The three R’s

The last of which being the most important in these most perilous times.

The Three Rs: Read the Writing on the wall – and do the ‘Rithmetic. Like I said, it’s not difficult – although it seems to be for some of the willing dupes who brought us the western world’s new reality. Here is (Wokester chowderhead and self-gassing Jew Anthony Housefather—M) the Liberal Member of Parliament for Mount Royal, and Parliamentary Secretary to the President of the Treasury Board in Mr Trudeau’s ministry, attempting to reconcile the scenes on the street with the policies he has supported:

I call on the @mcgillu administration to act. Final exams are coming up and all students need to feel safe on campus.

Good luck with that. As Sheila Gunn Reid points out, Anthony Housefather belongs to a government that was happy to invoke war measures when Canadian truckers arrived in Ottawa and to freeze the bank accounts of any citizen who donated fifty bucks to the cause. The foot-soldiers of the new intifada need fear no such strictures. Mr Housefather chaired the House of Commons committee I testified before just five years ago, and seemed personally a polite and agreeable fellow. But he belongs to the “Official Jews” for whom mass Muslim immigration is less of a threat than those awkward types who point out the obvious consequences of mass Muslim immigration. The “Official Jews” are not confined to Canada: America is awash with them, as is the United Kingdom. And unless, as Kathy Shaidle used to say, they’re “too stupid to be Jewish” what’s happening cannot have come as a surprise.

And thus the seeming paradox of the post-war era – that, as a certain “niche Canadian” has been saying for years, the principal beneficiary of western Holocaust guilt was Islam. The Canadian Islamic Congress and America’s ADL and their European equivalents did not choose merely “to remain silent”: they enthusiastically welcomed it, and did their best to crush those who disagreed. Having made his bed, Mr Housefather is now apparently a little squeamish about lying in it. He is a Jew whose family have been Montrealers for generations. But there will be no Housefathers in the city’s future: that is the logical consequence of Liberal Party “multiculturalism”.

This isn’t about Jews, except insofar as they are presently at the sharp end of a convulsive cultural shift. About six months after 9/11, I took a little trip to Western Europe and the Middle East and, waiting for a friend in Vienna, I noticed that everybody going in and out of the maternity shop across the street appeared to be Muslim. That’s just anecdote, as the bien pensants who dismissed my book as “alarmist” like to say. But two decades on it’s borne out by statistics. Back then, Muslims made up four per cent of Austria’s population; now it’s over eight per cent.

“Eight per cent” doesn’t sound like a lot. But, in western societies of elderly native populations, they skew young, and make up an ever larger percentage of your youth – close to a majority in certain European cities. Jews, on the other hand, are old. So, for those cutesy coeds, young Muslims are all around and young Jews are very thin on the ground. Mr Housefather’s concern for “all students” to “feel safe on campus” isn’t going to be an issue for much longer.

The salient feature of the demonstrations roiling McGill, Columbia and other western campuses is not that the pasty blonde trustiefundies are “pro-Palestinian” but that they’re cool with being culturally Islamic. Oh, to be sure, it’s mostly just keffiyehs and a few other fashion accessories; not yet full body bags and clitoridectomies. But why wouldn’t it have a purchase on them that Mr Housefather’s bleatings about how everyone should feel safe do not? The young want to belong, and what they most want to belong to is the future – and they grasp instinctively where the future’s headed.

They also get that these guys mean it. It is not coincidental that white upscale females are now among the most enthusiastic proponents of Hamas. For two generations, their menfolk have made the mistake of believing all that What Women Want bollocks, and the result is legions of “new males”, metrosexuals, soyboys – or, alternatively, depressive methheads chugging back Bud Light down in the man-cave. Me again: “We have made a world of men that women don’t want and women that men don’t want, and that doesn’t seem likely to end well.”

Oh, it isn’t going to, that much seems completely obvious. In the world Steyn describes, how on Earth could it? Another apposite Steynism: Demography is destiny. We must pray he’s wrong, but in the quiet places deep inside us which we don’t talk about at parties, we know damned well he’s right.

Lots of folks on Our Side frequently warn, in grim, foreboding tones, “War is coming.” Okay, fair enough, so stipulated. But…WHICH war is coming, prithee tell? Would that be the war between Pisslam and Western Civ? The war between Real Americans and the Goosesteppin’ Left? Rural versus urban, Freemen versus authoritarian government, Blacks versus Whites? Red States versus FederalGovCo, deranged “transgender” freaks versus sane Normals? Academia versus Joe Lunchbucket? Republicans versus D卐M☭CRATs, illegal aliens versus citizens, Capitalists versus filthy Commies, builders versus wanton destroyers? Sickly, green-teethed Vegans versus sturdy omnivores in the flush of good health? Gun owners versus gun-grabbers? ((((Dem JooJooJooJOOOOOZ!!!)))) versus pretty much everybody else? Professionals versus tradesmen? NeverTrumpTards versus OnlyTrumpers? Ghettos versus suburbs? Big Labor versus Big Business? Which, which, which, which? Please, somebody help me out here, it’s got me all confusticated and bewildered.

Overlong as it is, frightening as it is, the above list is nevertheless by no means comprehensive. I can see I’m gonna have to get a scorecard to keep up with all this.

The most striking thing of all is how incredibly insightful the incomparable CS Lewis was; he saw this goatfuck coming decades ago, laying out the particulars with such foresight and precision it makes for some seriously hair-raising reading.

A masterful piece of religious prose disguised as satire, C.S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters is a series of messages from senior devil Screwtape to his protégé Wormwood on how best to corrupt mortals. Originally released during World War II, its tight 175 pages provide charming, timeless wisdom.

In an addendum released shortly before the author’s death in 1963 – Screwtape Proposes a Toast – Lewis pivots from dispensing universal wisdom to directly criticizing social trends of his day, trends which have gone from mere whispers on college campuses 60 years ago to become orthodoxy with the power of law today. Reading it today, it feels like the author was more prophet than professor.

In the 15-page essay – full text available here – the devil Screwtape outlines how the term democracy can be warped into destroying excellence, first in the halls of education then to society at large to make sure everyone stays “equal.”

“Democracy is the word with which you must lead them by the nose,” Screwtape tells his fellow devils. “The basic principle of the new education is to be that dunces and idlers must not be made to feel inferior to intelligent and industrious pupils. That would be ‘undemocratic.’”

Screwtape espouses the “significant benefits” of “ungrading” decades before Brown University ever led this race to the bottom, saying:

“At universities, examinations must be framed so that nearly all the students get good marks. Entrance examinations must be framed so that all, or nearly all, citizens can go to universities, whether they have any power (or wish) to profit by higher education or not.”

Easy to see echoes of Screwtape in the demands of progressive demagogues, like when Bernie Sanders insisted that everyone should go to college so we have “the best-educated workforce in the world” – willfully ignoring that an education void of rigor has no value at all. Screwtape all but uses the word “triggered!” to describe children in self-esteem first, outcomes last schools.

“Children who are fit to proceed to a higher class may be artificially kept back, because the others would get a trauma — Beelzebub, what a useful word! — by being left behind.”

Screwtape must be grinning at headlines about public schools eliminating gifted programs, knowing how much this hurts the segment of society most likely to build it up: the middle class.

Downright spooky, no? Effectively, what Lewis has done here is draw a roadmap not of physical terrain but of the future, one much more accurate and minutely detailed than any Google GPS map is, will, or ever could be. Assuming current travel trends and conditions remain unchanged, all indications are that we’re in for a very rough ride—a nightmare trip which will steadily get worse the longer we stick with this godawful road, stubbornly maintaining course in this same deadly direction despite many large, colorfully-printed hazard signs warning of imminent catastrophe just ahead.

Plenty more after the excerpted passages, all of it similarly prescient. I downloaded the Screwtape addendum via the provided link, but haven’t found time to start reading it yet. When I do, you’ll know it; there’ll be tons more post-worthy material therein, I expect.

Elon is at it again

Speaking the plain truth, being reviled to the rafters for it by shitlib morons. Y’know, the usual sort of thing.

Elon Musk posted about the West’s Achilles heel and man oh man did it make a lot of people angry
Elon was up at 1:30 a.m. and decided to spit some fire on the interwebz:


Hoo boy.

You know you can’t say things like that on the internet, Elon!!!

Follows, the typical Mark-1 Mod-0 foaming, frothing, nonsensical hissy-fit, wherein the Usual Gang of Idiots can’t even manage to stay on-topic. Gee, wonder if Mr Musk gives a lumpy fart. Myself, I’m beginning to suspect he tremendously enjoys hacking off the stupes and dupes, and is now doing it on purpose, just for his own amusement. Good on ya either way, sir.

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Rockin’ in the free world state

Not to restart the whole “DeSantis is a Deep State boll weevil” discussion, mind; certainly, he’s amply demonstrated himself to be an extremely ambitious ProPol at best, which is in no way a compliment. That said, though, he does just keep on doing good and worthwhile things as FLA Guv, if only in spite of himself, perhaps.

Ron DeSantis wants to teach young people about communism. He should use rock ‘n’ roll
Gov. Ron DeSantis (R-FL) has written a bill that requires teaching on the history of communism in Florida public schools, beginning in the 2026-2027 school year. DeSantis wants students inoculated against the evils of Marxism.

It’s a great idea. One suggestion — use rock ‘n’ roll in the lesson plan.

Rock ‘n’ roll is an exciting, popular art form geared toward young people. It also has a proud (and largely ignored) history of anti-communism.

In their book, The Declaration of Independents: How Libertarian Politics Can Fix What’s Wrong with America, Nick Gillespie and Matt Welch, who both work for the libertarian outfit Reason, reveal the often hidden history of popular music as a weapon against totalitarianism. In the chapter “Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World,” they detail how the music helped defeat communism.

As Welch and Gillespie note, Vaclav Havel and the leaders of the 1960s revolt against communism in Czechoslovakia were deeply influenced by American rock and roll, particularly the band the Velvet Underground. A group of young Czech hippies formed the group the Plastic People of the Universe, named after a Frank Zappa lyric, and were soon banned by the government. A fan of the Rolling Stones, Havel saw and heard in rock and roll “a temperament, a nonconformist state of the spirit, an anti-establishment orientation, an aversion to philistines, and an interest in the wretch and humiliated.”

It’s an exciting piece of history. DeSantis should add it to Florida’s new pro-freedom curriculum.

A sound idea all around, to my way of thinking.

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Police story

The great Ken Layne tells it as only he can, a personal reminiscence that provides a bracing look back at the kind of old-time cop we all used to respect, trust implicitly, and admire—a noble breed which has become all too rare in Amerika v2.0, alas. They used to be the norm rather than the exception in America That Was, but tragically for us all, America That Was is no more.

Ripley
Ripley was a Riverbank cop for a good long while until he went to work for the Sheriff’s Department around 1985 or so. He was one of those old skool small town cops, Officer Friendly if you will. Him being called out for something did not mean automatic arrests of everybody involved would be made “to let the courts sort it out”.

He was one of those cops that actually took the time to listen to both sides of a dispute, would pull over to help a motorist make minor repairs rather than just calling a tow truck, and would even give you a ride home instead of automatically arresting you if you had a little too much to drink provided you weren’t so fucked up you were driving on the sidewalk and giving whiney-ass sober citizens a reason to complain. On top of all that, he had a great sense of humor.

That’s not to say he took shit off of anybody. He treated people the way they treated him. 

Real Pancho was drinking at Sanchez’s Cantina one night and shooting the shit with Tony, the owner. Things got a little spirited between a couple of the customers, and the shit spilled out into the street. Rip was either called or was just driving by and stopped to break it up. After he got everything settled and turned to walk back to his patrol car, one of the drunks slapped at the back of his head. Rip spun around and dropped him with a hard right. Real Pancho told us later, “That motherfucker went from Andy Taylor to Buford Pusser in 1.5 seconds flat, homie.”

A bunch of us were sitting around drinking beer one Friday evening and his name came up, then everybody started throwing out theories on why he was so damned lenient, everything from compassion and understanding to being a local boy to whatever. George burped and said, “Y’all are overthinking this. Rip just hates paperwork with a passion, is all. He’d rather drive around in his patrol car than sitting in the station filling out arrest reports.”

Rip had a soft spot for anybody that worked out at the ammo plant, having worked there himself during the Vietnam war before enlisting in the Marines to go kill commies. As a matter of fact, on my very first day at work, the line boss I was working for told me to keep my work badge in my wallet with my driver’s license and if Officer Ripley pulled me over, hand him both and I’d probably get off with just a warning.

He wasn’t lying, either. A couple weeks after I started there, I rolled through a stop sign at about 10 mph and was pulled over by Rip, the first time I had ever laid eyes on him. As I was digging my license out of my wallet, he saw my work badge and forgot all about my traffic infraction. We spent the next 15-20 minutes talking about the plant and the mutual friends and acquaintances we had.

That’s not to say he didn’t write us tickets if we pushed it. We got a couple warnings but if we continued to misbehave, we got a ticket with him bitching about it so much we almost felt bad for putting him on the spot. “Now here I am trying to do my damnedest to be a decent human being by not holding y’all to the literal letter of the law, but do you appreciate my kindness and good will? Oh nooooo, you test my patience time and time again. I gave you a warning for speeding, then not a week later I see you blasting through town endangering law-abiding citizens and Mexicans. I’m gonna introduce you to my Maglight if you keep this shit up. Sign here.” It was hard to hold a straight face while he was ranting.

He was welcome out at my place and showed up quite a few times with his wife Jeri and sons. They fit in well anyway with about half my friends knowing him their entire lives. He wasn’t Rip the cop when he was there, he was just Rip the local guy. He left his job at work.

People smoking weed wasn’t an issue because he was usually gone by dusk along with others that brought their kids, and back then we didn’t smoke dope around kids. I doubt anybody would’ve put him on the spot by firing up a doobie anyway even if there were no kids around.

His youngest son pulled a trigger on a real gun for the first time out at my place, and him and his boys came out fairly regularly to hunt pheasant or dove when the seasons were open.

Rip’s story is a long ‘un, and also one of the best damned reads you’re ever going to see. It pains me no end to see my daughter’s terror and dread at every interaction I’ve had with po-lice in her presence—there’s been a fair few, none of them at all adversarial and/or confrontational, all of them relaxed, casual, even cordial.

True story: once, when we were pulled over for some piffling infraction or other (a busted taillight bulb, I believe it was), the poor kid actually burst into tears as I was talking with the cop—gasping for breath, shoulders heaving, great sobs racking her little body. The cop was horrified, and tried his dead-level best to calm her down, speaking directly to her in soothing Daddy-voice tones to assure her she didn’t need to be afraid, that he’d never dream of harming a beautiful little girl like her in any way, that his job was to help people like us, not to hurt them. Finally, he gave the effort up as a lost cause, apologized profusely to me, and we all went our separate ways. I felt sooo bad for the poor guy, I really did; it was perfectly obvious to me that he was a loving parent himself, the thought of any child actually being terrified of him just absolutely wrecked the man.

A few days later, I went so far as to go to the Belmont PD HQ and ask to see Officer Whateverhisnamewas (I had caught his name from his shield and jotted it down afterwards so’s I wouldn’t forget), whereupon the SGT on front-desk duty that day brought him out and I offered my thanks for his going so far above and beyond the call etc to be such a sweet, caring guy with my distraught daughter. He blushed to his roots at that, saying t’was nothing, he meant what he said about helping people like us being part of his job, the part he himself found most satisfying of all.

I then told him I honestly had no earthly inkling as to where her reflexive fear of cops might’ve come from, that I was working diligently to teach her otherwise. In my considered opinion, the blame for Madeleine’s mystifying breakdown couldn’t fairly be laid at his doorstep, I said, reassuring him that I bore him no ill will whatsoever over the episode.

After that, we chit-chatted idly about this, that, and the other for a few more minutes—turns out he was a drawling, born-and-bred scion of good ol’ Gaston County like I was, a natural kinship which gave us plenty to discuss—then shook hands warmly and again went our separate ways with a smile on our faces, a skip in our steps, and a song in our hearts.

I have this longtime habit, see, of going out of my way to talk to cops I cross paths with in my daily round, having had many friends, neighbors, and family members who served on one force or another since I was but a wee bairn. I’ve tried to instill in her from early on the idea that cops are not too terribly different from the rest of us workaday schlubs: some of them fine folks, some of them obnoxious pricks, but in the main just regular people who have a difficult job to do, about like anybody else is/does.

I want Madeleine not to shy from the police quaking with fright as if they were the Loch Ness Monster, Nosferatu, or the Wolfman with a badge and a gun, but to treat them just as she would anyone else, taking them as they come, reserving judgment unless and until they give cause to dislike and shun them as toxic assholes. In my extensive experience with them, act as if cops are actually, y’know, human beings and they’ll usually respond positively, granting you the same small courtesy in return.

This is just another of many thorny parental dilemmas every caring Mom and Dad worthy of the name must carefully consider, then choose the course of action that seems best for their child based on the information at hand, which is usually incomplete. As such, it greatly disturbs me to think that—what with today’s militarized police kitted out as soldiers in full combat gear including Level IV body armor, automatic battle rifles, and even tanks (!!!), faces concealed robot-like behind Next Generation Integrated Head Protection System helmets, NOD goggles, and opaque face shields, champing at the bit to engage their Enemy (to wit, US) and vanquish him utterly—by urging my kid not to fear, distrust, or abhor cops I might be doing her a serious disservice at best, possibly putting her in real danger at worst.

As I’ve said so many times, when we passively allowed marauding Lefty wreckers to take our country from us, many fine things were lost in the suicidal shuffle that were very much worth holding onto. Compassionate, dedicated cops of Ripley’s stripe who deem personal integrity, selflessness, and strict attentiveness to duty to be sacrosanct would definitely be one of those things. LESSON TO BE LEARNED: In the next iteration (if any) of the Former USA, after the grassroots uprising I call the Coming Unpleasantness© has concluded and the dust has settled, perhaps We The People will be more willing—better prepared mentally, physically, and materially—to fight, truly fight, to keep them.

Yes, that of necessity means violence, bloodshed, and war, and what of it? Real Americans realize that our freedom, our heritage, our traditions, our very society itself are all worth paying any price to maintain them. The simpering, pusillanimous wretches who preemptively foreswear violent action in defense of our unique American birthright have in effect surrendered already, mewling shamefully in favor of lawsuits, Congressional investigations, higher court decisions, and “elections” as if there was any credible hope in all that endless, proven-futile meat-beatery. So to hell with them then, sayeth I.

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Nuttin’ but the truth

The peerless James Woods slices, dices, and fricassees ‘em.




Amen to ALLL that, James. If you ain’t following Woods on X, you’re missing out on something truly good.

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Capsule summary

A Sarcastica sum-up.

The Repubs continue to threaten us with a loss in November to a senile clown with their circular firing squad and other antics ………3 Soros backed Negroes with a combined integrity of a street corner heroin dealer are prosecuting persecuting (like him or not) our former President like third world shitholes do, while the media cheers them on for ratings and future lucrative book deals…………our coward-and- chief, who spends more time at home (where not subject to official call and visitor logs) than he does in the oval office, can’t regularly make it past 12 noon without a visit from Dr. Feelgood (yeah I said it) shits his pants and lies his ass off and has gone to shouting like a South American dictator about his opposition on the campaign trail………..we are being reassured of the fact throwing $80K a year at an elite institution of higher learning can produce just as many idiots as intelligent people…………and let’s not forget 185 pound trannies beating up 15 year old girls in their own school restrooms. But if all that doesn’t make you want to drink yourself into a stupor, Taylor Swift’s new album is being criticized for being poorly written……….OH THE HUMANITY!

BUT, on the upside, congress agreed to throw away send out more of your tax money and the Ukrainian civil service employees are assured of their 4 weeks of paid vacation and Zelinsky’s ol’ lady can take her regular summer Paris shopping trips.

That about covers it, I believe.

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Ahoy! Reich-wing NaziDeathBeast blogger in distress!

A hearty yo-ho-ho, avast there matey, and welcome aboard to my boon companion and like-minded reprobate Concerned American from the soon-to-be resurrected and completely indispensible Western Rifle Shooters blog, who will be posting at this here den of iniquity for a cpl-three days whilst I get his DNS set up and a-propagating. Happy to have ya, old friend.

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Convergence of opinion

Lessee now, what’s that they say about great minds thinking alike…? A-HENH!

Disband the Republican Party
The time to end the Republican party is now, right now. I don’t care that it’s right before an election. As if elections meant anything and if they don’t, it’s because of the Republican party. The Republican party refused to take election tampering seriously. They were the ones who refused to take these cases to court, despite the overwhelming evidence of election interference, looking the other way when presented with voter fraud. If the Republican party cannot defend the rights of its constituents, but merely act as adjunct Democrats, the party should be abolished and reconstituted with those who recognize the dangers of unlimited debt, runaway inflation and a world turning away from the dollar as a prime reserve currency and the medium for purchasing petroleum.

The Republican party has funded the spying on American citizens by domestic intelligence services, the FBI and DOJ. They have funded the wide-open border. They have funded the UN who spread that largesse out to the NGOs who organize these caravans of illegals flooding the borders. They funded the instructions to vote for Biden when they made it to America. The Republican party is working in cooperation with the Democrats/communists to harm the American people. They are doing so arrogantly and with impunity, because the greater share of their constituents are afraid to abandon the party.

Fear not! Nothing our government can do to us will be any worse under Democrat rule than what we have recently witnessed from the Republicans. It might even help. As the Democrats rule through terrorism and hatred it might inspire some sort of resistance, but if the Republicans remain in charge, there will always be that sense that something better might come of it. It’s too late, they have been complicit in too many bad things, unwilling to do the good and responsible things, allowed all sorts of crimes to be committed under their noses and have not lifted a finger to put a stop to it, nor will they.

The imprisonment of Donald Trump, or even defeating him at the ballot box out of lack of interest on the part of the Republicans, is an opportunity to tear down the scaffolding around a corrupt uniparty system.

Watching those Ukrainian flags wave from the floor of the House was a sickening sight and one that could only be accomplished by a treasonous band of greedy, self-serving politicians, ignorant or insensitive to deaths they will cause not only in Ukraine by continuing a war that long should have been settled, but here at home because they could have used their leverage to close the border. At least, they might have been able to reverse some very bad policy decisions that have made the border crisis much worse. But they didn’t. They didn’t do it, because deep down, they didn’t want to.

Lots more to this one, all of which will richly reward a look. Also, many thanks to my old friend TL for commending my own Eyrie hang to his readership’s attention over at his joint, which has netted me a whole slew of new followers and subscribers.

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The greatest “sorry, not sorry” of all time

Sorry I have great tits.” Not me, baby, not me; Heaven forbid I EVER be sorry that you have great tits. And, from all appearances, you seem to be a pretty great broad, too. That would of course be “broad” in the Sinatra sense—which is entirely complimentary, not meant in any way to be dismissive or derogatory.

Sydney Sweeney appeared to try to silence her critics with a cheeky social media post Sunday.

Sweeney posted a carousel of images to Instagram showcasing her trip to Mexico, and she sent a clear message to her haters in one of them. The star was featured wearing a sweatshirt that read, “Sorry I have great tits,” in a very ‘sorry, not sorry’ moment. The shirt’s unique message can directly or indirectly be seen as a clap-back at Hollywood producer Carol Baum, who slammed Sweeney days prior, saying, “she’s not pretty. She can’t act,” according to Daily Mail.

Oooooooh, can you say “green-eyed monster,” boys and girls? I knew ya could.

The grey sweatshirt served as a low-key hand-in-the-face to those who have recently been scrutinizing Sweeney’s looks and acting skills. She made it clear that she really doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of her at this stage of her life.

The “Euphoria” star confidently threw her shade at the haters, while bouncing braless on the beach as a Mariachi band played live music. She wore a ruffled, cream-colored crop top and a flowy midi skirt, dancing happily without a a care in the world.

Yes, there are pics, and they’re spectacular. You GO, girl!

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ROASTED

Roseanne has been simply on FIYUHHH of late. Her hot streak continues.

Social media is abuzz over a video that Roseanne Barr shared mocking professional victim E. Jean Carroll, who claimed that Donald Trump sexually assaulted her in the dressing room of New York’s Bergdorf Goodman’s department store in the mid-1990s.

In the footage, Roseanne gazes into the camera like she’s overwhelmed.

“What happened, mom?” her son asked from behind the camera. “We’re at Bergdorf, are you okay? You look very shocked.”

“No, I’m not okay,” she says. “I just had a horrible flashback, a horrible memory.” She then reveals, “Right now I realize that 26 years ago, Joe Biden raped me right here in that dressing room in the shoe department where I went in to change my shoes.”

“Oh my God,” the son says.

“He raped me right here, Joe Biden, he raped me, right here in the shoe department of Bergdorf Goodman,” Barr adds.

“Are you okay?” Her son asks.

“No I’m not,” she replies. “I need to sue. I need to sue.”

You do at that, Roseanne, you damned sure do.

Reaction to Barr’s video was naturally mixed, as Trump haters accused her of mocking sexual assault victims.

“I would never insult a sexual assault victim,” Barr said in reply to one criticism. “I was talking about E. Jean Carroll.”

Heh. Also, OUCH! You go get ‘em, girl. As Margolis indicates in the article, Roseanne’s comedy-gold riff makes deft use of the fact that Carroll’s transparently specious fairy tale revolves around her non-rape happening during the exact same time-frame, in the exact same spot in the exact same store, which makes it that much funnier as far as I’m concerned. I say again: GET ‘em, girl!

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“Higher” “education”? In a pig’s eye

Another plainspoken, common-sensical missive from the febrile mind of Mike Rowe, whose Twitter/X/Whatthehellever feed I am pleased and proud to subscribe/follow/whatthehellever. It must seem to him at times as if he’s just screaming at a wall with his writing—a despairing, draining feeling of ultimate futility I’m all too familiar with myself after twenty-some-odd years of throwing this stuff out there to little apparent good effect. However, some things simply gotta be said, no matter what. To my mind, even if it changes nothing, merely annoying the shitlibs and pissing them off makes the endeavor well worth the effort.


Once again, I’ll circumvent the “Read more” clickbait for y’all’s convenience with a little C&P action.

For a guy who runs a foundation that sends young people to trade schools all over America – trade schools where I’m pleased to report, no one is calling for the extermination of Jews – today’s headlines are once again offering another excellent reason to consider redirecting whatever financial support you might earmark for the Ivy League, to the mikeroweWORKS Foundation. Why? Because the Ivy League has truly lost its mind.

Consider the latest madness at Columbia University, where the president, Minochuhe Shafik, has announced a new round of remote learning – effective immediately – in response to a noisy rabble of thugs and bullies calling for the eradication of Israel.

If I had a kid at Columbia, I’d be livid. It’s simply mind-boggling that the president of this university would rather consign her students to another crucible of remote learning, than permanently expel the protesters. I mean, seriously, what does it take to get expelled from Columbia? These creeps are on camera, literally screaming into the faces of Jewish students.

“They yelled at us to go back to Poland, said we have no culture, and chanted, ‘Strike, strike Tel Aviv,” said one terrified student. Followed by, “Burn Tel Aviv to the ground,” “Go Hamas, we love you, we support your rockets, too.”

In a now-infamous image, one demonstrator appeared before a group of counter-protesters holding Israeli and American flags with a sign pointing in their direction that read, “Al-Qasam’s next targets.”

That’s what you get for $68,000 a year at Columbia – an administration who cowers in the face of thugs and bullies, and a university president who would rather make your kids try to learn off campus, than take a truly hard line with those students calling for the murder of Jews. For the love of God, expel them. Calling for murder is not protected speech.

In the meantime, mikeroweWORKS is accepting applications for our next round of work ethic scholarships. Deadline is the end of the month. It’s worth noting that the careers we’re training people for cannot be taught, or preformed, remotely. It’s also worth mentioning that we accept donations year-round and spend the money we take in with great discretion. You can apply for a scholarship, or donate, at http://mikeroweWORKS.org.

Excellent questions, excellent advice, bluntly expressed with nary a trace of flinching, prevarication, or weasel-wording throughout. Good on ya, Mike, and keep up the fine work.

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Turncoat turns back again?

Gotta admit, I did NOT see this coming.

Bill Barr says he’s backing Trump 2024 because ‘far left’ is a greater threat: ‘Heavy-handed bunch of thugs’
Former Attorney General Bill Barr is backing his old boss in the November election despite their very public fallout — because he believes the “far left” is an even greater threat to the US.

Barr, 73, disputed the notion that former President Donald Trump will be worse for democracy than President Biden, and warned about the rise of the “far left.”

“The Biden administration is in fact the greater threat to democracy,” Barr told Fox News’ “Cavuto Live” on Saturday.

“I think that they have a totalitarian temper. They have bought into the progressive movement. And they’re trying to squelch opposition and freedom of speech.”

“It’s a heavy-handed bunch of thugs in my opinion, and that’s where the threat is,” Barr said at another point about the far-left.

Meh, can’t say I give much of a shit about this development, anymore than I do about the 24 “elections” generally. That said, Barr is right as rain about the Goosesteppin’ Left, however surprising it may be to hear the likes of him saying it. In the final analysis, though, the real “threat to democracy” isn’t the Biden marionette or his White House junta; it’s the sinister, shadowy FederalGovCo Grey Men behind the curtain.

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Montana sitrep

Q: Are things coming to a head, even in Big Sky Country?

A: Yes. Yes, they are.

There’s Gonna be a War in Montana
An analysis of visible propaganda in Bozeman, Big Sky, and Three Forks

In popular culture, protagonists and antagonists battle eternally for Montana’s precious land. Country folk fight off city folk in Yellowstone and the podcast Land Grab: A Podcast About the Place We Call Montana. Long before that Montana (1950) pit sheep farmers against cattle farmers. In Last of the Dogmen (1995) cowboys faced Cheyenne Indians. Of the 14 major film/TV projects scheduled to be shot in Montana, every single one involves some take on the battle for Montana’s soul. And Montana’s soul is in its land.

Land conflicts have led to at least one recent murder, but despite Yellowstone’s depiction of ranchers (our heroes) massacring greedy real estate developers with machine guns, so far Montana hot wars have been relegated to fiction.

My wife, toddler, and I attended a family reunion on a ranch in Tom Miner Basin—one of the most beautifully preserved parts of the state—for a week. Six years ago I attended the same event at the same ranch. There is indeed something special about the land and particularly the sky in Tom Miner Basin. Rural Montana is astonishing. I won’t bore you with more cringey descriptions because that’s all there is to say. Jockeying for Montana’s land provides great stakes for drama because the prize is priceless.

More interesting to me were the parts of Montana I saw by accident. A new coldness grips the relationship between visitors and locals. I first noticed it at the ranch. Six years ago the kitchen helpers were a happy mix. The chef was known for his thoughtful local cuisine, elk with au jus, beef burgers from ranch cattle, loaded baked potatoes, hearty mac and cheese. The servers wore big smiles. The progressive boomers attending the reunion were comfortable with this type of staff, the same hodgepodge they interacted with at home. Much backslapping occurred.

This time, the help had clearly experienced a vibe shift. They were all white, and distant. The food was awful—boiled carrots and reheated pork steaks, the result of some Aramark-type lowest-bidder supply chain. The new staff had been mostly hired on Coolworks, a website for low paid service jobs on ranches, resorts, and other “great places.” They came from the surrounding towns, forgotten about, left behind, bright red Trump country. Young women with sloped posture and heavy eyeshadow, barely 18. Their clothes don’t fit, they looked impoverished, hungry, skittering. The young chef who had once proudly presented his take on local food was gone. The guests no longer chatted with servants. There was separation and silence.

Then my wife tested positive for COVID so we fled to Bozeman. Throughout the subsequent week, I explored Bozeman and Big Sky, ultra-hot destinations (and now homes) for the woke bourgeoisie, and Three Forks, the polar opposite, a totally different world a razor thin distance away. I saw two groups of people, an overclass and an underclass, pressed up against each other, spoiling for a fight, just waiting for the littlest spark to set their fury ablaze.

Over what? The soul of Montana of course. One-of-a-kind land. That’s nothing new. What’s new is the character of the warring factions. They aren’t who you see on TV. On one side you have global interests imputing their values, importing cheaper labor, hollowing out Montana’s attractions and selling them to an international bourgeoisie for maximum profits. On the other you have the new underclass. Not the friendly Christian country folk of times past. And not Cowboy Hat Republican Rancher Dad either. No, these are a new kind of country person. Angry, exasperated, poor, Trump-loving service-workers—the Oxy takers, the meth cookers, the eaters of Chick-Fil-A. This group is acutely aware of just who controls Bozeman and Big Sky, and believe that the same people are coming for their territory. And they’re right.

If you listen, you can hear the two groups screaming at each other in silence, waiting for their very own Gavrilo Princip to spark this thing off.

You can at that, and not just in Montana, either. Then again, when shitlibs are screaming at the top of their lungs exactly what they intend to do to you, it probably behooves you to listen. Because if you don’t think they’ll really do it—not they themselves necessarily, but through their Wokester governments; their Wokester banks and other corporate entities; their Wokester cultural mafia; their monolithic Wokester “education” edifices from pre-K to post-grad; their grim, whey-faced Wokester bureacrats—then you probaby aren’t paying attention anything like closely enough. Divemedic knows:


Indeed so.

(Via WRSA)

1

“A devastatin’ blow to our antiquated systems”

One of the all-time greatest scenes in the history of the cinematic art.

A blazing campfire way out in the boonies; a handheld camera shooting from the back seat of a scarlet 68 Chevy Impala ragtop purchased specifically for the purpose, rolling along at no more than 25mph so as not to jostle the cameraman overmuch; gorgeous, gleaming, one-of-a-kind Harley Panhead choppers; joints with actual, no-shit weed in ‘em for purposes of artistic verisimilitude; three immensely talented, daring actors improvising the dialogue in real-time, as they went, unscripted and unrehearsed.

Folks, it just don’t get much better than this.

The Captain America and Billy bikes were designed and built by the somewhat unlikely team of Cliff Vaughs and Ben Hardy, which is a great story in its own right.

When The Easy Rider concept was quickly made into form, Peter Fonda set out to get him a couple of bikes for the movie. There’s lots of controversy about who built these bikes. Some say Dan Haggerty, who was in the movie. The guy who painted the bikes, his son says it was him (his dad, that is). Some say it was Peter Fonda.

But the guy who built them was a guy named Ben Hardy. Ben was an African american man who knew Harleys, and knew what he was doing. When Cliff Vaughs was asked by Fonda to oversee the building of the bikes, Vaugh’s turned to Hardy who was well known (if you were black) in Los Angeles as the go to guy to build a killer bike, and do it right.

Peter had only one thing he wanted on the bike. He wanted Captain America to have a flag on his gas tank. Beyond that, the design was left to Vaughs. I gotta think tho…Peter was an experienced rider, and Dennis hopper wasn’t. That had to have come up in the conversation somewhere, because the Billy bike was a much easier bike to ride. I had a fat boy that was really close to the same configuration, and my brother has a friend with a Billy Bike replica. They’re easy bikes to ride. The captain America bike? Cut that steering head off and rake that bitch out like it is, throw in those long forks with no front brake and see how you fare. You don’t give that kind of bike to a beginner.

It was Cliff who actually first offered the name “Easy Rider” to Fonda. It was a term he used in the day. Whats an Easy Rider? that depends on who you ask. In the 1900s it meant a freeloader. A guy who mooched off you. To Dennis hopper, it meant a man who lived off the money of a whore. He got it from an old Mae West movie. Whatever cliff meant by it, I’m not sure. All I know is he redefined the word. To this day I think it is associated to Harley riders. Maybe because of cliff, but most definitely because of the movie. When you say Easy Rider, I think of the movie. I think of Harley’s.

Vaugh’s quickly took the idea to Ben Hardy. Peter bought four 1950’s panhead police bikes from auction, and got them to Hardy and Vaughs. Jim Buchanan fabricated the frames, the engines were built by Hardy, Dean Lanza did the paint (his son is adamant he built the entire bikes). 2 bikes were for filming, 2 were for the final sequence of the movie, which I’m fucking assuming you know about, otherwise you wouldn’t be here reading this. Hardy went to work, and the rest is history.

It is at that, it surely is, and not just biker history alone. A pic of Hardy, and of his LA shop.

Ben hardy Easy Rider Bike.

Ben hardy shop-1.

The shop is still there as of the writing of the above article (mid-2012, that would be), in the same location, albeit with a new name and under different ownership, seeing as how the great Ben Hardy passed away in 1994. Betcha didn’t see all that coming, now did ya? And I truly hope you didn’t think for a moment I’d leave out one last cultural lodestone immortalized in the film.

For whatever it’s worth, I always dug the minimalistic, cut-down lines of the Billy-bike bobjob way more than the near-parodically stretched, raked, and extended 60s chopper archetype represented by the Captain America machine. Two beautiful bikes, two completely different stylistic approaches, brought together in one unforgettable movie masterpiece. Taken for all in all, Easy Rider is as 100% all-American as apple pie, hot dogs, and hog-leg Colt .45 wheelguns; it could never have happened in any other time or place.

Nitpicking update! One decidedly trivial flub-up from the early part of the movie that has always irked me disproportionately is when Billy chides Captain America for being incautious about gassing up his bike, saying “Man, all the money we have is riding inside that peanut tank.” No, gawddammit, it is NOT a “peanut tank,” Billy boy. That’s the nickname for the original Sportster gas tanks, like thus:

As any fool can see without half trying, the American-flagged receptacle adorning Wyatt’s bike is actually a Mustang tank, to wit:

The Mustang tank is so-monikered because of its origin—namely, on the pioneering Mustang mini-motorcycle, a cute li’l thang that went the way of the dodo back in 1965 after a tragically abbreviated nineteen-year run during which it somehow never found its market niche, despite a plethora of innovative technical advances such as being the first American motorcycle of any size or type to feature the now-ubiquitous telescopic-fork front suspension.

The noble Mustang name lives on in its beautifully understated fuel tank, an unforeseen legacy that’s still available for most makes of big bikes from various aftermarket companies today. It’s been a go-to favorite with more discriminating and tasteful Harley customizers since the 60s. Myself, I’ve run a Mustang tank on every Sporty I’ve owned except for the first and last ones—what is that, three of ’em, four? Whatever, I absolutely adore the things, have ever since I first got hipped to their existence by an ad in the once-glorious Easyriders magazine.

For one thing, the Mustang has a much higher capacity than the stock Sporty “peanut” go-juice tank, which holds a measly gallon or so—some .9, others 1.3, depending on the year. That translates to no more than ninety miles or so before you have to make a stop for a refill. Which, actually, was just jake with me, since an hour and a half of having your teeth rattled and your bones jarred by those old Ironheads on a daylong putt with your local wolfpack was quite enough for anybody, thanks. By the time you’d gone through your peanut tank’s capacity and switched the petcock (Pingel Power-Flo, of course; no shoddy stock PoS will suffice) over to reserve (14-15 more miles at best), you were good and READY to climb off and unkink your aching legs and back a little.

Yeah, while you glided to the nearest pump sucking fumes the Big Twin ironbutts’ unwieldy 5-gallon fatbobs would still be well over half full, so you could count on catching the usual ration of good-natured shit for your “dirt bike” or “woman’s” bike’s short legs from them. But who the hell cares what those Geezer Glide pricks think anyway? Let ‘em snigger, let ‘em chortle to their hearts’ content; their ol’ ladies will be pestering you at the bar later on for a leg-wettin’ thrill-hop packing on the p-pad (“p” for pillion, although some mischievous wags swear it actually stands for pussy, and as all Sportster riders know, neither side is entirely wrong) of your fleet little speed-demon, and everybody knows it too. When some horny, sexy biker bitch is reaching around from behind you to fondle your throbbing erection through the thin fabric of your worn, grease-stained jeans as you rip down a lonely back road, the last laugh will be yours.

Ask me how I know. Never mind, don’t, I ain’t gonna tell ya.

For another, the Mustang tank’s curvaceous good looks simultaneously offset and complement the rest of the Sportster’s no-frills, bareknuckle-brawler savagery, making what was for me a perfectly irresistible aesthetic combination. Plus, back when I bolted on my very first prized Mustang the tanks had fallen so far out of contemporary vogue as to be downright rare; almost nobody who saw mine in those days—be they old-school scooter trash or cake-eating-civilian cager—even knew what the hell it was, although they all liked it. Or they said they did, at any rate, which was good enough to suit me. I certainly did, and as the builder, owner, and rider, my opinion was the only one that mattered.

It still is, I still do, and if I had a Sporty today there would almost certainly be a Mustang tank, in flat-black rattlecan sprayed on by yrs trly etc, perched saucily on the upper frame rail between the top triple-clamp and the stiff, uncomfortable nut-buster of a seat. Or there soon would be, you betcher. Even though I’m too old for that sort of thing nowadays, hey, that’s just how I roll, people.

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CF Glossary

ProPol: Professional Politician

Vichy GOPe: Putative "Republicans" who talk a great game but never can seem to find a hill they consider worth dying on; Quislings, Petains, Benedicts, backstabbers, fake phony frauds

Fake Phony Fraud(s), S'faccim: two excellent descriptors coined by the late great WABC host Bob Grant which are interchangeable, both meaning as they do pretty much the same thing

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Burn, Loot, Murder: what the misleading acronym BLM really stands for

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