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Kill the cities?

Might be a much tougher proposition than many of us imagine. Aesop compiles a solid, by-the-numbers case for what I hereby christen The City-Slicker Alliance©. As a lifelong city-slicker-at-heart who spent some of the happiest years of my life in NYFC; visited hundreds if not thousands of times both before and since my years as a resident; thoroughly enjoyed every minute of my time there; and to this very day still has quite a few dear friends there (not ALL of whom are whey-faced Leftweasels, amazingly enough), I’m all in.

So, you’re going to bottle up the cities?

Let’s try that with just one example.

The population of the metro area of Kansas City MO is 2.3M.

The population of the metro area of St. Louis MO is 2.8M.

That’s 5.1M people, right there.

The entire population of the state of Missouri is only 6.2M.

Which means the population of just the two largest cities in the state, the ones you’re going to “bottle up” (on flat land, mind you!) is the exact 82:18 ratio we mentioned.

Those two cities outnumber every swinging Richard in the entire rest of the state by over 4:1.

I think they might have something to say about being “bottled up”.

I think they might even be inclined to say it with guns. (And ropes. And so on.)

So perhaps you might consider ways to get potential allies onboard with a brighter campaign strategy (which would be Any One But Your Plan A), instead of becoming The Assholes That Everyone Else Wants To Kill Off By Day Two.

Just a suggestion, mind you.

Word To Your Mother: As we just pointed out in Comments to the prior post, there are more Trump supporters in the L.A. metro area than the population of any one of 36 entire states.

There are more actual Trump voters in NYFC than the total number of troops in the U.S. Army: active, reserve, and Nasty Guard, combined.

So there aren’t any “blue hives.”

That nonsense is for idiots who think the maps made by your enemies are the actual terrain.

The reality is that the entire country is different shades of purple.

Yeah, well, we all ought to be aware by now that Divide, Conquer, And Rule has always been the preferred, go-to stratagem of the Goosesteppin’ Left. High time we stopped falling for that shopworn ploy and homed our attention on the True Enemy instead, methinks.

Nota bene that I do still employ the hoary old Left/Right, Liberal/Conservative dichotomy myself—despite the nomenclature’s having been reduced nigh on to meaninglessness at this late date—based purely on the knowledge that all of y’uns will know what I mean by it. Think of it, if you will, as roughly congruent to lambasting Pedaux Jaux as if any sane, sensible soul seriously believes he’s actually in charge, as ***”pResident”***, of a dad-blamed thing—even though we know the doddering old fool ain’t even in charge of his morning bowel movement.

It only goes to show that, contra all odds and intuition, meaningless and/or outdated terminology can nevertheless come in quite useful sometimes, if only as a convenient shorthand which helps people come to grips with a larger concept.


“Jew York” no more

Things are hotting up for ((((DemJooJooJooJOOOOOZ!!!)))) in what for many years was a safe haven for them.

Protesters are harassing Jews every day in NYC, when will pols protect them?

A more apposite question would be: “When in the actual FUCK will liberal Jews wake up and revise their stuck-in-the-mud thinking?”

How much more are Jews in New York City expected to take?

Earlier this week, a protest in front of the Nova Music Festival Exhibition on Wall Street, which commemorates those slaughtered at a music festival in Israel during the October 7 attacks, waved Hezbollah and Hamas flags and a “Long live October 7th” banner, lit flares and chanted “long live the intifada.”

On Tuesday, a mob took over a New York City subway car and chanted, in a call and repeat fashion, “Raise your hands if you’re a Zionist. This is your chance to get out.”

Two nights ago, the homes of Brooklyn Museum’s director Anne Pasternak and several of the museum’s Jewish board members, were defaced with fake blood and a sign that accused Pasternak of being a “White-Supremacist Zionist.”

I’ve been writing in these pages about the growing antisemitism in New York for years.

But this is the worst it has ever been. It’s no longer random attacks, that could be blamed on the mentally unwell.

The last few years have exposed something else.

Now it’s hard not to notice that the worst eruptions, the vilest hate, is happening in New York specifically.

The mob is masked to conceal their identity and able to be violent then disappear into crowds.

It’s worth noting that when the regular attacks on Jews were happening during de Blasio’s terms, with hundreds of attacks caught on video, only one perpetrator ever served a day in prison.

Jews are getting the message that no one will protect them and they’re largely not allowed to protect themselves.

At the Nova exhibit, Mayor Adams told influencer Lizzy Savetsky “We have the largest Jewish population outside of Israel right here in New York. This is not going to be a city where you’ll have to take off your yarmulke, be afraid to walk inside a synagogue,” but then added “or church or mosque” as if anyone is afraid to walk into those.

He seemed to want to cut off the obvious criticism that Jews have largely been left exposed in his city saying “A minority of those who want us to live in fear, who want us to say ‘police departments you’re not doing enough,’ who want us to turn on our allies, we can’t turn on each other.”

As long as NYC Jewry keeps stubbornly clinging to their outmoded Left/“liberal” political identity, they can expect things to go right on getting worse for them in the Big Rotten Apple. Same-same for the “how much more are Jews in New York City expected to take” query. If they stick with the pattern they have for decades, they can expect to take plenty and to spare of it; as things now stand, the D卐M☭CRAT Party which has turned viciously on Dem Joooz takes the purblind fools entirely for granted. As well it might; second only to the hapless Nee-grows they’ve done so much to destroy utterly, American Jews remain one of the D卐M☭CRAT Party’s verymost dependable voting blocks.

Alternatively, NYC Jews can carry on doing the same thing, expecting a different result. If I remember right, one of their kinsmen is purported to have had a little something to say about that sort of thing.


No shame, no sense, no honor, no integrity

The sheer, unmitigated gall of the sorriest sumbitch ever to shit behind a pair of shoes. Well, usually behind them, that is, up until the last few years.

Oh the Irony: Biden Calls for Stricter Gun Laws Hours After Son’s Conviction on Gun Charges
In a speech delivered Tuesday afternoon at the annual misnamed Gun Sense University conference, President Joe Biden pushed for more stringent gun control measures, mere hours after his son, Hunter Biden, was found guilty of federal gun charges in Delaware. The irony of the president advocating for more gun laws while his own son faced legal consequences for violating existing ones was not lost on many.

The event, hosted by Everytown for Gun Safety, a group heavily funded by anti-gun advocate Mike Bloomberg, served as a platform for Biden to call for a ban on assault weapons and high-capacity magazines in front of a crowd that supports such actions.

“It’s time once again to do what I did when I was a senator: ban assault weapons,” Biden proclaimed and then again showing he or his speech writers understand nothing about firearms, went on to say, “Who, in God’s name, needs a magazine which can hold 200 shells?”

Note ye well: HE did. Him, and nobody whatsoever else. Fucking execrable cocksucker.

“None of this violates the Second Amendment or vilifies responsible gun owners,” Biden claimed, though many gun rights advocates disagree.

Yeah, fuck you all to Hell and gone, ***”pResident”*** DickWithEars. Prithee tell, though: just what part of “shall not be infringed” is too complex for you to wrap your empty head around? Not that he doesn’t understand, mind; he not only knows full well what the words laid down by the Founders are, but that they mean exactly what they say. Like the rest of his fellow gun-grabbers, it’s just that he’s ag’in it, that’s all.

As for those 200,000+ capacity magazine-clip-drums (!!!) of yours: according to the specific, explicit words of the late, lamented US Constitution you loathe so intensely, it is NOT given to you to decide who might need what. Nor is it any of your fucking business, either. If I want the things, it is my fundamental, unalienable right to by God have them, without reference to what you think I do or do not “need.” I am under no obligation to explain myself to you, nor to the horse you rode in on, nor to anybody who fucking well looks like you. Go fuck yourself in the lower pyloric sphincter with a rusty railroad spike marinated overnight in hydrochloric acid, you and all your hoplophobic Goosesteppin’ Left fellow-travelers.

Something from last night’s Memezapoppin’ post springs immediately to mind.

And WOOT! There it is. That right there is all the explanation you’re ever gonna get from me, and way more of one than you deserve or are owed—period fucking dot, end of fucking story. I say again: stop yer blubbing and just come and take them already. Let’s just see once and for all how that works out for ya when all’s said and done.


Moar James Doohan!

Just out of curiosity, I went poking around for more deets on Scotty’s D-Day heroism, and it really is quite a story indeed.

Remembering D-Day Hero James Doohan.
This Memorial Day we’re looking back at Doohan’s service during that fateful landing in the Second World War

Memorial Day is a most appropriate time to think about the sacrifices made on D-Day, the fateful evening in 1944 that the Allied troops stormed the beaches of Normandy, France, to battle Hitler’s Nazi forces and liberate mainland Europe. One of those soldiers, on his very first combat assignment, was a young Canadian named James Doohan, who later when on to great fame as Montgomery “Scotty” Scott on Star Trek: The Original Series. That bit of trivia — and the story that goes along with it — may be old news to longtime fans, but to the Star Trek newcomers out there, it’s a tale that’s well worth repeating.

“The sea was rough,” Doohan recalled of his landing on Juno Beach that day, an anecdote included in his obituary, which the Associated Press ran on June 20, 2005. “We were more afraid of drowning than [we were of] the Germans.”

The Canadians crossed a minefield laid for tanks; the soldiers weren’t heavy enough to detonate the bombs, the AP story continued. At 11:30 that night, Doohan — a pilot and captain in the Royal Candian Artillery Regiment — was machine-gunned, taking six hits. One bullet blew off his middle right finger, four struck his leg and one hit him in the chest. A silver cigarette case stopped the bullet to the chest.

Throughout his acting career Doohan took measures to hide the missing finger, but it was occasionally visible to the camera, including in certain shots from Star Trek. He made no effort, however, to hide the missing finger during his decades of autograph signings and convention appearances.

In comments here, Aesop remembers:

I went to school with Scotty’s kids.

When Doohan showed up for our sports banquet, I noticed he was missing most of his left ring finger.

His sons thought it was from a childhood sledding accident.

I don’t think dad had shared the full truth with them.

Likely not, as tends to be the way with truly brave men. In a screen grab from one of the most popular ST-TNG eps, Scotty’s injury is clearly visible:

From that pic, it appears as if not only the middle finger but the ring finger also might have been involved—although the rest of the ring finger could be obscured by the excessive fluff of the darn troublesome Tribble. Whatever the case may be, a most humble tip of the CF chapeau to the honorable and admirable LT James M Doohan, a bona fide hero who—like all heroes—actually did instead of just talked.

Yet MOAR update! Turns out, Mr Scott’s maiming resulted from another of those all-too-common “friendly fire” incidents.

Around 11 PM that night, a jumpy Canadian sentry fired at Doohan as the lieutenant was walking back to his post. He was hit by six bullets: four times in the left knee, once in the chest, and once in the right hand.

Doohan recovered from his wounds and joined up with the Royal Canadian Artillery, where he was taught how to fly a Taylorcraft Auster Mark IV plane. He was later dubbed the “craziest pilot in the Canadian air force” after flying between two telephone poles in 1945 just to prove that he could.

Yep, that definitely sounds like the Montgomery Scott we all know and love. The tale of how Doohan came to involve himself in show biz in the first place is a mighty good ‘un as well.

At some point between Christmas 1945 and New Year’s 1946, though, Doohan turned on the radio and listened to “the worst drama I had ever heard,” which prompted him to head down to the local radio station on a whim and do a recording on his own.

The radio operator was impressed enough to recommend Doohan enroll at a Toronto drama school, where he eventually won a two-year scholarship to the esteemed Neighborhood Playhouse in New York.

He returned to Toronto in 1953 and performed in dozens of roles on radio, stage, and television, including some bit parts in famous American series such as Bonanza, Twilight Zone, and Bewitched. Then in 1966, he auditioned for a new NBC science fiction series that would change his life — and the life of sci-fi fans — forever.

The part Doohan auditioned for was one of an engineer aboard a futuristic spaceship. Since he had mastered dozens of different accents and voices from his years of radio work, the producers had him try out a few and asked which he liked best.

“I believed the Scot voice was the most commanding. So I told them, ‘If this character is going to be an engineer, you’d better make him a Scotsman.’” The producers were thrilled with the character who was “99% James Doohan and 1% accent” and the Canadian joined William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy in the cast of Star Trek, the show that would forever cement them in pop culture history.

Indubitably so. Rest ye well, James Doohan. We shan’t see your like again.



Welcome to this week’s installment of our Wednesday meme feature, folks. Links to the “found via” sources will be attached to the specific MiQ’s (Memes in Question) whenever I can remember them, which likely won’t be very often. Only the first two memes will appear above the fold to save on bandwidth usage, since I assume not everybody who shows up at this here websty will want to see all of them. This intro will appear at the top of each week’s Memezapoppin’! post. Enjoy, funny pitcher-lovers.

Continue reading Memezapoppin’!


While You Were Waiting For The WAR to Start…

Some Americans are fully in the fight. President Donald Trump is fighting them every day. Steve Bannon is fighting them every day. Rudy Giuliani is fighting them every day. Peter Navarro is fighting them every day. Tucker Carlson is fighting them every day.

Navarro is in jail now. Bannon reports on July 1. Giuliani has been bankrupted and is subject to jail time. And they will sentence President Trump very soon.

There are now a lot of political prisoners in this country, J6 every Day Americans included. They intend to jail all of YOU.

“This country will devolve into a neo marxist totalitarian regime.”
“This a war.”
“Next man up. You have to step up.”

We’re already at war.
Tucker Interviews Steve Bannon

Hat tip: TreeHouse


Dr Edith Biden?

Not sure which of the calculating, greedy, over-ambitious cunts should be more insulted by the comparison.

Jill Biden, Edith Wilson, and the Changing American State
Biden’s unusually intense reliance on his wife as a cognitive enhancement and an image protector is as inarguable as it is provocative.

Biden’s unusually intense reliance on his wife as a cognitive enhancement and an image protector is as inarguable as it is provocative. According to an NBC News profile, she is known in the White House as “the Decider,” and she wields “unparalleled influence.” “She is,” the profile continues, “her husband’s foremost defender. She guards his interests and dignity….Her input is essential in some of the weightiest political and personnel decisions the 46th president confronts.” She is to Biden what the left used to claim Dick Cheney was to George W. Bush, i.e., the power behind the throne.

All of this has drawn comparisons between Jill Biden and another uniquely powerful First Lady, Edith Wilson.

Some historians consider Edith Wilson the nation’s “first woman president”—and not without cause. When her husband, the execrable Woodrow Wilson, suffered a debilitating stroke on October 2, 1919, Mrs. Wilson essentially took over running the White House and, by extension, the entire executive branch. She screened all government business brought to the Oval Office. She handled all serious matters. Because he was left unable to write his name, she forged his signature on official documents. Most notably, Edith Wilson guarded her husband’s “interests and dignity” by keeping his infirmity secret from the public. As William Hazelgrove noted in his 2016 biography of her, Madam President: The Secret Presidency of Edith Wilson, “her Oval Office authority was acknowledged in Washington circles at the time—one senator called her “the presidentress who had fulfilled the dream of suffragettes by changing her title from First Lady to Acting First Man.”

The biggest difference between Edith Wilson and Jill Biden is that Wilson got away with it. While Jill Biden is front-and-center in her husband’s public life at all times, earning the admiration of his supporters and drawing the ire of his opponents, Edith Wilson worked effectively and quietly behind the scenes. Through quiet diligence and discretion, she was able to convince those outside of Washington that all was well in the White House and that her husband was still in charge. His stroke occurred more than 17 months before Warren G. Harding was inaugurated on March 4, 1921. That’s more than 35% of his second term and nearly one-fifth of his entire presidency.

Edith Wilson was able to keep this secret and succeed where Jill Biden has failed, not because she was especially crafty or exceptionally dishonest (although she was both) but because the president was not, at the time, the most important person in the world. The government was small enough and the presidency unimportant enough that no one missed Woodrow Wilson in the slightest. No one outside of Washington noticed or cared that he wasn’t around. No one needed him to fix their problems, right their wrongs or deliver retribution upon their enemies. No one needed him to be the cause of all economic activity or the source of the nation’s self-image. He wasn’t the “empathizer in chief” or a powerful father-like figure. He was a just a guy, albeit a guy with an important job, but not one that was so important that it completely preoccupied everyone’s waking hours. Celebrities didn’t obsess about the man or deliver foul-mouthed press conferences declaring that the world’s fate depended on his reelection. No one cared—and nor should they have.

If it seems that every election these days is billed as “the most important election ever,” that’s only because every election is the most important one ever. As we, as a society, continue to destroy any sense of community, any sense of autonomy, any sense of personal responsibility, and liberty, as we continue to invest more and more power in people and institutions far removed from our lives and our interests, we also continue to make elections and elected officials more and more important in the operation of those lives. We continue to give people who are not especially smart, especially talented or even especially competent greater and greater control over us. We continue to sacrifice that which the Founders fought for on the altar of our comfort and indolence.

No one in the country should give a tinker’s damn what Jill Biden thinks, says, or does. The fact that we obsess over those things serves as proof that we have come along way in the last century—and not necessarily in a good way.

Speak for yourself, Bub. Personally, I don’t give a flying fuck at a rolling donut what either “Dr” Jill OR her senile husband “thinks”—never have, never will.


Up your Pride Month

You WILL observe the shitlib religious pieties, apostate. Or, y’know, else.

Lime Scooters Will Now Shut Down If Driven Over Pride Flag Crosswalk In Spokane, WA
Lime, a popular electric scooter and bike rental service, has announced it will be implementing a “no-go zone” around a crosswalk painted with a large Pride flag mural in Spokane, Washington. The crosswalk has become the center of much discussion after the arrest of multiple teens for making skid marks on the painted pavement.

On June 6, the Spokane Police Department announced the arrest of three teenagers on charges of 1st Degree Malicious Mischief, all in relation to the alleged vandalism of a Pride flag-painted crosswalk at the intersection of Howard Street and Spokane Falls Boulevard.

According to the press release, “911 received a complaint advising multiple subjects on scooters were causing damage to the newly painted Pride mural.”

Which, unlike so many other things, is a complaint the Shitlib Ideological Enforcement Squad will assuredly move on with genuine urgency.

While discussion surrounding the incident continues to rage on, the scooter rental company at the center of the alleged “acts of vandalism” has now issued a statement.

“All of us at Lime condemn these vile acts in no uncertain terms,” Lime Director of Government Relations Hayden Harvey told The National Desk. “At a time when our teams at Lime are beginning pride celebrations around the globe, it is disturbing to see the hate taking place in Spokane.”

Lime has now implemented a “no-go zone” over the crosswalk, meaning scooters driven over the mural will be remotely shut down. According to the company’s website, entering a “no-go zone” will cause a Lime vehicle to “gradually come to a stop,” forcing a rider to walk their scooter until it is outside the zone.

Or, alternatively, you could also just drop the dainty little sissymobile in the middle of the fucking street and leave it laying for the local Limeys to retrieve their damned selves, or hopefully be run over and smushed flat by following traffic. I know not what course others may take, but as for me…



I see no possible objection to this young lady’s wish, except from transphobic bigot H8RRRZ. And Donald Trump, of course.


Classic REAL rock and roll

Appropros my response to Ase’s comment here, please allow me to present Macy “Skip” Skipper’s RaB classic, “Bop Pills.”

Excellent tune, fun lyrics, solid arrangement, the song would go on to become grist for the classic-cover mill for the Cramps, my old friend Tim Polecat*, and a smattering of other artists of discriminating tastes.

* My relationship with Tim got off to a somewhat rocky start when, after the BP’s set on a RaB-weekender bill on which Tim’s band the Polecats were that night’s headliners, me and my bud Too Tall Paul (both of us obnoxious rowdies just drunk as boiled owls, as per usual) stood off to the side of the stage and heckled Tim mercilessly in exaggerated, poofter English accents. This fusillade of aggressive catcalling had poor old Tim glaring angry daggers at us all thru his entire set, and understandably so. The offense which got us started in on him in the first place was the Polecats’ recent recording of a particularly wimpy David Bowie semi-hit, “John, I’m Only Dancing”—a limp dishrag of a song that bore no relationship to the kind of punchy, hard-edged Neo-rockabilly my band and Paul’s Frantic Flattops were known for. Reintroduced to Tim many years later by a mutual female friend; I spoke at length to him over the phone one night at her place, and as it turned out we got along famously. Imagine my surprise to learn during that unexpected conversation that Tim was in truth an entirely likeable, warm, unpretentious cat after all. Tim avowed repeatedly that he remembered the Playboys fondly and admired us as a thoroughly kick-ass outfit; the heckling incident in New Jersey never came up, to my profound relief. Iconic Polecats guitarist Boz Boorer eventually became a good friend as well, but that’s a whole ‘nother story


Quote of the decade of the century of the millenium

Righteous Englishwoman Katie Fanning lays down the fucking smack on a couple of Moslem immivaders: “We don’t involve ourselves in gratuitous violence and terrorism. We are white people; we desolate continents, we wipe out civilizations, and we start world wars. So far we’ve been tolerant, but you wait until that tolerance is gone—when that Anglo Saxon is no longer willing to tolerate the rapes, robberies, extortion, and theft of our identity.”

Fucking beautiful. You go, girl! Via Phil, who gleefully quips:

When the Saxon began to hate in real time.

And as CederQ and I have agreed to many times, it’s when the women get fed up and tell their men to go kill some sonsabitches is when it all starts.

That’s about the size of it, yeah. Shoulda happened a long damned time ago, if you ask me.

Update! Goddamn if Phil ain’t got a second tasty vid below the above one. This one I won’t swipe, I’ll just link to it. Believe me, you’re gonna want to go over there and watch this one too.



Our friends over at Burning Platform have posted one that seems to be going viral, getting linked all over the place, reposted on Twitter/X, etc. It kicks off thusly:


I’m sorely tempted to say, “Doodly squat!” if only out of pure pig-headed contrariness, seeing as how Josey Wales fans—and who isn’t?—will recognize that memorable line from the flick. But never mind that right now. Onwards.

“Now remember, when things look bad and it looks like you’re not gonna make it, then you gotta get mean. I mean plumb, mad-dog mean. ‘Cause if you lose your head and you give up then you neither live nor win. That’s just the way it is.” – Josey Wales

“To hell with them fellas. Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms.” – Josey Wales

As our political, economic, civic, and social structures continue to degrade, dissolve, and disintegrate before our very eyes, it is easy to become apathetic and surrender to hopelessness. There are relentless powerful forces actively trying to destroy the fabric of our society and force the masses into economic servitude while caged in an electronic gulag, controlled by an oligarchy of evil totalitarian minded billionaires and their lackeys in key governmental, political, banking, military, media, and corporate positions of power. We are in the same situation as Josey Wales in Clint Eastwood’s epic 1976 film – The Outlaw Josey Wales.

An intriguing proposition, that, one I must admit had never occurred to me before—even though I must’ve seen TOJW about, oh, eleventy kajillion billion times by now. Even though it’s a long ‘un, and can be sorta…well, slow in places, I still like the movie a lot. Follows in boldface, a fun fact about the film I also didn’t know before.

I found it interesting the film was based on the novel Gone to Texas, written with a virulent anti-government slant by a former George Wallace speechwriter. When the script writer/director tried to tone down the anti-government aspects, Eastwood told him no and eventually fired him, taking over as director for the remainder of the film. Eastwood’s refusal to bow to Hollywood pressure and soften the dialogue and story line is a tribute to his resolute dislike and mistrust of governmental authorities. He has essentially gone his own way and made his films his way, never letting the Hollywood elite dictate his path.

Eastwood equates the plight of the Confederacy with the plight of the American Indian, as both groups were bullied, bloodied and crushed under the weight of the Federal government, which began its unfettered growth during the Civil War and has now reached its zenith of incompetence, arrogance, lawlessness, and hatred towards the citizens it is supposed to serve. Most people just want to be left alone, like Josey Wales, to live their lives in peace and harmony with their fellow community members. But the federal government makes that impossible, with their rules, regulations, taxes, fees, and enforcement thugs harassing the public on a daily basis.

In Eastwood’s movie they murder his family, murder his comrades, and are hell-bent on murdering him. The song remains the same. Our government murdered people minding their own business at Ruby Ridge. They murdered women and children at Waco. They murdered a rancher at Bundy Ranch. They send young men to war for bankers and corporations. They have been unlawfully imprisoning protestors in dungeons for a fake insurrection fomented and initiated by government agents. They rigged the presidential election and have convicted the leading political candidate of fake crimes he did not commit in order to maintain control over the political system.

The government is in the midst of creating millions of vengeful Josey Wales characters. As political chaos increases in the coming months, the threat of global conflagration escalates and the economic plight of the masses deteriorates, revenge against politicians, government drones, and the globalist financial elite for creating this madness will expand rapidly. We know what Josey Wales would do. The question is what will we do.

Dang, that thorny question just keeps popping up over and over again, don’t it? Again: an intriguing notion for sure, one which strongly suggests that you should read the whole thing.


The most well-named website EVAR

Hoo, BOY, talk about yer Intarwebz rabbit holes! This one got me, and I mean but GOOD. First, it was this:

12 Stimulating Facts About Coffee
10 of 12 The First Webcam Was Invented For a Coffee Pot

We can credit coffee-craving inventors for creating the first webcam. In the early 1990s, computer scientists working at the University of Cambridge grew tired of trekking to the office kitchen for a cup of joe only to find the carafe in need of a refill. The solution? They devised a makeshift digital monitor — a camera that uploaded three pictures per minute of the coffee maker to a shared computer network — to guarantee a fresh pot of coffee was waiting the moment their mugs emptied. By November 1993, the in-house camera footage made its internet debut, and viewers from around the globe tuned in to watch the grainy, real-time recording. The world’s first webcam generated so much excitement that computer enthusiasts even traveled to the U.K. lab to see the setup in real life. In 2003, the coffee pot sold at auction for nearly $5,000.

Next, I scrolled on down to…

6 Colossal Facts About the Hoover Dam
of 6 Building the Dam Meant First Building an Entire City

Constructing a large-scale dam meant hiring a massive workforce: By the end of the project, the employee roster swelled to 21,000 people. An average day had 3,500 workers reporting to the construction site, though that number rose during busy periods, like in June 1934, when as many as 5,218 men reported to the jobsite per day. Bringing in that many workers (and their families) meant the federal government had to have a plan — which is how the town of Boulder City, Nevada, came to exist.

In December 1928, President Calvin Coolidge authorized the creation of Boulder City on federal land specifically to house workers. Construction of the town’s buildings began in 1931. Families were housed in cottages, while single men slept in dormitories, and meals were provided in a jumbo-sized mess hall that served 6,000 meals per day. Boulder City was also equipped with a state-of-the-art hospital to handle jobsite accidents, a fire department, a train station, and a movie theater.

After that, there was this.

15 Geography Facts You’ve Always Wondered About
of 15 Where Does One Ocean End and Another Begin?

Despite being divided into sub-oceans, there is only one ocean in the world, which scientists refer to as the “world ocean.” Historically, cartographers and government officials found it helpful to divide the massive ocean into smaller entities, which is how the Atlantic, Pacific, Arctic, and Indian Oceans were named. More recently, the ocean surrounding Antarctica, dubbed the Southern Ocean, has been added to the list. Despite being located in different regions, there is actually no way to tell when one ocean ends and the other begins — because the ocean is a singular continuous body of water. However, there is one exception to this rule. The Southern Ocean is radically different from the rest, with a strong current that surrounds it and notably frigid water, making it easier to recognize where this sub-ocean begins.

Cool, no? And STILL, I’m only halfway down the page. I warn you, folks: do NOT click on the link above unless you have nothing whatever to do, and all day to do it in.



Did he or didn’t he? Only his on-staff dipey-dumper knows for sure.

Did Joe Biden Poop Himself at the D-Day Event?
If there was any doubt that the United States is no longer a serious country with a serious mainstream media, let’s consider it settled science after the internet erupted this morning when it appeared Joe Biden pooped his pants during the D-Day event at Normandy.

PJ Media’s Matt Margolis covered the more-than-awkward event where President Biden made several humiliating gaffes, which certainly has Vladimir Putin quaking in his boots having to face off against such senility in Ukraine. However, the circus became even crazier as X users noticed a video clip where Joe Biden bends over in front of Jill in a moment where it looked like he lost control of his bowels. In the same clip, Jill Biden appears to cover her nose to escape the stench. 

Tim Pool, the purveyor of the hit YouTube political program Timcast, noted, “Oh my god he’s pooping,” which set off a poopstorm of users laughing at the President on X, not the image that Joe Biden wanted to present in the middle of an election season on a trip abroad. 

However, leave it to the left-wing serious journalists at The Daily Beast to make sure the record on this matter was fact-checked on behalf of the administration. Within hours of the event, the site had an article titled, “This Video Shows Joe Biden Did Not—in Fact—Poop Himself at D-Day Event,” oddly listed under the “Extremism” category. Whether the extremism has to do with any Chipotle burritos Joe Biden consumed before the event or not, it’s unclear.  

In the article, the mainstream shill author defends Joe Biden’s engagement as “forceful” despite the President barely excreting the words out for his canned speech. The writer tried to paint laughing at what’s a ridiculous scene — whether it’s true Joe Biden pooped or not — as some kind of situation where a viewer should be ashamed of himself for thinking such a thing of the President.  

The article branded people laughing at a ridiculous scene as “MAGA Trolls,” and the more the author protested, the more it seems the Daily Beast is attempting to cover up a hot turd on behalf of the administration. 

It’s embarrassing that we live in a country where we have to legitimately wonder whether our President pooped himself or not. This isn’t the first strange act of senility by Joe Biden, but merely the latest in a long list of cringe-worthy moments during his tenure as president. 

How DARE you impugn our Dear Leader so maliciously, you dirty Ultra-Über-Mega-MAGAT terrorist, you! Why, for a senile sharp, marginally ambulatory nimble, decrepit vigorous, detested stumblebum beloved statesman whose lower-bowel functions are incontrovertibly—a-HENH!—regular as the seasons, reliable as a Swiss watch; one hundred percent all-natural without need for laxatives, stool-softeners, enemas, anti-diarrheals, or other pharmaceutical/chemical/mechanical artificialities; and under his control completely, Too Auld Jaux is doing one HELL of a bang-up job masquerading as ***”pResident”***, damn your eyes.

For my money, the answer to my post-opening query is of no real import, pretty much beside the point. Just the fact that the question keeps cropping up again and again is entertaining enough all by itself. Sure, knowing for a certainty that the malevolent, crooked old kiddy-diddler was serially plagued by involuntary doody-downloads during public appearances, speeches, grip ’n’ grins, and such-like events would be a seriously awesome bonus. But even so, watching as the charge’s unassailable credibility compels shitlibs to rally round in spluttering, fumbletongued defense of the Incontinent in Chief every time he stops, squats, grunts, and grimaces in perfect red-faced emulation of cranking yet another ***”pResidential”*** stink-pickle in his Depends is almost as good.


A PROPER D-Day 80th anniversary commemoration

Leave it to Steyn to provide one, from the Canadian perspective.

A lot went wrong, but more went right – or was made right. A few hours before the Canadians aboard the Prince Henry climbed into that landing craft, 181 men in six Horsa gliders took off from RAF Tarrant Rushton in Dorset to take two bridges over the River Orne and hold them until reinforcements arrived. Their job was to prevent the Germans using the bridges to attack troops landing on Sword Beach. At lunchtime, Lord Lovat and his commandos arrived at the Bénouville Bridge, much to the relief of the 7th Parachute Battalion’s commanding officer, Major Pine-Coffin. That was his real name, and an amusing one back in Blighty: simple pine coffins are what soldiers get buried in. It wasn’t quite so funny in Normandy, where a lot of pine coffins would be needed by the end of the day. Lord Lovat, Chief of Clan Fraser, apologized to Pine-Coffin for missing the rendezvous time: “Sorry, I’m a few minutes late,” he said, after a bloody firefight to take Sword Beach.

Lovat had asked his personal piper, Bill Millin, to pipe his men ashore. Private Millin pointed out that this would be in breach of War Office regulations. “That’s the English War Office, Bill,” said Lovat. “We’re Scotsmen.” And so Millin strolled up and down the sand amid the gunfire playing “Hieland Laddie” and “The Road to the Isles” and other highland favorites. The Germans are not big bagpipe fans and I doubt it added to their enjoyment of the day.

The building on the other side of the Bénouville Bridge was a café and the home of Georges Gondrée and his family. Thérèse Gondrée had spent her childhood in Alsace and thus understood German. So she eavesdropped on her occupiers, and discovered that in the machine-gun pillbox was hidden the trigger for the explosives the Germans intended to detonate in the event of an Allied invasion. She notified the French Resistance, and thanks to her, after landing in the early hours of June 6th, Major Howard knew exactly where to go and what to keep an eye on.

Shortly after dawn there was a knock on Georges Gondrée’s door. He answered it to find two paratroopers who wanted to know if there were any Germans in the house. The men came in, and Thérèse embraced them so fulsomely that her face wound up covered in camouflage black, which she proudly wore for days afterward. Georges went out to the garden and dug up ninety-eight bottles of champagne he’d buried before the Germans arrived four years earlier. And so the Gondrée home became the first place in France to be liberated from German occupation. There are always disputes about these things, of course: some say the first liberated building was L’Etrille et les Goélands (the Crab and the Gulls), subsequently renamed – in honour of the men who took it that morning – the Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada house. But no matter: the stylish pop of champagne corks at the Café Gondrée was the bells tolling for the Führer’s thousand-year Reich.

Arlette Gondrée was a four-year old girl that day, and she has grown old with the teen-and-twenty soldiers who liberated her home and her town. But she is now the proprietress of the family café, and she has been there every June to greet those who return each year in dwindling numbers…

That’s the late Bill Bray and the late John Woodthorpe with Mme Gondrée (pictured at the link—M) on the seventieth anniversary. The Bénouville Bridge was known to Allied planners as the Pegasus Bridge, after the winged horse on the shoulder badge of British paratroopers. But since 1944 it has been called the Pegasus Bridge in France, too. And in the eight decades since June 6th, no D-Day veteran has ever had to pay for his drink at the Café Gondrée.

They were young, but they were not children. Ten years ago, I listened to President Obama explain from Brussels that the deserter he brought home from the Taliban in the days before the D-Day anniversary was just a “kid”. In fact, he was 28 years old. I remember walking through the Canadian graves at Bény-sur-Mer a few years ago. Over two thousand headstones, but only a handful of ages inscribed upon them: 22 years old, 21, 20…

But, unlike the deserter and traitor honoured by Obama, they weren’t “kids”, they were men.

Gott damn skippy they were, whatever their chronological age may have been—real men, of a stripe they just ain’t making any more of, to our enormous cost. How many times have I said it over lo, these many years: if we’d had to rely on today’s twee, pampered Manwomen to storm the Normandy beaches back in 1944, we’d all be singing Deutschland Über Alles as our national anthem—in the original Churman, natch.

Update! Say, did someone mention “real men” just now? Why yes, I do believe someone did at that.

D-Day: When Real Men Held The Moral High Ground
One of the most popular books in the 1980s was the satire “Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche.” It was a tongue-in-cheek homage to what even then was a perceived fading masculinity starting to infect our broader society.

One of the chapters listed “Historic dates in Real Man history.” Of June 6, 1944, better known as D-Day, it states: “150,000 Real Men storm Normandy beach.” In a way, I could end this piece right there, as I cannot offer a more fitting tribute to what occurred on those hallowed beaches 80 years ago today. But I will try. Because as the years pass, and the Greatest Generation fades to the point where soon they will be gone, this monumental event in the annals of war offers us both a remembrance of what was, and reflection of what we as a nation have become.

Sadly, one cannot help but think the goodwill and moral capital we so justifiably earned on this day of days and many others throughout that awful calamity that was the Second World War has been squandered, one ill-fated, ill-conceived act of military adventurism at a time. One can say that the advent of the American Empire could be traced to the sands of Normandy. And, as with all empires, we are destined to fall. We are, in fact, seeing the classic signs of decline today. Among them are the over-expansion of a nation’s military far beyond its own borders; we currently have nearly 800 bases in over 70 countries. Another is an insurmountable national debt; debt service is now eclipsing military spending. Another still is decadence at home; I’ll let you ponder this while the next “Drag Queen Story Hour” comes to your schools.

One must wonder, then, if any of the remaining D-Day veterans might take the measure of the country they were once willing to die for and find today’s America worth storming another Normandy Beach to preserve. I wonder.

What we do know, however, with absolute certainty is that a lot of real men did do incredible things on this day 80 years ago. They did it not for conquest, treasure, or vendetta, but rather to liberate a people they never knew, in countries they’d only heard about, from an oppressive force so evil it had to be destroyed. They met the challenge. And so we salute them all.

We do indeed, humbly and with utmost gratitude. Doughty men, valiant men, intrepid men, ordinary men—pride of the American heartland; scions of Flatbush Avenue, South Street, Orange County, Pittsburgh’s Polish Hill, Cleveland’s Broadway Avenue; from every sleepy hamlet’s Main Street, every jostling, jiving metropolis’s main stem, American men signed up for they knew not what, were transported they knew not where, and stood up manfully under a waking nightmare which no one who wasn’t there with them on that day of testing and abject horror can ever hope to comprehend.

Now most of those men have left us, one by one by one: their challenge accepted and met, their task completed, their mission nobly accomplished, their sacrifice redeemed. God forbid that I ever hear any shitlib utter the vapid, obnoxious phrase “toxic masculinity” in reference to the heroic men Reagan immortalized as “the boys of Pointe Du Hoc.” Should such an unforgivable indecency transpire in my presence, I refuse to be held liable for whatever I might say and/or do in response.


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