Category: Balls The Size Of Church Bells

Can you believe they really said it?

The fabulous Flatiron

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A Big Apple architectural icon is getting a makeover.

Flatiron Building, Famous New York Landmark, to Be Converted to Condos
The triangular 22-story building, which has been vacant since 2019, may be among the highest profile office-to-residential conversions

New York City’s historic Flatiron Building is officially preparing for its new life as a home to condos. 

Following an auction of the property earlier this year, The Brodsky Organization has most recently bought a stake in the landmarked building — which is owned by GFP Real Estate. The investment confirms that the building, which sits at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, will be converted into condos.

Sources confirmed Brodsky’s stake, as well as the “likely” conversion, to The Messenger. The deal was first reported by The Real Deal.

The triangular 22-story landmark located at 175 Fifth Avenue has a typical floorplan of 10,600 square feet, with a total square footage of 255,000 square feet, according to materials by GFP. At the May auction, GFP Chairman Jeffrey Gural estimated that the building would cost $100 million to renovate, in addition to the $161 million he dropped on the winning bid. 

Sources involved in similar investment sales say that the conversion will be rather pricey. It’s estimated that the developer would have to charge about $1,600 per square foot to break even and closer to $3,000 a square foot to turn a profit. The triangular floor plan may also make for oddly shaped apartments.

After the gorgeous Chrysler building, I have to say the modestly mid-rise skyscraper once derided as Burnham’s Folly stands second on my personal most-beloved list. So much did I dig it, in fact, that on my frequent long afternoon strolls around Lower Manhattan I usually made sure to arrange the route so it would take me by the dear old Flatiron at least once. When I did, I always had to stop for a few minutes and just gaze up at the oddly-shaped old gal from across Fifth Ave, drinking in her unique grace and beauty from the ground floor entrance to the add-on penthouse floor at the tippy-top.

For reasons I don’t pretend to understand, though, I never did go in to check out the interior. Go figger. But just you have yourself a gander at this pic and then tell me she ain’t a bona fide masterpiece of the architect’s art.

Flatiron Building

Funny story about the Flatiron that isn’t all that well-known, related to me years ago by Chris Pfouts, who definitely knew a thing or two about a thing or two concerning the classic structures of two once-great American cities, New Orleans and NYC: it enjoys the singular distinction of being the only skyscraper anywhere that was actually, literally stolen.

See, during the era when the Flatiron was being built, the Mafia had a certain renown for stealing materials, tools, and various fixtures from any construction site their crews were hired to work on (which was all of ‘em) to be resold elsewhere. So brazen and out of control had this New York tradition become that, while the Flatiron site was being prepared, those Cosa Nostra crews started jacking every girder, beam, door, and tiedown bolt they got their hands on, just as soon as the stuff was delivered to the site for later assembly.

Some city official totted up the losses years later and determined that such a ridiculously large quantity of material had disappeared that, in effect, two (2) Flatiron buildings could have been built. Sadly, New York ended up with just the one.

I’m glad she’s coming back, if only as exorbitantly-priced condos. Even after having stood vacant for several years, tearing the Flatiron down to puke up yet another nondescript glass box in her place would be unthinkable. I’m thankful that the new owner has smarts and vision enough to realize that the old girl has life left in her still, and I hope he makes himself a swoon-inducing bundle from the undertaking. New York just wouldn’t be the same without her.

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American badass

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That would be one Steve McQueen, as shown in this commercial for Honda’s all-time badass motocrosser, the almighty Elsinore CR250M.

Repops of that great orange and black Elsinore jersey McQueen sports in the vid can be had all day long for about 40-50 bucks, my lifelong friend and vintage-dirt-bike enthusiast Stan tells me. By contrast, Steve’s smoke-tinted helmet visor with the little rearview mirrors mounted on each side are rare as hens’ teeth, going for around 3-400 smacks when/if you’re fortunate enough to find one at all.

The video is a commercial McQueen made for Japanese TV, for which he got paid a cool million bucks. He actually ran the Elsinore Grand Prix (for which Honda’s first two-stroke MX bike was named) himself in 1970 under the hilarious nom de badass Harvey Mushman—no, really. Of that historic race, McQueen had this to say:

“When you’re runnin’ with the top ten, as I was, you’re really honkin’ on pretty good an’ what happpens is that with so many bikes choppin’ up the dirt the holes in the course get worse…deeper with each lap.

“I was comin’ out of a wash under a bridge with this road dip ahead and I just kinda took one of those big jumps where you’re sure you’re gonna make it but you don’t. And I didn’t. My bike nosed into the dip, which was, like, deep – and I went ass-over the bars into the crowd. Didn’t hurt anybody but me. My left foot was busted in six places.”

This wasn’t enough to stop him however, as he got back on the bike and finished the race, still finishing in the top ten!

What’d I tell ya? Badass!

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“Argue with them and get in their face”

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Throw their own shit back at them, exactly as Bathhouse Barry once recommended be done to us.

A Wine O’Clock Wendy — I’m really trying to make this put-down go viral; I think it’s Streets Ahead of “AWFL” — and her Frankencuck husband were videoed ripping down posters of American hostages held by Hamas.

The woman putting up the posters was not having it.

Indeed she was NOT, bless her heart. After the “man” had committed assault and battery by placing “his” dainty hand over the justly outraged woman’s camera and shoving her—a Mark-1 Mod-0 insufferable shitlib smirk all over “his” womanly face—our Power Couple quickly scurried off with their tails tucked (y’know, like “his” squirrel-dick usually is) between their legs before the Bad Woman could punch their dim fucking lights out.

 

HELL yeah, that’s how you do it. The happy ending:

Brooklyn man suspended from job by his Jewish dad after ripping posters of Hamas hostages
A Brooklyn man seen tearing down posters of Israeli kids held by Hamas has been identified as a former magician — whose Jewish father suspended him from his gig at a user experience company, according to a report.

Noah Schaffer, 41, and his wife, Kelly, were seen being berated by a Jewish woman after they removed the posters this past weekend at Brooklyn Bridge Park, the group StopAntisemitism posted on X.

“This couple has been identified as spouses Kelly Ann and Noah Schaffer. Kelly has been previously arrested and works as a social worker for @UrbanDoveNY. Noah works as a strategist for @humanfactors,” the group wrote.

Again, that’s Noah and Kelly Ann Schaffer, likely of some precious, too-twee Brooklyn hipsterhood. Wherever these two vile creatures may reside, I think it would be just AWFUL if large, angry mobs started showing up on the doorstep of their domicile with torches, truncheons, and bullhorns at 3 AM every night for about, oh, a year. Anybody out there knows how to find their home address, feel free to let me know and I’ll happily update this post with it. Goose, meet gander.

Update! Done and done, courtesy of our friend Aesop, reporting in from his extended vacay:

Apparently, that address would be

Noah and Kelly Ann (McManus) Schaeffer
191 Willoughby St. Apt 12K.
Brooklyn NY 10026

Well whaddayaknow about that, in Brooklyn, just a hop, skip, and a jump from the borough’s Ft Greene nabe. Only reason I know even that much is I had two musician friends who lived thereabouts, but that was back in the mid-90s: bassist Bill and drummer Stanley. Used to drive out from Manhattan to fetch the boys a cpl-three nights a week, load their gear, and whisk the three of us off to whatever extra-money side gig we had scheduled in Brooklyn, central Lawn Guyland, or out in the Hamptons. As many times as I did that, I very much doubt I could find either of their houses today.

Billy has long since moved to Norway, where his lovely and vivacious wife Ingegerd hails from originally. Aussie Stan, as his friends called him, lived in a HUGE three-story Victorian-style house on a lovely, quiet, tree-lined block off Flatbush Ave which his wife had inherited some years before I met him. I won’t say it was a mansion, but if somebody else wanted to I might put a “yes” to it. I pure-tee loved Stan and Mrs Stan’s crib; for starters, it had a paved driveway leading downhill into a three-car (THREE!) garage under the house equipped with automatic bay-doors and remote-opener fob. Through the inside door from the garage waited a sumptuous, nicely-appointed rumpus room/man-cave, complete with:

  • A tournament-size pool table
  • A vintage Wurlitzer jukebox loaded with old blues, country, and rockabilly .45s
  • A fully-stocked bar from the late 1940s–dark, worn wood and the traditional brass foot-rail at bottom, out of a long-deceased neighborhood gin-mill owned by a friend of Stan’s who just gave him the bar gratis when it finally shut down for good; the guy even went so far as to help Stan move the heavy-ass thing to his house
  • A classic Bally KISS pinball table in near-new condition
  • Assorted plush, comfortable leather sofas and recliner-chairs deep and soft enough to sink down into without a trace
  • A German foosball table, likewise meticulously preserved, but with that easy, loose feel to the action that all properly broken-in German tables ought to have; a fast, hard front-man pull-, toe-, or slap-shot past the opposing goalie would always yield that sharp, satisfying BANG! that every skilled foosballer lives for, so loud it can easily be heard way over on the far side of a packed, noisy arcade—a sound those shitty French tables with their wimpy cork balls simply can’t produce—usually accompanied by the metallic, whispery TINK! of the hard plastic ball meeting the thin sheet-steel plate mounted at the back of the goal-hole to protect the wood behind it. The game rooms I loved best in my misspent youth would go dead silent for a few seconds in the wake of such a resounding score, after which respectful pause the shouts and applause would ring out from the other players: POINT! HELL yeah! BURN! Sucker just got his ass SLAMMED!!! High fives, backslaps, gales of raucous laughter all around; those were the rooms I went to again and again and again, and there’s a damned good reason for that

Let me tell ya, driving down to park in the underground garage, unass the vehicle, from there to emerge into a veritable palace like Stan’s basement hideaway was, the whole damned house was—in cramped, overcrowded New York City, mind, not exactly renowned for its generously-sized, airy, comfortable indoor spaces—made you feel like you were really somebody. And that is the God’s honest truth.

Fort Greene was a nice enough if not particularly fancy area back then, but by now who knows. Been nigh on twenty years since I was last in Brooklyn, so I couldn’t guess how extensively or even whether Ft Greene has been gentrified; I do know that at this point most of seedy, grubby old Brooklyn has been tidied up, refreshed, and/or rebuilt to at least some degree. But no matter. Whatever the neighborhood’s current condition, if you’re in the area I think the sudden wee-hours appearance of a flaming bag of fresh-squeezed dogshit at Chez Schaeffer’s front door as a Halloween gift would surely not go amiss, to hijack from its proper context a fine old Captain Mal line.

A flick of the Bic, a press of the doorbell, a fleet-footed dash back into the anonymity of night’s darkness, and voila! Mission accomplished, and well done to you. Maybe the pissed-off woman in the above Andy Ngo vid would enjoy dropping one off for ‘em. T’is a consummation devoutly to be wished, the absolute least the rotten, uncaring douchetools deserve for what they did. A standard issue non-apology “apology” accompanied by an insincere, blasé shrug just ain’t gonna cut it, I shouldn’t think.

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We Whooped the Axis Powers in WW2, and Again When it Counted, 1966

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In spite of my barbs thrown out at all things Ford, and maybe just needling a committed Ford man, Mike, just a bit, there is the GT40, one of the great cars and programs of all time.

As a committed Chevy/GM man, I did not like Fords, with one exception. Even in my youth I despised the european ways, and Henry Ford took on the Italians that had dominated LeMans. In 1966 the GT40 would finish 1,2, and 3, vanquishing the cars from Maranello. Ford’s gambit was an international effort featuring the great British Sports Car engineer/driver Ken Miles. Of the three Shelby Ford entries that year, there were driver greats Denny Hulme paired with Miles, Americans Dan Gurney and Jerry Grant in another car, and Bruce McLaren and Chris Amon in the 3rd Shelby entry. There were five more non factory GT40’s in the race.

The GT40 would follow up the ’66 race with wins in ’67, ’68, and 1969. The great Ken Miles lost his life testing just a couple months after the 1966 123 race where he was far ahead of the other two, but because Ford played with the finish to have them all finish the same time at the line, and with the Miles car having started further forward, Miles didn’t get the credit for the win.

I just ran across a new to me website and one of the category’s is the GT40, always worth a review.

GT40

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My heart, it breaks for them

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Awwww, the poor widdle dear.

NYU Law Students Say Classmate Losing Job Offer Over Pro-Hamas Statement Is ‘Violence’
Ryna Workman said ‘Israel bears full responsibility’ for Hamas attacks that have killed thousands

Wails the oppressed, put-upon snowflake upon receiving her first lesson in what the word “responsibility” means.

New York University law students are rallying behind a student who lost a spot at a white-shoe law firm for defending Hamas, saying the firm’s decision to rescind their offer constitutes “violence.”

The Chicago-based Winston & Strawn withdrew its offer of employment to Ryna Workman after the nonbinary NYU student issued a statement claiming “Israel bears full responsibility” for the terrorist attacks that have left more than 1,300 dead, including at least 30 Americans. The firm’s decision is just one instance of “systemic, concentrated violence” Workman has experienced since issuing her anti-Israel pronouncement, according to a letter of support obtained by the Washington Free Beacon.

You keep using that word, “violence.” I do not think it means what you think it means. Here’s hoping you find out real soon.

There’s a pic at the link; the fat, melanin-enriched shitwit looks about like you’d expect she would, although she probably considers herself victimized yet again when the article dropped the apostrophe from “R’yna.” Via Ace, who also includes a truly jaw-slackening slice of moronicity from loathsome flatus Bill Kristol.

Bill Kristol @BillKristol

I came to D.C. to work in the Reagan Administration because (to oversimplify) it was pro-Constitution, pro-U.S. global leadership, pro-military, pro-Israel, pro-democratic capitalism, and pro-American dream. And that’s why I now support the Biden Administration and Democrats.

Great Scott, he seems to be serious! With Kristol, it can be hard to know for sure. It’s mortifying to think how many times I approvingly quoted, excerpted, and linked this sleazy, slithery reptile’s Weekly Standard pieces right here at Ye Olde Colde Furye Blogge in the aftermath of 9/11. Ace follows up with an inside story.

Bill Kristol called Claremont writer and former Trump NSA spokesman Michael Anton a Nazi in print. A source who was present in the room for the incident tells me that both were guests at a dinner party, and Bill Kristol came up to Anton with a smile and with his hand extended for a shake. As if they were Best Budz who were just having a play-fight on the internet for clicks and giggles.

Anton refused to shake his hand, and told him why.

So, per my source, Bill Kristol is the kind of man who either 1, slurs people as Nazis even though he knows for a fact they are not Nazis, just to get some more donations from the AWFL Wine O’Clock Wendys who make up his Democrat donor base, or 2, is perfectly willing to shake the hand of a man he actually believes is a Nazi so as not to bring down the vibes of the swank DC insider dinner party he’s intending.

You choose! I’m not here to bias you towards either conclusion. Personally I favor un-offered choice 3, that Bill Kristol is a very fat, small, cowardly weakling and sexually-ambiguous Gollum whose testosterone levels would allow him to enter “women’s” sports, and then come in last place, because seriously, this is one short obese red-faced pudge of a “man.”

Option Three has my vote too. Although upon reflection, ain’t no reason it can’t be all three of ‘em. None of them says anything at all good about Kristol, which at this point can’t come as any big surprise.

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Invade the world, invite the world

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Yeah, let’s don’t and say we did.

For three years now, America’s sovereignty and safety have already been vaporized enough by Biden.

But the leftists, predictably, want even more. Now, they pine for a mass importation of Palestinian refugees into America. Fire alarm-pulling Congressman Jamaal Bowman of New York declared that “the United States New York should be prepared to welcome refugees from Palestine.”

Fixed it for ya, Jamaal. Of course, it would be asking too much of the sub-moron Bowman to suggest he learn to distinguish between a fire alarm and a door-handle before he goes making any wet-brained policy recommendations to non-Retard Americans.

Following the horrific terror attacks upon Israel from Hamas and the resulting swift Israeli Defense Forces response, American globalists ascertain yet another opportunity to import a wave of unvetted migrants likely to bring violence and social discord to our already frayed republic.

It’s actually yet another opportunity to start killing Leftists in job lots, IMHO.

In response, we patriotic populists should channel Michael Corleone responding to Senator Geary’s bribe demands in “The Godfather II.” Our answer on new Mideast refugees is this: nothing. Zero. Not one Palestinian refugee belongs here in America.

Annnnd DINGDINGDINGDING we have ourselves a WINNAH, folks! Hope DeSantis and Abbott have plenty of buses on standby to make sure these “refugees” end up where they truly belong. Read all of it; the recounting of specifics on the Afghan-refugee crimewave thus far is as infuriating as it was predictable.

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A Cowboy through and through

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RIP to the late, great Walt Garrison.

Walt Garrison, Dallas Cowboys legend, dies at age 79
Walt Garrison was a throwback fullback who used to ride the rodeo circuit as soon as the Dallas Cowboys season ended. And later in his career, he gained fame as a national spokesman for Skoal.

So call Garrison the ultimate cowboy whether he was in season or not for the Dallas Cowboys or earlier, the Oklahoma State Cowboys, where he was a collegiate star. On Wednesday, he died at the age of 79. Pokes Report, which covers Oklahoma State, confirmed the news of his death. The site said Garrison had been residing in a memory care facilitiy in Weatherford, Texas, about a 30-minute drive from where his Cowboys play each Sunday.

News of Garrison’s death started breaking on social media late Wednesday and early Thursday morning. Tony Casillas, a former Dallas Cowboy turned media host, wrote: “This man was a true gentleman and Cowboy, his storytelling was magnificent!! RIP Walt Garrison.”

I used to come to my feet in excitement every time Garrison got his hands on the football back in the Cowboys’ 1970s heyday; in a time and place where absolutely everybody around me pulled for the hated Washington Redskins (now operating under their new name, the Washington Innocuous Whatevers, No Offense!), I was the most diehard of Cowboys fans. Walt Garrison; Bob Hayes; Bob Lilly; Mel Renfro; Thomas “Hollywood” Henderson”; Lance Rentzel; Herb Adderly; so many great names from those halcyon days of my youth.

For his part, Walt Garrison was not just a pro football Hall of Famer, he was also a real character to boot.

Garrison’s pro football career started before the NFL merger. So both the Cowboys and Kansas City Chiefs drafted him in 1966. The Cowboys gave him a convertible and a horse trailer as his signing bonus. Garrison was a kick returner early on, then he moved up the running back depth chart. By 1971, Garrison even led the Super Bowl champions in receiving.

And you couldn’t keep him off the field. He played in the 1970 NFC title game against the 49ers with a cracked collarbone and a sprained ankle. Neither injury prevented him from carrying the ball 17 times for 71 yards.

Sports Illustrated used a photo of him for their 1972 preview cover. During that season, he needed 16 stitches to close the gash on his finger. He’d accidentally cut himself while whittling. Then after the season ended, Garrison played in the Pro Bowl, despite a cut on the face he sustained while steer wrestling days before.

Overall, he played nine seasons with the Cowboys, retiring as the team’s third all-time leading rusher (3,886 yards) and fourth-best receiver (1,794).

Garrison competed for the Oklahoma State rodeo team for a year before his pro football career started. Cowboys coach Tom Landry didn’t want him to compete during the season. But Landry said yes to off-season events.

Eventually, the Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame inducted Garrison. Marty Garrison, Walt’s son, told the organization:

“His first love was rodeo, no doubt, ever since he was really young,” Marty said of his dad. “That’s what he would have done had he not played football in college and then got drafted by the Dallas Cowboys. His whole life, his love was rodeo.”

They just aren’t making ‘em like good old No 32 anymore, and that’s a damnable shame. Rest ye well, Walt Garrison. Let the witty words of another Cowboys icon, Dandy Don Meredith, stand as a sort of epitaph:


Update! A Dallas fan of my advanced years would be totally remiss not to include another unforgettable image from the Aulden Thymes:

DallasCowboysCheerleaders1977

Not a taped-down penis to be found amongst those winsome lasses, which would surely not be the case nowadays.

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You knew it was coming

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Just in case you were thinking maybe these “people” weren’t completely, totally bugfuck nuts.

Democrats Circulate Ridiculous Theory Blaming Trump for Hamas’ Assault on Israel
It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Whenever something catastrophic happens, such as the current barbaric attack on Israel by Hamas, folks on the left quickly brainstorm new and creative ways to blame former President Donald Trump.

Remember when Democrats were all in a tizzy because Trump, when he was president, allegedly shared classified intelligence with Russia that came from Israel? In May 2017, the former president came under fire for giving sensitive details about an ISIS plot with Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov and Ambassador Sergey Kislyak. The information was believed to have come from Israeli intelligence. Folks on the left flipped out, claiming that Trump’s actions could have jeopardized the United States’ relationship with Israel, one of its closest allies.

With Israel’s war against Hamas in full swing, folks on the left are trying desperately to convince people that the information Trump allegedly gave to Russia somehow wound up in Iran’s hands, who then passed it on to Hamas to help them conduct the assault. The theory is about as crazy as a split pea soup sandwich, but they are running with it anyway.

It is worth noting that former Vice President Mike Pence also tried to blame Trump and other Republicans for the assault, claiming that their non-interventionist stances emboldened the terrorist group.

Yet, Democrats are still trying desperately to gaslight the public into believing Hamas’ incursion into Israel was partly Trump’s fault. This is clearly nothing more than a diversionary tactic intended to draw attention away from Biden’s apparent incompetence and how it might have contributed to the situation the world is witnessing in Israel. But if this is the best they have got, they might want to consider going back to the proverbial drawing board – or maybe they could just tell the truth for a change.

Yeah, not a snowball’s chance of that. They’d all immediately turn into pillars of salt, or blocks of stone, or be struck by a bolt of lightning and catch on fire or something.

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“We Don’t Have a Fucking Budget”

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Matt Gaetz has formally filed a motion to vacate the chair and remove speaker McCarthy.

https://theconservativetreehouse.com/blog/2023/10/02/matt-gaetz-formally-files-motion-to-vacate-the-chair-and-remove-speaker-kevin-mccarthy/

Speaking to reporters Gaetz lays it out and states the headline words.

 

UPDATE:
Gaetz is successful and McCarthy is out as speaker!

Livestream – The Big Ugly Is Raging – The House of Representatives Debates the Removal of Kevin McCarthy

Out of all the republicans only 8 voted to remove swampy kevin McCarthy: Gaetz, Burchett, Buck, Biggs, Crane, Good, Mace, Rosendale.

Only 8.

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HILLARY!™ gets hers

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At long, long LAST.

After making the old bat wait 10 years, former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s portrait was finally unveiled Tuesday at the State Department, accompanied by glowing remarks from the present Secretary of State, Biden’s little weasel Antony Blinken.

Diogenes has the photo, and it’s a real beaut for sure. The photographer really captured Her Herness©’s true essence, I think.

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Coast to coast road trip in a 75 Dart

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First question that occurs to me is, why on earth would you WANT to? Myself, I wouldn’t trust a Dart to get me to the corner liquor store. But then, some people are just natural-born risk takers, and love taking on a challenge so daunting, so obviously insane, even the Gods Themselves would tremble at the prospect.

Dart Across America: Adventures of Driving a 1975 Dodge Dart 3,300 Miles in Six Days
The 225-cid. slant-six engine is touted for being bulletproof and able to handle all kinds of abuse. That’s one major reason why Erik Jesperson chose a 1975 Dodge Dart as the classic car for his coast-to-coast road trip adventure from Ocean City, Washington to Ocean City, New Jersey. The other solid reason was its mostly clean, rust-free body.

The road trip was arranged after Erik’s friend Josh asked what he wanted to do for his bachelor party before his wedding on December 1, 2023. A road trip across the country had always been on Erik’s bucket list, and he’s not the type to turn down an excuse to buy another project car.

After locating the 1975 Dodge Dart at a dealership, he had the car inspected by a local mechanic before fully committing to the trip. The mechanic came back with good news, simply recommending a tune up and stating the wipers didn’t work and the suspension was worn, nothing that would immediately jeopardize the 3,300-mile six-day drive.

“The Roadkill and Vice Grip Garage type shows have always spiked my interest,” Erik began. “Being a mechanic, I knew if I had the tools and supplies, I could probably make it happen.” Another piece of reassurance came from Josh, who works for U-Haul and had the ability to locate and rent a truck and trailer anywhere in the country at a cheaper rate (worst case scenario, of course). “My fiancé, Kristen, loved the idea of us acquiring an older car that we could use in the wedding as well as take to car shows and cruises together,” he added. That was the icing on the cake. Erik finalized the purchase and worked with the salesperson to pre-order any parts that could be needed for the trip, such as a mini starter, alternator, cap, rotor, fuel filter, and fluids. He packed items like spark plug wires and a few other parts in his luggage before catching his flight to Washington.

Wise move. The old MOPAR PoS did better than anyone intimately familiar with the road-apple abominations might expect, actually; minor annoyances like a broken fuel gauge,  a rotted-out heater core, and getting becalmed in Sturgis H-D rally traffic were dealt with, until…wait for it…WAAAIIIT FOR IT…

DodgeDartRoadTrip

Gee, didn’t see THAT coming.

Our intrepid duo did indeed make it to Ocean City, NJ in the end, which speaks volumes about their pluck, ingenuity, and good old can-do spirit. Jesperson and his fiancé plan to keep the “car” for some reason or other, which speaks volumes about their mental health, far as I’m concerned. Then again, though, I’ve never been known for being at all hesitant about embarking on high-risk, no-net road trips myself. Remember, I’m the guy who rode a 1971 Shovelhead FLH, replete with apehangers and suicide shift, from CLT to NYC just to see a pretty girl.

TWICE; I did that TWICE. So, y’know, maybe I ain’t exactly the one to be sitting in judgment on Eric and his affianced, eh?

(Via Ed Driscoll)

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Boogs on parade

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Steyn plays a round of Name That Dindu.

Spirits of the Age
Last month, The Las Vegas Review-Journal carried a sad little story about a man who’d died while out on a bicycle ride:

His daughter, Taylor Probst, got an alert from her dad’s Apple Watch indicating that the 64-year-old man had fallen. The 27-year-old and her mother, Crystal Probst, drove to the scene of the crash, only 3 miles from their home.

“I come from law enforcement as well in my younger days,” Crystal Probst said in an interview Friday. “I was able to ascertain, there’s his bike, his helmet is way over there, his phone is way over there. I’m like, this is not good…”

Officers and firefighters told the women that Probst had been taken to University Medical Center.

They waited four hours there, asking everyone where their loved one was.

Finally, a representative from the Clark County coroner’s office told them Probst had passed.

“When they know somebody’s dead, and a family is sitting out in that lobby waiting, somebody needs to come out,” Crystal Probst said, angry at the delayed response.

So that’s how it was initially reported. As the characteristically somnolent monodaily’s original headline put it:

Retired police chief killed in bike crash remembered for laugh, love of coffee

Must have been a pretty bad “crash”, huh? But just one of those things, compounded at the hospital by the usual bureaucratic heartlessness of modern life.

And then a video emerged, which included a little witty repartee.

So two joyriders steal a car, hit another vehicle, and then decide to kill a bicyclist for kicks. “Ready?” says the driver. “Hit his ass,” responds the passenger. And they do – and whaddayaknow, killing a guy makes for a really cool video when you post it on “social” media!

Then a CBS report dropped relating the arrest of a “teen” of scrupulously-undisclosed ethnic origin, for “a series” of “hit-and-run crashes” in El Lay. Mark throws yet another eerily similar incident from Toronto into the gruesome mix before hurling the payoff pitch:

Notice how in all three jurisdictions the media report what happened as a “hit-and-run”. I think not. Hit-and-run laws are among the earliest of traffic regulations (1927, even on the rustic byways of British Bengal) because, in the days of dusty unpaved roads, no license plates and begoggled drivers, good luck figuring out who that chap is fleeing the scene of an accident. But that’s what the term is meant to cover: an accident. You carelessly hit another vehicle and, in a moment of panic, hightail it out of there.

The above incidents are hit-and-run only in the sense that, say, the 2016 Bastille Day truck carnage or the Berlin Christmas market slaughter were.

Of course, those guys were ploughing you into the asphalt in order to advance the triumph of Islam over the infidel. The good news is that the killers in Nevada and California and Ontario just do it for a laugh.

Annnnd dingdingdingdingdingdingding WE HAVE A WINNAH, FOLKS! Meanwhile, the LVR-J folks would like all you RAYCISS!!!© peons to know they’re upset with you for being upset with their stringently sotto voce reportage on this hate-crime:

Compare and contrast all the above with the hometown paper’s anodyne headline. Having remained silent through Friday, Saturday, Sunday, the Review-Journal finally returned to the “bike crash” today to defend its feeble, anaesthetizing coverage:

As the online firestorm evolved on Saturday, editors at the Review-Journal changed the headline of the article, removing the phrase “bike crash” and replacing it with “hit-and-run,” hoping the change would calm the online vitriol.

But that isn’t true either: it’s an act of murder – a vehicular homicide for which that guy in Charlottesville, Virginia is presently serving half-a-millennium.

Indeed so. Funny, that—but not in a jolly, hah-hah sort of way.

And yes, my post title IS an intentional play on the name of my favorite RATM song.

My second-favorite? The obvious one, of course.

(Via Ed Driscoll)

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MACV-SOG is BACK, baybee!

Posted on      by     

Shades of another foredoomed cause from long ago.

U.S. Army Hospital in Germany Is Treating Americans Hurt Fighting in Ukraine
The Army’s Landstuhl Regional Medical Center has quietly started admitting Ukrainian Army soldiers who were wounded in combat, most of them American volunteers.

“Volunteers.” Oh, I like that. “Quietly,” too. Not that either sounds at all familiar to someone of my advanced age, of course. NOT. AT. ALL.

A group of Ukrainian Army soldiers pierced by Russian grenades and mortar shells arrived at a hospital recently in need of surgery. It would have been a familiar scene from the bloody war grinding on in Ukraine, except for two crucial differences: Most of the wounded soldiers were American, and so was the hospital — the U.S. Army’s flagship medical center in Germany.

The Army has quietly started to treat wounded Americans and other fighters evacuated from Ukraine at its Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. Though the number so far is small — currently 14 — it marks a notable new step in the United States’ deepening involvement in the conflict.

When the war erupted in 2022, hundreds of Americans — many of them military veterans — rushed to help defend Ukraine. Nineteen months later, perhaps a few hundred are still there, volunteering for local militias or serving under contract with the Ukrainian national army.

An unknown number of them have been shot, hit by artillery, blown up by mines or otherwise injured in combat. About 20 have been killed. Most of the wounded have had to rely on a patchwork of Ukrainian hospitals and Western charities for help. Now, though, the Pentagon has stepped in to offer some of them the same care it gives to American active-duty troops.

The hospital at Landstuhl is authorized to do so under a Defense Department policy, which began last summer, that allows the hospital to treat up to 18 wounded members of the Ukrainian forces at a time, the Pentagon confirmed in a statement. The fact that most of the Ukrainian troops at Landstuhl are Americans illustrates how the war has progressed in unexpected ways.

The Biden administration vowed at the start of the war that it would not put American troops on the ground in Ukraine, and it warned Americans not to get involved. Now it finds itself treating those it told to stay away.

Wink-wink, nudge-nudge, knowhatImeanrightright?

Asked about the development by The New York Times, a Defense Department official who is regularly briefed on Ukraine-Russia matters expressed surprise, and said that leaders at the Pentagon were unaware that Landstuhl was regularly treating wounded American volunteers, but added that the leaders were not concerned about it.

I’m sure they aren’t. Because you know damned well they DID know about it. Because they’re, y’know, running it.

The official, who spoke on condition of anonymity to discuss internal deliberations, noted that while the administration strongly discourages American citizens from going to Ukraine to fight, it is obvious that some go anyway, and if they become wounded and end up at Landstuhl, the military is not going to turn them away.

One would certainly hope not. Then again, seeing as how this country’s “leadership” is pure, unadulterated Evil Incarnate, one wouldn’t be much surprised to learn that they were.

Incroyable, innit, how everything old is new again.

(Via WRSA)

Lifestyles of the rich and royal

Posted on      by     

Last Friday’s Eyrie post on the pseudo-food Our Betters are demanding we adopt (WE adopt, mind you, not them—never them) closed with this:

The moral of the story: Trust not in governments or their “experts,” for they are dishonest and motivated primarily by financial considerations. Eat what you like, with moderation, variety, and common sense always foremost in mind—ie, don’t make a pig of yourself. As a rule, your Grandma was a lot more knowledgeable and intelligent about such matters than FederalGovCo will ever be, with the added benefit of wishing only the best for you, always.

Ahh, you stammer, but…but…but Our Masters want only the best for their subjects, too! They love us and care about us and take care of us too, just like Grandma did, you scree. They’re human beings just like you and I are!, you squeal.

But is all that really true? Have a look and decide for yourself.


Rest assured that there will be NO vat-grown “meats,” NO reconstituted insects, NO artificial, lab-created, or bargain-store anything at all adorning the platters in the above photo—each of which probably cost more than your car did when it was new—when dinner is served. And it’s a lead-pipe cinch that if some lowly Serf Class soul like you or I wandered into that room by mistake, armed security personnel would have you in a headlock with your arm bent up between your shoulder blades and speed-marching towards the exit quicker than you could gasp “Bob’s your uncle!” in stupified agony.

In a short story titled The Rich Boy, Scott Fitzgerald said it best:

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we are. They are different.

And not in a good or admirable way, either. In fact, as the last image broadly suggests, they are bipedal pigs, bloated with self-importance and unfounded conceit; blinded by their obsessive neuroses; overawed by their own putative lordliness, good taste, and superior intelligence. The world will be incalculably improved on the frabjous day when every last individual in the above picture is dangling limply by his/her/its neck from a nearby tree or lamppost.

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