks, however, Fauci’s push to get experimental vaccines for babies and young children to market as quickly as possible is the most depraved. When asked by Brennan, who has spent the better part of two years asking Fauci how to run her life and the lives of 330 million Americans, when he expects vaccines for children between the age of six months and five years to be available, Fauci said he hopes the shots are ready by the beginning of next year. “I would hope it would be in the first quarter because the studies are being done right now on children from two to five and then from six months to two years,” Fauci told Brennan. “I don’t think there’s going to be an issue with efficacy. But when you’re dealing with children, it’s a very sensitive area. And that’s the reason why [it] may take a little bit longer.”

When parents question whether it’s necessary to vaccinate children, Fauci replies that, “yeah, we do want to be vaccinating the children because we want to vaccinate and protect everyone in society, including children.”

Now, that is not the conclusion of a sound man of science, as Fauci again insisted he is in the interview, or even a man of common sense and humanity—that is the raving of a madman.

Good, toothsome stuff so far, all of it. Following the above up with “demon,” “sociopath,” “sadist” and worse, though, serves notice to one and all that Our Jules, bless her savage heart, was only warming up.

In a just world, Anthony Fauci would be giving lengthy television interviews clad in an orange jumpsuit from the confines of a federal penitentiary. Aside from his crimes against humanity, especially the tragic toll on senior citizens and young people, Fauci has clearly committed a number of crimes including lying to Congress and the American people in his official capacity and misappropriating federal funds on ghoulish scientific experiments.

Disagree with the first sentence of that last ‘graph, muchly. No, in a truly just world this half-pint homunculus would be dangling by his scrawny neck from a high gibbet in some remote and lonely wood, his bulging eyes pecked at by ravens, his tangled, dripping entrails ripped loose from his flabby gut to sway gently with the midnight breeze, there to be the plaything of bobcats happily batting away at the rancid, gory goo with razor-sharp claws. Squadrons of buzzards would tear his putrefying flesh into bloody gobbets for their dining pleasure, swarms of blackflies the only crown ever to adorn this bargain-basement Messiah’s empty head—thorns being well above the station of such a lowly, miserable villein as he.

After all that, Fauxci’s unlamented corpus would, ideally, be left to hang in disgrace for a full month at minimum, speedily shrinking beyond its already laughably-diminutive stature due to the parallel ravages of carrion-beasts and the natural processes of decomposition—the noisome gases repeatedly belched forth in a cannonade of horror and shame; the fleshly shroud peeling back to commend the ghastly, undersized skeleton to the attentions of beasts inclined to gnaw and worry at such; whatever small dignity this sad, no-account wretch somehow managed to scrape up and retain over the course of a misspent existence suddenly collapsing into a vague, barely-perceptible feeling of shame—the kind that tugs weakly at a better man’s sleeve as he passes by, causing him not to slow down so as to either pay heed or offer respect for the departed, but to speed his pace, his departure made with a brief flash of mild annoyance at the useless distraction caused by one entirely unworthy of his, or anyone else’s, consideration.

Then, after the Animal Kingdom and nature’s elemental fury had all consumed their fill, the tattered, stinking remainders would be cut down and unceremoniously kicked into some unknown and unvisited crevasse or ravine, there to be reunited at long last with Mother Earth, whether She will or She nil—nobody asked what Her preference might be, I suspect—in the fullness of time to be erased from all memory of this mortal coil, all his futile works and flights if egotistical fancy gone and most definitely forgotten as well.

Now THAT, I think, is more like it. As I said the other night: why this contemptible gnome, this pluperfect Grey Man of Government, hasn’t been the recipient of some long-distance rifle-round lurvs way before now is beyond my ken. It’s baffling, is what it is, and I can see no explanation for it.

5

Money shot!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3

Once a kiddie-diddler, always a kiddie-diddler

Wait wait, whut…?

“Ashley Biden” is trending on Twitter following the verification of her diary that National File published last year, which included various scandalous details regarding her life, including “not appropriate” showers she took with her father Joe as a child.

A week and a half before the 2020 election, National File broke the story after a Project Veritas whistleblower provided a digital copy of Ashley Biden’s diary to journalist Patrick Howley.

As nobody who knows anything at all about the Amerikan Stasi would find surprising, the Fibbies—NOT ALL OF WHOM ARE WILLING AGENTS OF LUCIFER HIMSELF, most of them being fine, upstanding people suffused to the eyebrows with honesty, integrity, humanity, and a becoming love of country and its core values—immediately sprang into action to protect their Pedophile Principal by supressing any widespread public exposure of his nauseating sexual perversions.

Today, the FBI searched two addresses in New York related to Project Veritas in an apparent attempt to gain information about how the diary was acquired, admitting that Ashley Biden reported the diary stolen in the process when the story was then broken by the New York Times. The Project Veritas whistleblower told National File that the diary was found at an address where Ashley Biden used to stay.

Entries in the diary include the author revealing she believes she was sexually molested as a child and shared “probably not appropriate” showers with her father, some that detail the author’s struggle with drug abuse and the author’s crumbling marriage with multiple affairs, along with entries showing the family’s fears of a potential scandal due to her brother’s new home, and those that show a deep resentment for her father due to his money, control, and emotional manipulation.

On Friday, The New York Times published an article confirming that the FBI was investigating how the diary was obtained, and had raided two addresses in New York in connection.

Many conservatives and supporters of President Trump were quick to bring up a number of salient points, including why the FBI was investigating the theft of a book, something that John Cardillo highlighted would not even be picked up by “local police,” with Representative Paul Gosar quizzing if the FBI were now the Bidens’s “private security force,” and if the mainstream media would once again ignore the allegations included in the diary.

If any of this sounds familiar to you, it’s only because it should be.

We can expect the left to deny the diary is real and perhaps even suggest it’s “Russian disinformation,” which is what they said about Hunter Biden’s laptop. Twitter even went so far as to boot the NY Post off their platform for running that story. The laptop, which contained incriminating pictures of Hunter Biden smoking crack and having sex with prostitutes, was eventually determined to belong to him.

We now know the president has had at least two children in rehab, one of whom he allegedly took “probably not appropriate” showers with. That seems like a lot of addiction for one family.

For those of you keeping score at home, we have:

  • Lifelong sexual promiscuity, recklessness, and dysfunction
  • Inability to conduct a normal, satisfying long-term relationship
  • Chronic, compulsive acts of self-destruction
  • Resentment and distrust of the parent who molested her
  • Severe and persistent mental health issues

Gee, kinda reads like one of those seek-help posters enumerating the typical symptoms of a victim of sexual abuse, doesn’t it? But naaah, that couldn’t be right. Could it? I mean, Grampy Gropey has protested right along—for DECADES, mind—that the serial hair-sniffing, unwanted physical encroachment, inappropriate touching and fondling, and forcible kissing was completely innocent, not a cause for concern. Everybody knows he’s a basically a nice, friendly, generally decent fella, right?

Right?

In a fucking pig’s eye. Those who have been paying attention to the doings in Mordor on the Potomac for long enough—like, ummm, myself—have long known that Pedophile ***”President”*** Brandon is and has always been a corrupt, amoral, self-serving mountebank—a stem-to-stern-sleazy, wholly dishonest, truly nasty piece of work whose profligate manipulativeness and greed is surpassed only by his hapless incompetence. His poorly-constructed public image as a moderate, easygoing, ordinary Joe-next-door is as flimsy and false as a cardboard-and-duct-tape shack built in haste by a drunk at the fag end of another four-day boozer.

I’ve insisted for many years that the treacherous snake in the grass is the fleshly embodiment of absolutely everything the Founders tried to warn their posterity about, the alpha and omega of the deadly danger that would inevitably arise to threaten free Americans in the aftermath of even a momentary relaxation of their vigilance. I was right about the piece of shit then, and I’m right about him now. That such as he should have been permitted to hoodoo his way into the White House is a towering infamia—a national disgrace which will shame each and every one of us for all eternity.

The final straw

Many of us have wondered what might turn out to be the spark that sets off the powder keg of violent uprising once and for all, provoking Real Americans to take up arms at last against oppression and tyranny after having endured “a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object” far lengthier and more onerous than that which goaded the Founders to outright revolution. Speaking strictly for myself, my personal line in the sand has now been crossed. Flung down and danced upon, more like.

New York Times Thought Police Ask: Should Classic Rock Songs Be Toppled Like Confederate Statues?

Considering that I don’t think the history of the Confederacy should be erased by violent mobs of dull-witted ignorami either, my answer can only be a resounding NO, followed by a hearty Go fuck yourself until you fall over dead from the strain, pusbucket.

Hide your classic rock LP’s. The thought police at the New York Times are coming for them.

The New York Times opinion section has run a column advocating for classic rock songs like Don McLean’s “American Pie” to be reconsidered and maybe even “toppled” like historic Confederate statues, arguing that reevaluating beloved songs will help create a world that is “inclusive and more just.”

Other rock singers ripe for cancellation include Eric Clapton, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, and even Elvis Presley.

Take down my shootin’ arn from over yon mantlepiece, Maw, it’s time to go a-huntin’ liberal shitweasels. Season’s open on the confusticatin’ l’il varmints, and t’ain’t no bag limit neither.

Jennifer Finney Boylan, who is a male-to-female transgender,

*GROAN*

laid out the case in the op-ed titled “Should Classic Rock Songs Be Toppled Like Confederate Statues?”

“As we take another look at the sins of our historical figures, we’ve also had to take a hard look at our more immediate past and present, including the behavior of the creators of pop culture,” Boylan wrote. “That reassessment extends now to the people who wrote some of our best-loved songs.”

Chief among the candidates for cancellation is “American Pie,” the 1971 classic song by Don McLean. Boylan cited past allegations of domestic violence made against McLean as justification for the song’s cancellation.

“I want to live in a world where I can be moved by art and music and literature without having to come up with elaborate apologies for that work or for its creators,” the columnist wrote.

Good for you. Me, I want to live in a world where all the rivers are of the Willie Nelson “take my mind” sort; where the women are all gorgeous, willing, and utterly incapable of resisting my unique charms; where demented freaks such as yourself are mostly ignored as the aberrant head-cases they truly are, rather than kowtowed to and lionized as “brave,” admirable, and praiseworthy; and above all, where I will be forever thirty-five, handsome, strong, wise, rich, and shockingly well-hung.

Now let’s both shit in the other hand and see which one gets full the quickest, dipshit.

The op-ed also cited the Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sugar,” saying the group’s recent decision to remove the song from its U.S. tour set may be insufficient.

“If the Stones don’t know why the song has to go, does simply removing it from their tour sheet go far enough?” Boylan wrote.

They never should’ve given in to mewling neurotics like you in the first place, and will live to greatly rue the mistake. Q: Who, exactly, gives a flying fuck at a plate glass window what you think goes “far enough” anyhow? You seem to believe that the answer is some number exceeding that which can be counted on the fingers of one hand. I’m supremely confident that you are in error, which must surely be a familiar place for you to be in.

The columnist also put Eric Clapton in the cancel mob’s cross hairs by accusing the rocker of making “racist rants” and of engaging in “anti-vaccination activism.”

“It’s hard to explain why younger versions of ourselves ever thought they were OK in the first place,” Boylan wrote.

It’s a lot harder to explain why the fuck you’re still talking.

“Maybe reconsidering those songs, and their artists, can inspire us to think about the future and how to bring about a world that is more inclusive and more just.”

And right there it is, folks: the pluperfect confirmation that sane, normal Americans must always remember the simple fact that obnoxious, mentally-ill Leftist shitwits like this will never stop, never be satisfied, and never just fuck off and go away. The world will never, NOT EVER, be “inclusive” and “just” enough to suit them. They think themselves noble, selfless, and exalted by willingly accepting responsibility for an unachievable and never-ending task. Verily, the shitlib’s work is never done…which is why you unevolved Dirt People must either get on board the PC train or be run over and mulched under its steel wheels.

Which means, in turn, that always and forever they will come back again and again for another bite at the apple. To cede a single inch of ground to them in the hope they might finally be persuaded to leave us alone is death. Get it through your heads and don’t ever forget it: They are relentless. They are insatiable. They are obssessive and single-minded. They are batshit insane. And sooner or later, no matter who you are or what you’re into, they’ll get around to something you DO care about.

7

Carnivale of depravity

Hey, remember back when folks on Our Side warned that acceptance of “gay marriage” would slippery-slope us right straight to the normalization of pedophilia with a quickness?

Nah, me neither.

BREAKING: Investigation underway after Kentucky high school hosts drag pageant featuring male teens in lingerie giving lap dances to staff

No, seriously. There are pictures and everything. Pictures which, in law-enforcement circles, used to be commonly referred to as “evidence.” Y’know, for the kiddie-Pr0n trial soon to follow. Obviously, our more-enlightened Progressivist culture has “evolved” WAY past those dark Neanderthal days.

An investigation is underway after photos surfaced on social media depicting a homecoming event at a Kentucky high school where male students partook in a “man pageant.”

The male students seen in photos taken at Hazard High School’s homecoming week festivities on Tuesday wore scant clothing, including women’s lingerie, and gave staff members lap dances in the gymnasium, according to The Courier Journal.

I have questions. Many, many, many questions. Let’s begin with two of ’em:

  • Does anybody besides me find it bitterly amusing that the featured attraction of this misnomered “Man” Pageant was male students masquerading as female strippers, all done up in wigs, makeup, ladies’ frilly undies, the better to dry-hump their male teachers more convincingly?
  • Does anybody but me very much doubt that any one of the male students audacious enough to flaunt even the merest hint of actual masculinity would be in for some serious “counseling” to correct his unacceptable behavior?

Hazard Independent Schools released a statement which easily establishes a brand-new Gold Standard for what is meant by the phrase “frenetic ass-covering” in a blind panic after the story blew up in their faces, which Ace effortlessly dispenses with thusly:

The CYA letter from the school repeatedly insists that the rally for “Spirit Week” is “student-led” — meaning, don’t yell at us, it’s your filthy kids who did this.

As if teachers and school officials weren’t supervising this activity. As if they weren’t enjoying getting lap-dances from male students.

Bad enough, sure, but there’s worse. Consider, if you will, a notable aspect I’ve yet to see mentioned anywhere: Exactly who the fucking godawful fuck do you think it might have been that put the notion into the heads of male teenagers that dressing as women and giving lap-dances to their male teachers and principle might be a GOOD thing? Who is it that’s responsible for the insidious promotion of all this gender-confusion horseshit in the government schools to begin with?!?

Remember also that this isn’t some Sodom and Gomorrha Blue-State megalopolis like NYC or El Lay or ‘Frisco we’re talking about here. This is Hazard County Kentucky, for fuck’s sake. Which brings us ’round to my closing question: Where in the seven bleeding Hells is God Almighty in all this, anyway? Because surely this sick nation is due and past due for another of His patented all-cleansing Great Floods at this point, wouldn’t you say? What, is He taking a nap or playing checkers with Saint Michael or something?

Memes of outrage and delight to follow, oh yes there are. Just as quick as I can get ’em done.

Update! Meme the First. Got at least one more in me, I think.

It still just blows my mind that, out of all the dozens of supposedly mature, responsible adults in attendance at this shitfling who were school employees of one sort or another, there wasn’t a one of them shocked and appalled enough to shut it down, raise any kind of a ruckus, or even speak up in polite objection.

6
1

Obnoxious child playing in the street

Boy, talk about a problem that solves itself.

A climate activist in Vancouver who is part of the infamous group Extinction Rebellion has gone so far as to literally glue herself to a road.

This group is really going for it with their full-blown plan to take down the establishment and save the planet during its “October Rebellion,” which sounds promising but has done nothing but get 33 of them arrested (so far).

When one of their members named Tara glued herself to the road, they couldn’t have been more proud and ecstatic!

Yeh, I bet so. Just try and imagine how proud and ecstatic I’m gonna be when I binge-watch the upcoming YT vid of her stupid ass getting run over and squashed like a mosquito by a big fucking K-whopper T680 pulling doubles.

6

Sick, monstrous, evil

Your tax dollars at work.

“Our investigators show that Fauci’s NIH division shipped part of a $375,800 grant to a lab in Tunisia to drug beagles and lock their heads in mesh cages filled with hungry sand flies so that the insects could eat them alive,” the non-profit White Coat Waste project told reporters. “They also locked beagles alone in cages in the desert overnight for nine consecutive nights to use them as bait to attract infectious sand flies,” all to test an “experimental drug.”

White Coat Waste also claimed that some of the dogs had their vocal cords removed so their barking would not disturb the attending scientists. Rep. Nancy Mace fired off a letter to the National Institutes of Health, calling the cordectomies “cruel” and a “reprehensible misuse of taxpayer funds.” Mace is a South Carolina Republican but signatories to her letter included Democrats Cindy Axne, Steve Cohen, Jimmy Gomez, Josh Gottheimer, Ted Lieu, Mike Quigley, Lucille Roybal-Allard, Terri Sewell and Eleanor Holmes Norton, plus more than a dozen Republicans, including Reps. Brian Fitzpatrick and Maria Salazar.

Fauci earned a medical degree in 1966 but to avoid treating American soldiers in Vietnam, he hired on with the NIH in 1968 as one of their “yellow berets.” Fauci’s bio shows no advanced degrees in molecular biology or biochemistry, but in 1984 he became director of NIAID. Kary Mullis, who earned a PhD in biochemistry from UC Berkeley and won a Nobel prize for the polymerase chain reaction (PCR), called Fauci unqualified for the job.

“He doesn’t understand electron microscopy and he doesn’t understand medicine,” Mullis said. “He should not be in a position like he’s in.”

Of course, Thoroughly Modern Mengele hasn’t limited his twisted “scientific” experiments to animals alone. Ohhh no, not a-tall.

As UC Berkeley molecular biologist Peter Duesberg noted in Inventing the AIDS Virus,  Fauci networked with pharmaceutic giant Burroughs Wellcome and recommended azidothymidine, also known as AZT. The drug is marketed under the names Zidovudine or Retrovir, even though it “amounts to poison” according to Duesberg.

In 1989, Fauci’s NIAID conducted trials of AZT on pregnant mothers injected with HIV. As Duesberg noted, “A drug that interferes with growth can lead only to physical deformities in babies developing in the womb.” See also Poison by Prescription: the AZT Story by John Lauritsen, with a foreword by Duesberg, and this interview with former Harvard and Johns Hopkins molecular biologist Charles Thomas.  

When Duesberg challenged the government orthodoxy on AIDS, Fauci contrived to cancel his media appearances and the Berkeley virologist found his grants under attack. Fauci was hopelessly wrong about the spread of AIDS in the general population, yet he remained at the helm of NIAID.

The litany of horror, wanton cruelty, and pure evil continues on from there, only to wind up nowhere and then just stalling out completely.

The late Angelo Codevilla, a former staffer with the Senate intelligence committee, quickly pegged Fauci as a “deep state fraud.” In more than 50 years in government, Dr. Fauci never once had to face the voters. This is the person most responsible for wrecking the booming Trump economy and locking down the workers. The NIAID boss, now 80, showed little if any concern for the suffering Americans were forced to endure. Here is a medical doctor who first causes harm, so it makes sense that such a person would spend taxpayer dollars to torture beagles in Tunisia.

Republicans are calling for Fauci to resign and face prosecution for perjury. As with the dog-torture issue, Democrats should support a full criminal investigation of the NIAID boss.

Uh huh. Hold your breath waiting on it, whydon’tcha. Hey, maybe one of Lindsey Graham’s patented Blue-Ribbon Investigative Committees will “get to the bottom of this,” eh?

If a free America is to endure, white coat waste and white coat supremacy will both have to go.

Perfectly true, never gonna happen. You know it, I know it, we all know it. So NOW what?

“The training and readiness of the ship’s crew were deficient”

Gee, ya THINK?!?

A cascade of failures – from a junior enlisted sailor not recognizing a fire at the end of their duty watch to fundamental problems with how the U.S. Navy trains sailors to fight fires in shipyards – are responsible for the five-day blaze that cost the service an amphibious warship, according to an investigation into the July 2020 USS Bonhomme Richard (LHD-6) fire reviewed by USNI News.

The investigation into the fire aboard Bonhomme Richard, overseen by former U.S. 3rd Fleet commander Vice Adm. Scott Conn, found that the two-year-long $249 million maintenance period rendered the ship’s crew unprepared to fight the fire the service says was set by a crew member.

“Although the fire was started by an act of arson, the ship was lost due to an inability to extinguish the fire,” Conn wrote in his investigation, which was completed in April and reviewed by USNI News this week.

“In the 19 months executing the ship’s maintenance availability, repeated failures allowed for the accumulation of significant risk and an inadequately prepared crew, which led to an ineffective fire response.”

Full props to ADM Conn for his desert-dry understatement. Fret not though, Squids, there’s a newly-minted admiral in town who’s SURE to unfuck the USN in a mere trice.

Assistant Secretary of Health Richard Levine, a man who identifies as a woman and goes by the name of Rachel, has been sworn in as the first “transgender” four-star admiral in America, as reported by the New York Post.

On Tuesday, the 63-year-old Levine was named as an admiral in the U.S. Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, which is not one of the armed forces of the United States military. Following the swearing-in ceremony, Levine tweeted that he was “deeply honored and grateful to join the ranks of men and women across this great nation who have committed to defend the United States against small and large threats, known and unknown.”

Prior to his role at HHS, Levine had served as Pennsylvania’s Secretary of Health, where he oversaw a disastrous order to force COVID-positive patients into nursing homes, exposing thousands of vulnerable senior citizens to the virus. Levine himself came under fire when it was discovered that, upon the implementation of the order, he made sure to have his own mother moved out of such a nursing home and into a private facility. During his tenure, Levine also violated lockdown orders by secretly negotiating for a major exclusive car show to take place in Pennsylvania back in August, despite orders at the time banning such large gatherings.

Levine suffers from transgenderism, a mental disorder which leads people to believe that they are the opposite gender from the one they were born.

It remained unclear at presstime exactly how Mrxskkjnnxxx Levine plans to “defend the United States,” as per her HISTORIC!!! COURAGEOUS!!! statement, from her palatial office heading up a bureaucracy with no affiliation whatsoever with the US military. But I’m sure he/she/whatever will do a fine job of it nonetheless. In other news:

Meanwhile, China is expanding its nuclear missile silo field and just launched a new hypersonic nuclear-capable missile that circled the entire globe at low-orbit.

China’s new space nukes could evade the US’s missile defense systems.

While China is flexing its nuclear muscle, the “woke” Biden Admin is focused on white rage, maternity paratrooper suits, French manicures and promoting transgenders.

Levine, who previously served as Pennsylvania’s Secretary of Health, has a horrible track record.

The Coronavirus ravaged nursing homes across the US because of deadly Democrat policies of forcing people infected with COVID-19 back into the long-term care facilities.

Dr. Levine however made sure his 95-year-old mother was removed from the death box and transported safely to a hotel.

Okay, my apologies to ADM Conn for being overly sanguine just now. Actually, this looks like a most apposite time to begin fretting, sir, and to continue fretting away to your heart’s content. Wringing of the hands and gnashing of the teeth remain completely optional at this time, but are nevertheless heartily recommended. Carry on.

2

“Equity” achieved!

Eat it, FemiNazis.

PIERS MORGAN: It made me sick to watch a once-male special forces combat veteran beat up a woman on TV – it’s time to stop this trans sport insanity before women start being killed
It was the moment ideology met cold, hard reality.

Alana McLaughlin, 38, the second transgender MMA fighter to compete in the sport, used a powerful choke hold to beat Celine Provost, 32.

The latter was demonstrably a more skilled and experienced fighter during their bout on Friday night – McLaughlin only took up MMA earlier this year, whereas Provost’s been doing it for a decade – but just couldn’t compete with the overwhelming physical strength of her opponent.

Provost’s punches bounced off McLaughlin like a baby lion’s off its father, and when she was pinned to the ground, she couldn’t move and quickly tapped out.

None of which is entirely surprising given that McLaughlin spent six years serving in the US special forces as a man.

I found the bout sickening to watch.

It was obvious very quickly that McLaughlin was too strong, and equally obvious that this strength came from the 33 years she spent as a biological man.

As I’ve said before, the restrictive hormone treatment that sports authorities make transgender women do before they can compete in women’s sport does not reduce muscle density or power.

This creates a bad enough unfairness in non-contact sports like sprinting or weightlifting, but when it comes to combat sport like MMA it creates a potentially deadly disparity.

Tough noogies. This is the world shitlibs wanted—the world they designed, created, and crammed down our throats. It’s only right that they be forced to live in that insane, topsy-turvy world themselves. They need to be forced to enjoy the fruits of their “victory” in full, to its bitter dregs.

3

The Main Enemy

Who’dathunkit, that we’ve been fighting the wrong damned enemy all this time?

The 9/11 Attacks Ultimately Proved A Lesser Threat To America Than The Totalitarian Left
Twenty years after the attacks of September 11, 2001, it’s safe to say they did not herald the defining, all-consuming civilizational struggle we had anticipated. The thing we most feared, Islamic terrorism, did not prove to be our worst enemy or the greatest threat to our republic. The real enemy, it turns out, came from within.

In the 20 years since the attacks, America’s own totalitarian left has proven to be a far more dangerous and committed enemy of the United States than any distant jihadists, harboring as much hatred for our heritage of freedom and chaotic way of life as Osama bin Laden ever did.

Christopher Hitchens famously described bin Laden’s animating ideology as, “fascism with an Islamic face,” later adopting the apt term, “Islamofascism.” Hitchens thought the fascist comparison appropriate because both movements, in his view, are murderous cults, hostile to modernity and the life of the mind, nostalgic for empires of past glory, and obsessed with past humiliations and a desire for revenge, among other things.

But the fascism of bin Laden and his ilk, while obviously dangerous (and likely to become more so after our utter defeat in Afghanistan), hasn’t proved as durable or tangible as the fascism of the Democratic Party under the Biden administration.

Bin Laden, who correctly foresaw disaster and eventual defeat for the invading Americans in Afghanistan, could not have guessed that by the 20th anniversary of 9/11, America’s ruling elite would have become this fascist. Indeed, when a regime uses the power of the state to compel major corporations to enforce its mandates and enact its agenda, that’s actual textbook fascism. Hitchens, if he were alive to see it, might have called it “fascism with a bureaucrat’s face,” or “bureaufascism.”

Biden’s vaccine mandate is of course just one example, plucked from yesterday’s news cycle, of the left’s hatred of America and the freedom of its people. Over the past year-and-a-half of the pandemic, we have witnessed an unprecedented expansion of rule by executive fiat, with governors and mayors and public health officials wielding powers too often directed against churches and independent businesses. The 9/11 hijackers hated our freedoms, to be sure, but the pandemic has revealed that the left hates those freedoms at least as much as the terrorists, and would like very much to stamp them out.

Like the hijackers, the left holds almost everything about America in contempt. We are told in our workplaces — and our children are taught in their schools — that the United States is irredeemably racist, founded on violence, and that our constitutional experiment amounts to nothing more than a massive crime. We are called upon to repudiate our past and pull down monuments to our forebears — not just Confederate generals but also our Founding Fathers.

We are instructed that men can be women if they so choose, and those who disagree should probably lose their jobs and be ostracized. If you object to your daughter being forced to compete in school sports with boys who claim to be girls, you’re a bigot who must be silenced.

The reductive, totalizing ideology of the left has seeped into nearly every institution of American life, and dominates our culture and our politics. It is profoundly anti-American, and in the final analysis, it is a far greater threat to the future of our republic than even the wildest plots and most murderous fantasies of all the world’s jihadists combined.

When it comes to tearing down America, brick by brick, the Islamofascists of 9/11 had nothing on those who now command the heights of our culture, and purport to rule us from Washington.

Indeed they don’t. All the way back to the earliest days of CF, I’ve been rhetorically scratching my head in baffled wonderment at the bizarre, contradictory alliance of convenience between the deranged obssessives of the America-Hatin’ Left and the grim jihadis who would cheerfully hack said Leftwits into bloody scraps for their degeneracy, their unfettered sexual libertinism, their irreligion, and their soulless decadence. Strange bedfellows doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Update! Bringing up “the earliest days of CF” inspired me to check the ol’ Wayback Machine to see if there was a CF archive from those bygone days of yore, when I was but a callow youth and the Thunder Lizards still walked the earth. I registered the domain name on 9/16; hastily cobbled together a design I could live with in GoLive for the fledgling blog; and started posting a couple-three days later. The earliest Wayback relic I could find is this one, from December of ’01.

MAN, but I am gettin’ OLD.

IN THE BEGINNING, THERE WAS…ummm, uhhh, s’cuse me—where was I again, now?

SO. The plan was to just basically be a staid, prim-and-proper news aggregator-type of operation. No cussin’, no offbeat topics, just serious and somber straight down the line. News items, updated as and when, with my own op-ed commentary appended. God only knows who I thought I would be competing with, or was walking in the footsteps of, or was influenced by. Could be I was actually vain enough to think I was creating something unique, branching off slightly from the road mainstream news outlets like the NYT, WaPo, WSJ, and NRO had already paved.

Looking back now, I can let myself off the hook just a little by thinking of CF as an almost visionary endeavor, seeing as how I WAS completely unaware of the existence of other bloggers out there and all. Even the word “blog” wasn’t in my vocabulary then; my unhip cluelessness, in other words, was total. In the dark and all unawares, I was jejune enough to quietly congratulate myself for coming up with a genuinely original concept, a brand-new Thing™…which, unfortunately for my rapidly-deflating ego, not only had already been invented, but was well on its way to becoming a national sensation by then.

So I’m sure you can imagine my chopfallen chagrin upon learning of fellow OG’s like Instapundit, Vodkapundit, Daily Pundit, Hawkgirl, USS Clueless, Little Green Footballs, and sooo many others, who either pre-dated CF or got cranking around the same time or just after I did. There might have been a touch of embarrassment at my gross presumption mixed in with that chagrin also, which I will neither confirm nor deny at this time.

From there, the CF fortune was made when Stephen Green, proprietor of the already quite prominent Vodkapundit, somehow ran across my Tough Chicks essay and decided to throw an approving link my way, a much-appreciated endorsement from a like-minded colleague I very much admired, then and now. After that, the relationship between Stephen and myself matured into a genuine, warm friendship that I’ve cherished ever since.

From its previous humble average of around 20 unique visitors per day, CF’s traffic suddenly exploded into the high hundreds, then thousands, all driven by the unlooked-for nod from Vodkapundit. Not long after that, my Frodo On Trial piece was likewise linked and excerpted at NRO’s The Corner, which in turn led to mentions at the Atlantic website and a handful of other Big Players whose gaze I never expected to attract, and wasn’t entirely sure I even wanted.

For years after 9/11 had supposedly “changed everything” (PRO TIP: it didn’t), I made it my practice to compose an essay marking the anniversary of the attacks, purposing to do my little all to help ensure that the gradually-fading vow that we would “Never forget, never forgive” might be upheld. Alas, my effort proved to be in vain, as the increasingly maudlin and disgraceful Ground Zero ceremonies came to feel more and more like some hollow, sick joke, in direct proportion to the grindingly slow collapse of America’s quest for righteous retribution into a black sinkhole of futility and cynical manipulation.

The foul taste left in American mouths from that collapse is foremost among several reasons why, for the last several years, I have commemmorated the anniversary of 9/11 with bitterly satirical “Happy 9/11 Day!” posts, if I even bothered to take note of the day at all. Having serendipitously stumbled into this rambling, navel-gazing digression, we’ll just formally declare this the 9/11 post for this year, aside from two closely-related points I’ll try to make in a separate post of their own.

3

First step to tyranny

A look back at the origins of the ever-metastasizing societal plague that is Safetyism.

Americans’ love affair with the car has cooled off but not because Americans don’t love cars. Rather, it is because of what cars have become.

Once, they were like the pretty girl who smiled at you in class, back in high school. They made your pulse uptick, filled your mind with happy possibilities. You wanted one. And – once upon a time – the one often led to the other.

Or at least, helped.

Now, cars are like a sourpuss pants-suit-wearing wife who long ago stopped smiling at you – and bats away your hand when you try to hold hers. You don’t want to see – much less hear her anymore – and wish you could get away from her, but you need to stay married for the sake of the kids or so as to avoid losing your shirt.

This transition occurred because of the sourpuss, pant-suit-wearing types, not necessarily your wife – which makes it even worse.

Pants-suiters such as Joan Claybrook – the old sourpuss who headed the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (italics added for the should-be-obvious reason) back in the ‘70s, when saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaafety – as defined by some old sourpuss – somehow became a function of government, formerly concerned with ensuring that people’s rights were respected and dealing with people who caused harm to others.

Claybrook was a disciple and acolyte of another pants-suiter who happened to be male, nominally – Ralph Nader. He was the John the Baptist figure of Safetysim, the cult which first ruined cars and is now ruining everything else.

Nader anointed himself a “public citizen” and began to “represent” the “public,” despite not one member of the actual public ever having voted to give this man proxy power to “represent” them or anyone else. He and his termagant protege began to agitate for the government to impose (via regulations) “safety” standards upon new cars; which is to say, to impose them upon new car buyers – most of whom had previously expressed no interest in them, as via a willingness to pay for them. And who may have had a very different view of what “safety” constitutes.

For some, “safety” meant a car that was road-worthy, free of defects in design or manufacture that rendered it dangerous to drive  – controlled by a driver competent to sit behind the wheel.

For Nader and his heirs – including Claybrook – it meant a car that idiot-proofed against a driver who probably should be a passenger.

Nader became famous by smearing the Chevrolet Corvair, which was an unusual car for an American car of the early ‘60s. It was rear-engined, like a Porsche – which made the front end light and also made for easy steering without need of power steering. It was a very nimble-handling car, which was also very unusual for an American car of the early 1960s.

But it was important to read – and follow – the tire inflation pressure recommendations, which were not the same, front-to-rear. And that was also unusual, for an American car. The sticker was right there, but some people didn’t read it – and inflated all four tires to the same PSI. This worsened the lift-throttle (in a curve) oversteer tendency that all rear-engined cars – including the same era Porsches and VW Beetles – were prone to. Just as front-drive cars today tend to understeer when put into a curve at high speed.

Ralph who-didn’t-drive and who dislikes cars blamed the car – describing it (though not the fundamentally similar Porsche or VW Beetle) as Unsafe at Any Speed. His fame – and influence – spread. Abetted by an if-it-bleeds-it-leads media, corporations were browbeaten and government was empowered.

Cars were festooned with ugly “5 MPH” bumpers, ruining their looks like braces mar the face of an otherwise pretty girl. Seatbelt interlocks were ordered. You had to “buckle up” before you could drive.

Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaafety became policy. Not roadworthiness. Not competence. Beauty – and fun – took a back seat to how fast you could drive a car into a tree and live. Every time someone did something idiotic, everyone else got idiot-proofed.

Well, naturally. I mean, surely you’ve heard the eternal Safetyist war-cry: IF EVEN ONE LIFE IS SAVED…!!!

Had a conversation with my brother a few days back, wherein we were running down all the truly wonderful things that have been taken from us, as well as the many more things that will be gone for good as the result of the Coming Unpleasantness and its aftermath. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the sentiment of sadness, puzzlement, and regret for these collective losses (or thefts) expressed better than the way Jack Nicholson does here:



Really says it all, don’t it? I’ve run this clip here numerous times over the years; perhaps the most frightening thing of all is how, as time goes by and our losses keep mounting, the sting of truth in the words of George’s brilliant soliloquy only becomes more haunting, more painful.

12

UNEXPECTED!™

See if you can spot the “shocking” part of this story. Here, I’ll make it easy for ya.

The transgender individual who exposed himself in front of women and children at a California luxury spa earlier this year, has been charged with indecent exposure, the New York Post reported Thursday. Darren Agee Merager, 52, is a registered sex offender with two prior convictions of indecent exposure, according to the Post’s law-enforcement sources. Merager is also facing “six felony counts of indecent exposure over a separate locker room incident in December 2018,” according to the Post.

As American Greatness previously reported, several women complained last June, when the biological male allegedly exposed his penis at the Wi Spa in Los Angeles.

“Everything about the Wi Spa was a bunch of garbage and lies,” Merager told the Post. He said he is legally female in California and was in a jacuzzi in the women’s section when he was accosted by “Cubana Angel.”

“She never saw me naked. I was underwater with water all the way up to my chest,” he said.

Merager also denied ever being partially erect around children at the spa, insisting that he’s the actual victim of sexual harassment.

Law-enforcement sources told the Post that Merager is a tier-one registered sex offender with two prior convictions of indecent exposure stemming from incidents in 2002 and 2003 in California. He was convicted in 2008 for failing to register as a sex offender, the Post reported.

An internal alert from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department informed law enforcement departments in southern California in late 2018 that Merager’s M.O. was to identify as female to access female spaces.

“Merager claims to identify as female so he can access women’s locker rooms and showers,” the L.A. Sheriff’s Dept. flyer read.

PRECISELY what many of us warned of when the Left’s “LGBTQLNKZZZXP39++++” campaign bus was first getting cranked up and leaving the terminal: plain-vanilla degenerates and pedos using the new-found access to places formerly off-limits to them, now open for sicko business by the simple expedient of declaring themselves to be “transgender,” when they are clearly no such thing. How very ironic, then, that the enablers of such abuse would be the very Leftists who self-righteously clubbed Normals like baby seals as part of the larger effort to bring down America That Was via bringing down its long-cherished ideals, traditions and values—even the concept of normalcy itself—in the name of a phony “tolerance.”

Subterfuge; dishonesty; flouting observable reality to suit one’s own purposes or agenda: those things sure can take a fella far nowadays, can’t they?

Good luck in prison, Short Eyes. I understand you’re gonna need one helluva lot of that.

Prison Is ‘Living Hell’ for Pedophiles
In prison, fellow inmates derisively call pedophiles “chesters,” “tree jumpers” and “short eyes.”

Prison can be a menacing place for child molesters like the former Roman Catholic priest John Geoghan, who was killed in his cell Saturday — or for other alleged pedophile priests working their way through the criminal justice system.

“If you take out a sex offender like this former priest in Massachusetts, maybe the person who took him out thought he’d make a name of himself,” said Margot Bach, a spokeswoman for California Department of Corrections. “Taking [a pedophile] out would gain [the killer] a lot more respect among the other inmates.”

In fact, Goeghan’s accused killer, Joseph Druce, “looked upon Father Geoghan as a prize,” and plotted his killing for a month, John Conte, district attorney for Worcester County, Mass., told reporters Monday.

Such offenders, including Geoghan, often are placed into protective custody with other prisoners seen to be under a threat.

“Once their crime has become known, they usually don’t make it” without protective custody, said Lt. Ken Lewis, a corrections officer and spokesman at California’s Los Angeles County State Prison. “There’s a lot of [pedophiles] that can successfully make it…as long as they don’t brag about their offense.”

If they do talk, “they’ll get beat up,” Lewis added. “In some places he may even get his throat cut.”

Aww, what a shame. That ol’ Short Eyes Biden will never have to worry about any such, I mean.

3

Criminal, inhuman, unacceptable

I. Can’t. Even.

Whelp…Australia’s gone full retard.
Completely fucking insane-retard.
Make that Potato-Insane

According to the Sydney Morning Herald: “Bourke Shire Council, in the state’s north-west, killed the dogs to prevent volunteers at a Cobar-based animal shelter from travelling to pick up the animals last week, according to council’s watchdog, the Office of Local Government.”

They. Shot. The. Doggos.
WOW
Somewhere there’s a lesson here:  Something about the fact that IF they’re so willing to kill innocent animals, then they sure as hell wouldn’t have a problem killing humans… especially those who would oppose them.

Willing? The sick fucks probably sprang a stiffie while offing those poor blameless pooches, and will react the exact same way when they get the chance to start cutting down people in job lots. Read the rest of it, every word of which I second with every fiber of my being.

All of which just means that the KTF* rule is now in full effect, and Spicy Time is imminent. Because if it’s coming down to either Us or Them, and it is, I know which team I much prefer to come out on the other side of all this victorious.

Kill. Them. ALL.

*NOTE: KTF— “Kill Them First”—is the Legion motto in Jason Anspach’s and Nick Cole’s great Galaxy’s Edge series, one Team Liberty needs to adopt for meatspace use

1

Oldie but goodie

Aesop reruns an old post of his from 2018, a remembrance of the first moon landing on its anniversary, and it’s an inspiring read.

Fifty-two years ago today, and just a few hours from now, is the exact anniversary of when 50,000 steely-eyed missile men, crew-cutted geeks with pocket protectors, test pilots, fighter pilots, and hundreds of metric tons of raw testosterone kicked the rest of the world’s ass right to the bottom of the heap, going back to the dawn of time, from the moment that Eagle landed, to when this guy’s foot stepped off the LEM ladder.

Neil Armstrong, ace X-15 test pilot, and mission commander of Apollo XI, became the first man from earth to ever set foot on the Moon, and if and until we ever get people to Mars, he put every explorer in history, and even every guy to follow, below him on what Tom Wolfe correctly called “the top of the pyramid.”

He was there because he and his sidekick, lunar module pilot, and outside-the-box revolutionary thinker Buzz Aldrin had managed to land the lunar module manually, off course, and with mere seconds remaining for landing before a crash-tastrophe, because you don’t fly 250,000 miles to puss out at the last 12 seconds, just for such piddling concerns as running out of fuel.

As I said, a fine read, well worth a look in. But the real reason I brought it up was so I could rerun something my own self, something near and dear to my coal-black heart: the absolutely immortal vid of eternal badass Aldrin poking one of those stupid-ass moon-landing deniers right in the snoot.



Heh. Fatass gets all up in the grill of a bona fide American hero and defames him as “a coward and a liar,” Fatass gets what he has coming to him without further ado. It’s beautiful, that’s what.

I mean, the nerve of that honking, sebacious tub of goo. If Aldrin had shot the bastard down and left him for dead on the sidewalk, I’da stood up and cheered till my throat was sore. As it is, that footage ain’t NEVER getting old as far as I’m concerned, not if I live to be a hunnert and fitty. What’s captured therein is, basically, everything that’s wrong with America today juxtaposed with everything that was once right about it. They just don’t make ’em like Buzz Aldrin anymore, folks, which is precisely why we are where we now are.

4
4

Fly the friendly freaky skies

Al in all, it’s just another brick in the wall.


The story:

The “Woke” and Transgender movements are helping to destroy the country and it just might help to damage Jet Blue.

The airline now allegedly allows male flight attendants to dress up as women.

Jet Blue Airlines, which did announce that they were going to reinvent what it’s like to fly ‘coach,’  appears to have caved to suspected pressure that presumed gay or transgender men have asked to dress like female flight attendants.

Ironically, one of their slogans is ‘Inspiring Humanity.’

What the hell, why the fuck not. Although I do have to wonder if, given the guy in the pic’s overall lumberjack-ish appearance, he really is a mentally-derailed Gender Negotiable type intent on inflicting his degeneracy on Jet Blue and all who sail in her, or instead just some poor male model desperate enough for work to hire himself out to JB and publicly beclown himself in such spectacular fashion.

I have a good friend who used to hang around the H-D shop a lot back in the Aulden Thymes, fella we all used to call Franky Load In The Pants for reasons I shan’t specify right now (trust me, it’s hilarious), who flies 7-7-7’s for Jet Blue nowadays. I’ll have to inquire next time I see him what his thoughts are on this. I can readily imagine, knowing him as I do, but seeing him express himself on this issue is bound to be a real scream.

Then again, maybe I should just leave well enough alone. Frankie has always been known as quite the practical joker, see. He once got suspended when he was flying twin-turboprop puddlejumpers for USAir some years back, for strategically placing several of those plastic fast-food packs of Texas Pete under a toilet seat in the Ladies’ of the USAir office, arranging them in such a way that they’d burst and squirt all over the victim’s legs when sat upon…or so he thought. To Frank’s horror, a burly bull-dagger av-mech went in to take a whiz (standing up, I’m sure) whilst he was standing in the office jawboning with a few fellow USAir employees, all of them just loitering around waiting to see what would end up happening.

What ended up happening: Miz Muscledyke plopped her big, granite-muscled ass heavily down and immediately got herself an agonizing Texas Pete snootch-bath. She was extremely irate about this, because good lord who wouldn’t be. Having one’s delicate naughty parts unexpectedly doused with fire-liquid would sorely tax anybody’s sense of humor, a trait with which angry flatrockers aren’t noted for being overmuch blessed in the first place.

Frank later said the second he heard said man-hater’s throaty, enraged bellows offering perfectly credible vows of swift and deadly vengeance, he ran out the door and away as if he had a no-shit T- Rex on his heels, which in a sense he damned sure did. The offended ladyman knew quite well who was responsible for the painful hot-sauce douche; all the evidence anybody who knew him would ever have needed to identify the culprit was the presence nearby of Frank and a crew of several others standing around, smirking and sniggering each time some poor dame walked even somewhat close to the little goils’ room.

The victim reported Frank’s ass to Higher with a quickness, and said ass very nearly got canned over it. Instead, the airline let him off with a month at leisure sans pay and a black mark on his Permanent Record, to the surprise of one and all. Not long after the Texas Pete incident—plus an unfortunately timed followup episode involving a belly cargo-door that Frank neglected to properly secure, which resulted in a barrage of suitcases and loose freight all over the end of the runway and neighboring warehouse roofs once the aircraft was wheels-up and climbing to cruise altitude—it was up, up, and away to Jet Blue for Pranky Franky, where near as I can determine he seems to have refrained from further actionable mischief. So far.

So yeah, as a preventive measure to assist him in staying out of trouble with his current employers and colleagues, I believe I’ll just keep my trap shut about this revoltin’ development. If Frankie Load has any opinions on it, he can share them with me on his own hook, without any prompting from me. I’m no troublemaker, nosirree.

Update! I should probably point out, in Frank’s defense, that he is actually a very talented and conscientious pilot, having been in the cockpit of one type of aircraft or another ever since he was but a young chap. Frank’s dad was a pilot also, and started teaching his son early on. Frank himself owns a Cessna 172 and has for years, spending a tremendous amount of time slipping the surly bonds both professionally and recreationally. I’ve never flown with him myself, but Goose has and says he’s a very skilled pilot, against all the expectations one might reasonably form from the above tale. My brother, a licensed, multiengine and IFR-rated flight instructor and a natural talent himself, also commends Frank as being one of those people who has that natural gift for it that distinguishes the true pilot from the run-of-the-mill hackabouts who will most likely end up dead someday because they ran out of gas. Frank’s just a goof, that’s all.

1
1
1

USS Batshit grounded on the shoals of reality

I have no words.

Biological Male “Mother” Attempts To Breastfeed Newborn Birthed By His Biological Female “Boyfriend”
“The baby has been able to latch, but I have not been able to produce any milk…”

Thanks captain obvious! Who knew that a biological male couldn’t produce breastmilk?

Determined to shove their depravity down the throat of their newborn, both literally and figuratively, the mentally ill new parents express dismay at not being able to breastfeed their baby naturally. In hindsight maybe “dad” should’ve kept his breasts when he decided to keep his uterus. Just a thought.

The new parents have refused to accept identification documents for their newborn baby because it would require the female who gave birth (wearing glasses) to be listed as the mother and not the male (black hair, pretending to breastfeed) who did not give birth.

Tearful but with a stiff upper lip, the new parent confidently exclaims, “we’re gonna supplement the feeding with formula so that my baby is still getting the nutrients that they need”. 

Perhaps daddy-mama is confused by the word supplement, which Merriam-Webster dictionary defines as ‘something that completes or makes an addition.’ Cant supplement something if you’ve nothing, to begin with. The baby won’t be supplemented by formula, it will be sustained solely by it!

Astonishingly enough, this appears NOT to be a Babylon Bee article, nor is it from the venerable, universally-revered Weekly World News. Which I think is a goddamned shame, for several reasons.

5
1

Busted redux

Imagine my surprise.

Some of the members of a gay men’s chorus that released a controversial viral video in which the singers promised to “corrupt your kids” and “convert your children” appear to be convicted pedophiles, according to research conducted by The Western Journal.

The chorus roster and board of directors of the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus were apparently removed from the group’s website around the time these revelations became public.

The chorus also has an outreach program that “brings [the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus] into elementary, middle, and high schools across the Bay Area to share a message of love, inclusivity, and strength.”

The Western Journal reached out to the group via email and social media on Friday.

The “Contact Us” page on the group’s website also appears to have been removed.

The choir was asked to comment on the accusations, whether there are in fact convicted pedophiles on its roster, why the chorus roster was removed from the website and if the group conducts background checks on members before sending them to places like schools where children are present.

The group did not immediately respond to our request for comment.

No, I just bet they didn’t. And won’t, if they can possibly avoid it. The KiddleDiddle Singers are in full-on defensive-crouch mode now, hoping against hope that this will all just dry up and blow away soon without too much more damage. That unenviable situation is what can happen when one lets the little head do all the thinking for the big head, as the old joke goes.

Busted

Q: How do you know a Leftist has slipped up and committed a Kinsleyian gaffe—or, put another way, said the quiet part out loud, or accidentally told the truth?

A: he starts tripping over his own dick trying to backpedal, in predictable steps that go from claiming it was all “just a joke,” progressing from there to indignantly spluttering about his remarks being “taken out of context,” then insisting that he’s the real victim because of the “threats” he’s getting from the opposition. Thankfully, brave truth-teller that he is, he moves to the penultimate phase with the declaration that he “will never back down” and intends to soldier on in the noble cause of “Progress,” to eventually wind down with the Left’s reliable old conversation-stopper: RACIST!!

And, well…here we all are.

The same songwriting team that wrote an appalling song for the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus mocking parents’ fears that they’re “coming for your children,” were forced to cancel production of a play last year about the “dancing boys” of Afghanistan after it sparked a massive outcry from Afghans who perceived it as romanticizing sexual abuse.

Lyricist Charlie Sohne and composer Tim Rosser provoked a public outcry this week with their LGBTQ anthem, “A Message From the Gay Community,” which tells parents that they will “quietly and subtlely” convert their children, and “you will barely notice it.”

Their song, which Sohne and Rosser claim is “obviously tongue and cheek,” goes on to mock the horror of parents when they discover that their children are “finding things online.”

“Oh, and you’ll be disgusted (so gross), When they start finding things online That you’ve kept far from their sight (like information…) Guess what? You’ll still be alright!” [See below for full lyrics].

Fear not, America: the KiddleDiddle Choir vows that, like their civil-rights counterparts back in the 60s, We Shall Overcome this vicious onslaught of censorship, homophobia, hatred, and intolerance.

On Thursday, TGP reported on a video where the San Francisco Gay Man’s Choir promised to convert your children quietly and subtly. Their ‘joke’ fell completely flat because it was an eerie reminder of the constant push by media and education to sexualize and pro-trans the kids.

The video had received 88 likes and over 5,000 dislikes before it was made private, according to The Post Millennial.

After massive blowback, the group is now “working around the clock” to take “control of the narrative.” They issued a statement on Thursday night, putting blame on far-right conservative media for taking it up as their “new cause.”

They also cried victim, claiming that the lyrics were taken out of context to support the “intolerant and hateful needs” of conservatives.

They seemed to double down on their “joke” that they are coming for your children by saying that It’s their “turn” to do the indoctrinating.

“After decades of children being indoctrinated and taught intolerance for anyone who is ‘other,’ from using the Bible as a weapon to reparative therapy, it’s our turn.”

Could be, could be. But it’s soon gonna be OUR turn, motherfuckers. This sick shit might fly in SF, but it won’t out here in the heartland. And if you think Real Americans are going to stand still for it after you’ve unintentionally exposed your true agenda of recruiting our children the way you have, I strongly advise you to think again.

STRONGLY.

3

Degenerates

You will be made to not only tolerate, but endorse. And, yes, celebrate.

The Washington Post published an op-ed by a former prostitute who identifies as “gendervague,” in which the author encourages parents to show their children “kink culture” in the “queer community.”

Lauren Rowello argued in the Post that children are benefited by being exposed to LGBT sexual activity at public parades. Rowello uses her own kids as a backdrop for the story, highlighting how she took them and her transgender partner to a gay pride parade several years ago.

“Just as we got settled, our elementary-schooler pointed in the direction of oncoming floats, raising an eyebrow at a bare-chested man in dark sunglasses whose black suspenders clipped into a leather thong,” she writes. ” …[P]olicing how others show up doesn’t protect or uplift young people. Instead, homogenizing self-expression at Pride will do more harm to our children than good. When my own children caught glimpses of kink culture, they got to see that the queer community encompasses so many more nontraditional ways of being, living, and loving.”

There is no “queer community” in America. Gay people have different views, neighborhoods, and values, just like other Americans. Some LGBT individuals use the month of June as an excuse to engage in inappropriate acts and stroll around in public nude. Many gay people do not engage in this exhibitionist behavior.

In the pages of the Washington Post, then, Rowello celebrates exposing children to extreme sexual behavior and romanticizes this disturbing decision, claiming kids will actually reap benefits. Rowello goes so far as to criticize those who object to child sexual abuse, claiming children can consent to things they do not understand:

Anti-kink advocates tend to manipulate language about safety and privacy by asserting that attendees are nonconsensually exposed to overt displays of sexuality. The most outrageous claim is that innocent bystanders are forced to participate in kink simply by sharing space with the kink community, as if the presence of kink at Pride is a perverse exhibition that kinksters pursue for their own gratification.

Uh huh. Let me see if I got this all, uhh, straight, then. According to you warped Leftists: A) having “kink” waved in our, and our kids’, faces during a public parade does NOT amount to being “forced to participate,” but B) Silence Is Violence!™

Okay, got it.

But kinksters at Pride are not engaged in sex acts — and we cannot confuse their self-expression with obscenity.

Oh, aren’t they? Because I could tell you stories about activities I personally witnessed at the NYC Pride parade—I was walking through the Village one fine afternoon and found myself caught unawares as the parade passed flamboyantly by me—that would thoroughly discredit that assertion. Trust me on this.

Thus, so it goes, there is nothing wrong with kids being potentially groomed or indoctrinated with pride propaganda through prepubescent sexual exposure to even pornographic public acts. Rowello writes that taking kids to witness “kink” at a gay pride parade “opens space for families to have necessary and powerful conversations with young people about health, safety, consent, and — most uniquely — pleasure.”

The argument being made by Rowello aligns with the left’s interpretation of the sexual revolution. It’s exactly why an elite New York private school hosted a pornography training, and why Ohio State University hosted an OnlyFans seminar in March. It’s why Netflix backed the film “Cuties,” and why a Texas school district taught anal sex in “health” classes.

“Kink embodies the freedom that Pride stands for, reminding attendees to unapologetically take up space as an act of resistance and celebration — refusing to bend to social pressure that asks us to be presentable. That’s a value I want my children to learn,” Rowello declares.

I’d like to interject with a few questions, if I may.

  • Why can’t you people just leave the rest of us alone?
  • Why can’t you people just keep your sexual proclivities and/or practices to yourselves, rather than insisting that the rest of us be witness to them?
  • Why is it “unfair,” “unjust,” and “bigoted” that the laws barring public displays of nudity, sexual acts, and lewd behavior apply to gays attending or participating in a parade or other public event, when the fact is that if I walked around waving my goob at all and sundry, spanked my wife/gf’s bare ass with a riding crop, or got caught cuffing my carrot, screwing the ol’ lady, or just meandering around in the raw during the town Christmas parade, I would most certainly be cuffed and hauled off to Riker’s to await trial in a New York minute?
  • Are you really so demented, so profoundly narcissistic, so just plain fucked in the head, that you do sincerely believe that forcing young children to be confronted with open displays of sexual deviance—actually, to any kind of adult sexual behavior at all—is perfectly moral and somehow “good for them” psychologically and emotionally?
  • I really don’t give a damn what ANYBODY does in private, or where you choose to put your dick, excepting children and small animals. I consider that sort of thing to be none of my business, and have no desire to intrude or interfere. Not my circus, not my monkey. So why can’t you be content with that? Do civility, forebearance, and decorum matter at all to you? Why am I expected to stand up and cheer for your every personal sexual inclination?
  • If I derived sexual gratification from coming to your house wearing nothing but a strappy leather bondage harness, squatting to take a fragant dump on your lawn, then closing the show by masturbating to completion on the front porch, would you be good with it? Would you extend me the same courtesy you demand of everybody else via a stamping, whistling, standing ovation? If not, why not? SURELY you wouldn’t think my behavior offensive or unnerving, would you?
  • Where does all this end? When is enough enough?

You just take all the time you need with those answers, pal.

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