Precocious pup

Another one I’ve had sitting in an open tab for quite a while. Trust me, it was worth the wait.

For the last five years or so, the campus of Colombia’s Diversified Technical Education Institute of Monterrey Casanare has been home to a sweet black dog named Negro. There, he serves as a guardian of sorts, keeping watch over things as students go about their studies.

In return, Negro is cared for by the school’s faculty, who provide him with food, water, attention and a safe place with them to pass the night.

But the dog has apparently decided that anything beyond that is up to him.

Early on in Negro’s tenure at the school, he came to be aware of the little store on campus where students gather to buy things on their breaks; sometimes they’d buy him cookies sold there.

This, evidently, is where the dog first learned about commerce — and decided to try it out himself.

“He would go to the store and watch the children give money and receive something in exchange,” teacher Angela Garcia Bernal told The Dodo. “Then one day, spontaneous, he appeared with a leaf in his mouth, wagging his tail and letting it be known that he wanted a cookie.”

As you might expect, after the dog realized his money literally grows on trees, it’s been a regular thing.

“He comes for cookies every day,” Gladys Barreto, a longtime store attendant, told The Dodo. “He always pays with a leaf. It is his daily purchase.”

From what I read elsewhere, apparently this canine supergenius scores his folding money from the same tree every time, the leaves of which more closely approximate Colombian currency in both color and size than those of other foliage types available to him.

Yes, there are pictures. Heck, there’s even video, and it’s awesome. Just stop calling ’em dumb animals, ‘kay? After all, Negro shows much more capacity for higher cognition and reason than “president” Fingerbang, or almost any other shitlib you could name.

Red Air rising

This is one is as fascinating as it is…well, unusual. WELL off the beaten track, let’s say.

As a young Green Beret, I learned to watch the moon. The Apaches and Comanches and the other able fighters always knew the moon. As do the Taliban. I reckon Pashtun fighters are like modern Apaches but with AK-47s.

There is much to learn from Afghan fighters. Old school. Adhering to principles. Such as patience.

They wait for the right conditions. Including the moon. Six months, a year, or more.

Tracking, being tracked. Shadows confer much advantage in tracking. Fighting from the shadows. Avoiding the tremendous winds and sun of daylight fighting that favor those with longer rifles.

Often they attack in broad daylight but they usually consider the continuum of the light-dark cycle. Pashtun may attack by night and literally go straight to field to harvest without so much as going home to change shoes.

When eclipse of Moon or Sun, Afghans will rush outside to fire rifles into the sky to save the Sun or Moon from Satan. This idea is common the world ‘round. Europeans of past did similar. Ringing church bells, clanging pots and pans, blasting fireworks.

When Taliban attacked our massive base, Camp Bastion, destroying Harrier jets and killing our Marine Commander on the ground, I was away from Afghanistan. But I knew immediately there was no Moon. Taliban make such attacks under what we call “Red Air.”

As for Afghanistan, the Moonless attack on Camp Bastion that destroyed our jets on the ground was an epic study in the incompetence of leadership tasked to guard the base.

If they had studied basic tactics, and our incredibly able if illiterate Taliban enemies — American and British Commanders would have realized they were fighting the equivalent of Apaches or Comanches. Those guys kick ass. They may be the enemy, but we must respect or they will destroy our jets on the ground and shoot the Commander dead. And they did.

A Marine intelligence officer on the base contacted me saying my dispatch was amazingly accurate other than a couple small points, which he did not clarify. Given I did that assessment off the cuff — I figured something had to be wrong — but I know how Taliban operate and knew basically how they pulled it off. I had warned many times about such Taliban tactics.

And tonight I see the moon high over Panama. I am in Panama City. The phase is Waxing Gibbous with 98% illumination. Weather tonight over the Southern border of United States is perfect. I checked for El Paso: A cool 62 Fahrenheit, and clear.

The migrants will be storming the border in high numbers during this moon.

Tomorrow the Moon will be full. If no clouds, your body will cast a shadow on the desert. Go there tomorrow, to the border by Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California — and watch during the full Moon as huge numbers of people cross into America.

Strange stuff in a lot of ways, but read it all anyway. It’s Michael Yon, who is definitely someone I’d be most hesitant to gainsay.

American exodus

Just the usual insightful deep dive from Codevilla.

By this century’s second decade, the oligarchs who occupy the commanding heights of American life had ceased trying to persuade. Self-government has declined as corporations have wielded public powers with private discretion. America’s ruling class—bipartisan, public and private—grew to disdain the rest of America’s religiosity, patriotism, and tastes. But until our own time, most Americans either had not noticed their loss of status as citizens or assumed that they could vote to regain it. But the rulers inspired no confidence and ruled by pulling rank.

In 2014, Pat Caddell’s study of public opinion, which he titled “We Need Smith,” found that:

Eighty-six percent of all voters believe political leaders are more interested in protecting their power than in doing what’s right for the American people. Eighty-three percent believe the country is run by an alliance of incumbent politicians, media pundits, lobbyists, and other interests for their own gain. Further, 79% believe that powerful interests from Wall Street banks to corporations, unions, and PACs use campaign and lobbying money to rig the system to serve themselves and that they loot the national treasury at the expense of every American. … Ninety-two percent say we must recruit and support for public office more ordinary citizens and fewer professional politicians. Not surprising when you consider that 81% believe both political parties do what’s in it for them rather than fix our nation’s problems.

Such figures bespeak neither conservatism nor liberalism, but widespread alienation and disdain among people who understand themselves to be subjects of a selfish power to which they have no personal connection and that exists beyond their collective control. Hence, in the runup to the 2016 election, the bipartisan ruling class entirely lost control of right-leaning voters and failed to hold on to nearly half of left-leaning ones. Opposed by both parties’ hierarchies, Donald Trump won the presidency more as a social rebel than as any kind of recognizable economic or political conservative, by appealing to people whose personal style and opinions on any number of subjects deviated from what was being presented as “mainstream”—including any number of people who had previously voted for Barack Obama and for Bernie Sanders.

Trump won in 2016 as the candidate who would lead the country class out of the clutches of the ruling class—as a caricature of Caddell’s Mr. Smith. The ruling class—Wall Street, K Street, Washington grifters, the educational establishment, the media, and the corporations—saw the alienation that Trump embodied as the mortal threat that it is to their own power and positions. Unable and unwilling to change their way of governing, or the system of heavily bureaucratized crony capitalism from which they so massively benefit, these people resolved to secure the votes of Blacks, Hispanics, women, and the young by encouraging them to make war on whites, men, and conservatives. “Hate thy neighbor and stick with us!” was their program. Hence the four-year campaign leading up to the 2020 election was all about hating Trump and beating down his voters on the basis of race, sex, the Russians—anything to divert from what the rampant oligarchy was doing to the rest of the country.

Ruling people by insulting and harming them is problematic, and not reversible. The use that the oligarchy made of the COVID epidemic added to insult and injury, as well as to its power, in a manner previously unimaginable. Boldly dismissing without argument the fact that viral infections cannot be stopped from running their course once they have taken root in a population, they asserted that acquiescing to indefinite cessation of social and economic activities they deemed to be nonessential would stop the disease’s progression. The ensuing lockdowns, mask mandates, and other measures made life for most Americans worse in every way. But these strictures also crippled the sectors of American society independent of and resistant to the oligarchy—religious institutions and small businesses. They isolated people and limited what they could hear from and say to each other, leaving them prey to one-way propaganda narratives backed by nightly threats of mob violence.

In the first few months of 2021, it is clear that widespread compliance with institutions and leading personages on which the American system of government has long rested is no longer possible. The oligarchy exercises all earthly powers. Its theophobia dismisses heaven’s. It substitutes “narratives” for truth. Because its members internalized the assumption that reason is simply what Hobbes called a scout for the passions, what Marx said is superstructural to material reality, and what the woke call “logism,” it has placed itself beyond the reach of argument. It can neither admit those it deems deplorable to real citizenship— never mind to society’s commanding heights—nor can it set bounds to the next round of exactions and humiliations that, having ditched persuasion, it must visit upon them.

The deplorables plainly stand no chance of dismantling the new American system. Corporate executives, not legislatures, governors, or presidents are the ones who decide what happens to the trillions of dollars created jointly by the Federal Reserve and Wall Street. They are the ones who regulate speech and attitudes, who for the most part decide who rises and who does not. And they are the part of the oligarchy most insulated from republican institutions.

New laws may be most useful for reviving old ones, such as the 1890 Sherman Antitrust Act. But the problem lies in a century’s accretion of administrative arrangements, court rulings, and above all, of self-serving practices. Nor would it be possible for these elected officials to restore the republic that was founded in 1776-79, even if an economic recession or act of Providence were to deliver solid electoral victories in the Senate, House, and presidency to a party of the country class (were one to come into being). That is because the republic’s substance withered over a century, and its husk collapsed over the past five years.

In our time, millions of people have grown up or been educated no longer to want or be able to live as citizens of what had been the American republic. Partisans in mind, heart, and habit, their support of the oligarchy’s partisan rule has left the United States with two peoples of opposing character, aspirations, and tastes within its national borders. The government bureaucracies are led by persons selected and habituated against the deplorables. The same can be said of the educational establishment and corporate boardrooms. What sort of dictatorial power would it take to purge them? Were the deplorables to struggle for the partisan power to oppress the others, they would guarantee dysfunction at best, war at worst. That is why it makes most sense for them to assert their own freedom.

That’s a pretty hefty excerpt, but even so we still only get around to the piece’s central theme with that very last sentence. There’s plenty more yet, so you know what you must do, Glasshoppa.

Vote Big Dan!

Make America Texas again? Sounds like a plan to me.

Dan Rodimer is a former WWE wrestler who is running for Congress in Texas.

In one of his new ads, he takes aim at Nancy Pelosi and Democrats in Washington, DC and refers to them as ‘commies’ who are ruining America.

If he keeps this up, his chances should be pretty good.

Take my word for it, folks: you do NOT want to miss the campaign video. It’s a real humdinger, that’s what.


The DC article GP links to on the guy is all abrim with rich, buttery Rodimer goodness:

“The commies in D.C. are ruining America,” Rodimer continues. “We have a big problem … I know how to handle Nancy Pelosi and stop her bullsh*t.”

As he steps in a pile of manure, Rodimer says that he will “put a boot right in her socialist platform.”

The congressional candidate slams Democrats for “men in women’s bathrooms, boys in girls’ sports, higher taxes,” and “higher gas prices.”

“They’re building a wall around D.C., but they’re not protecting our borders,” Rodimer adds. “They’re laughing at us.”

Rodimer says that he moved his wife and six children to Texas because he wants to raise his kids in a state that is friendly to the Constitution.

“The communists in D.C. want to shut down our churches, close our businesses, indoctrinate our children, communism in our classrooms, make our daughters unsafe in sports and school, destroy American borders and our American history,” Rodimer continues. “We must stop them.”

Indeed we must, while we still can. Personally, I can’t find anything at all objectionable in any of that, taking it for the both-barrels blast of righteous, double-aught Truth right in the face that it is. Nevertheless, there IS a dark side here, one for which Rodimer can in no way be blamed.

Click on the link embedded in the above Tweet and peruse the responses and you’ll quickly feel the smothering miasma of despair settling over you like fog, as it hits you just how very many shitlibs have already descended on the great Republic of Texas like some Biblical plague, with more almost certain to come. Their peurile, doot-brained attacks on Big Dan are straight out of the Shitlib 101 handbook, quite easily dismissible if one is so inclined to waste time and energy on that futile endeavor, which I ain’t. What’s troubling about it is not that the “arguments” are tough to counter—because actually, they aren’t. It’s that they’re there in the first place, evidence of the dangerous infestation of the very heart of one of freedom’s last, best hopes. If these locusts are allowed to swarm Texas and overcome it, there’ll no longer be any refuge left where Real Americans might escape them.

Ironic as it surely is to note that one of the primary weapons the Twatter Libtards try to wield against Big Dan is the “carpetbagger” canard—which bothered them not in the slightest when HILLARY!™ glommed a NY address solely to enable the drunken megalomaniac to slither her way into the legislature—true-blue Texans shouldn’t let any of it dissuade them from supporting Dan Rodimer without reservation come election day. Not only is the future of the Republic at stake, it would also amount to a bodacious middle-finger salute directed at a whole passel of wretched, snotnosed twerps who have most certainly earned one—that, and a whole lot more besides.

Raycissts and homophobes and hate, oh my!

Sooner or later, they’ll get around to something you DO care about.

It’s time to cancel the Village People

Meh—as a diehard disco-hatin’ rock and roller all my life, I thought so a long time ago. But maybe that’s just me.

Discerning cancellation connoisseurs so far have overlooked one of the most problematic boy bands of the 20th century — and it’s time to change that. The American disco group the Village People features a cast of empenised individuals donning costumes that glorify toxically masculine tropes of the time: a police officer, a cowboy, a construction worker, a sailor, a biker and, bizarrely, a Native American (more on that later).

This mono-gendered depiction of the local proletariat is laughably outdated. While some might say the only thing lesbians are actually good at is running nonprofits, today we know that Sappho’s daughters are just as good as men, probably better, at chasing down perps, roping steer and erecting skyscrapers. But let’s look at the music. Have you ever actually listened to the group’s 1979 hit ‘In the Navy’? On that track, it’s one of the band’s black members who shouts repeatedly, ‘I’m afraid of water!’

That raised my eyebrows. A constantly repeated racist stereotype is that black people can’t swim. The slur conjures up painful memories of the racial history of American swimming pools and that heated debate among the wokerati as to whether water itself is, in fact, racist.

Forget the fact that the music video was made with the help of the US Navy. The Village People, despite cashing in on military trappings, have remained silent on the struggle for trans people to serve openly in the military.

Silence is violence. And the name of the group itself is violence against trans womxn of color. Manhattan’s Greenwich Village today is emblematic of cis-het gentrification and a painful reminder of white real-estate terrorism. Take a stroll down Christopher Street on any given Friday night and see for yourself: trans womxn of color banished to basement stairwells and parked cars to perform sex acts for money in the shadows rather than high on a pedestal wearing golden knee pads.

Moreover, what does the ‘C’ stand for in the Village People’s number one hit song ‘Y.M.C.A.’? That’s right, Christian.

Today’s Alphabeteer is blessed with more enlightened sheroes and none involves cisgender men sporting getups that look like something from a plastic bag in the Halloween aisle at Ricky’s. While today’s paragons of LGBTQQAI2S++ liberation still play dress up, it’s usually as large, hairy women and we broadcast them in benevolently corporate media and in ads for Uber Eats.

The uniforms of true LGBTQQAI2S++ warriors aren’t fitted and pressed but more neon and bedraggled, like some highly poisonous, jungle-dwelling amphibian broadcasting to any creature in sight, touch me and die! The struggle for rights has moved well beyond an insular celebration of one’s own community to shock, revolt and intimidate all the others.

If the Village People wish to make a comeback in the age of woke, and pay penance to all the gender non-conforming children they’ve irreparably damaged, they’ll need a radical overhaul. Let’s rename them while we’re at it: the Global Village People. First to go are those caricatures of working class, Trumpian barbarism, to be replaced with more revolutionary-minded archetypes. Imagine the curtain rising on a packed Las Vegas stadium to reveal a college professor, a clipboard-toting community organizer, an app developer, the world’s fattest man, a Syrian war refugee, and Greta Thunberg — belting their new hit songs, ‘Trans in the Navy,’ ‘Go East,’ and everyone’s favorite open-borders ballad, ‘D.A.C.A.’

If that doesn’t sweep the Grammy’s, you’re all a bunch of bigots.

Well, of COURSE we are. The trick is to embrace their every insult and epithet, wear it with utmost pride, and then dare the shitlibs to do something about that. The moment you show even the slightest sign that you might possibly care even a little bit what they think about anything, you lose.

They just don’t make ’em like this anymore

Another comment-inspired post, this latest one brought on by Ironbear’s use of one of true American hero Chesty Puller’s most well-known quips: They have us surrounded. There’s no way they can escape from us now. That got me to digging around for more Puller quotes to respond with, plenty of which are easy to find on the Intarwebs. A sampling—all of them good, all candid and plain-spoken, some alarmingly prescient.

“Our country won’t go on forever, if we stay soft as we are now. There won’t be any America—because some foreign soldiery will invade us and take our women and breed a hardier race.”

“They are in front of us, behind us, and we are flanked on both sides by an enemy that outnumbers us 29:1. They can’t get away from us now!”

“Great. Now we can shoot at them from every direction.”

“We’re surrounded. That simplifies our problem of getting to these people and killing them.” – November 1950, during Chosin Reservoir campaign

“Remember, you are the 1st Marines! Not all the Communists in Hell can overrun you!” (at the Battle of Chosin Reservoir)

“Take me to the Brig. I want to see the real Marines.”

“Where do you put the bayonet on the damn thing?” (upon seeing a flamethrower demonstrated for the first time)

“You don’t hurt ’em if you don’t hit ’em.”

There’s something for Real Americans to learn from in every one of these, either the words themselves or the fearless, never-say-die spirit of the man who spoke them. A few more:

“The mail service has been excellent out here, and in my opinion this is all that the Air Force has accomplished during the war.”
– Chesty Puller in a letter to his wife while in Korea

When an Army captain asked him for the direction of the line of retreat, Col Puller called his Tank Commander, gave them the Army position, and ordered:

“If they start to pull back from that line, even one foot, I want you to open fire on them.”

Turning to the captain, Chesty Puller replied “Does that answer your question? We’re here to fight!” At Koto-ri in Korea

“They are a damn sight better than the U.S. Army, at least we know that they will be there in the morning.”
– Lewis B. Chesty Puller, when a journalist asked him about being surrounded by 22 enemy divisions

“There are not enough Chinamen in the world to stop a fully armed Marine regiment from going where ever they want to go”


That last one smarts a bit, seeing as how Puller’s beloved Corps has fully knuckled under and is now welcoming opportunistic cross-dressers seeking choppadicktomy surgery on the USMC’s dime, as well as boatloads of mollycoddled bimbelinas incapable of meeting minimal standards for physical fitness, into its ranks. The entire US military is now every bit the hollow, ineffectual parody of its former robust self that the country it serves has become. Which is only fitting, I guess. Really, how could it possibly be otherwise? They’ve both been drinking from the same poisoned well.

America just isn’t turning out fierce, indomitable warriors like Chesty Puller anymore, and that’s no accident; it isn’t, because it can’t. That’s no accident either, rather being just one of the Left’s strategic objectives. Thanks to “diversity,” political correctness, general pusillanimity, and overall Leftard tomfoolery, the nation has created a military wholly unable to effectively fulfill its sole purpose of defending the nation.

How powerfully ironic that the Chinese will never even need worry about stopping that “fully-armed Marine regiment” of Chesty’s in the first place. Neither will it be necessary to send a single PLA soldier here for invasion, conquest, and colonization purposes. Thanks to the FUSA’s having sat back limply as its internal enemies slit its throat, the ChiComs already own the banana republic lock, stock, and barrel anyway, without ever mussing a single dink grunt’s hair.

The intentional sapping of our national will and self-respect cost us legendary fighting men like Puller, Claire Chennault, Curtis LeMay, George Patton, Jimmy Doolittle, Pappy Boyington, Audie Murphy, Dick Winters, and too many others to list, “fundamentally transforming” them from role models into icons of American immorality and disgrace. Even worse, celebrating their selfless bravery has been disallowed; in certain despicable circles, they and their exploits are to be harshly condemned, eventually to be quietly edited out of the historical record and forgotten.

The most bitter irony of all? The Left robbed us of these exemplars of real American greatness precisely when we needed them most. Which was no accident either.

Humblest apologies

For I was wrong, so wrong. SteveF, as is his wont, makes a good point.

I’ll tell you the same thing I told Matt Bracken yesterday: I have no problem with the flag going to half mast because of a few dead hookers. The flag goes to half mast when a retired politician dies, and half a dozen hookers were worth more than almost any politician, working or retired.

Can’t argue, won’t try. What I’d really like to see, though, is for “president” Bai-Ding to bring the bodies of those dear departed Hotlanta dollies to lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda. As Steve says, hooers are just as deserving of the honor as any sleazeball politician, and more so than most of ’em.

In fact, contra my earlier gripe about our national unseriousness, perhaps a start at becoming a more serious country would be to start taking official notice of certain realities. Prostitutes provide a genuinely valuable service to people who need it—the universally-familiar witticism describing prostitution as “the world’s oldest profession” ought to be proof enough of the eternal market for that service to deflate any doubts.

Professional politicians, on the other hand, provide nothing whatsoever that anybody wants, let alone needs. They are not producers, but usurpers. They present themselves to those who create, build, manufacture, repair, &c as a blessing instead of an affliction, persuading the productive class of the essential, existential necessity for a Government Class empowered to organize, regulate, moderate, mediate, and protect all those who actually do useful things. Once they’ve conned the serfs into playing along with the swindle, the Governing Class will straightaway begin the process of gradual exsanguination of the host society, like the parasites they actually are.

Our GC boasts of the “advancement” of the very society forced to drag them along as dead weight; of “improving” the things they ruined; of “rebuilding” the things they destroyed; of implementing “solutions” for the problems they created. They puff out their chests and flatter themselves about how vital, how indispensible they are, when the truth is that we’d all be a lot better off without them. If the entire dismal lot of them were sucked bodily off into outer space tonight, society would waste barely a moment tomorrow wondering where they all might have gone.

They boost “efficiency” via imposing a smothering layer of bureacracy, red tape, and intrusion on the now-“streamlined” organization. They hinder while bragging about the many ways in which they’re helping. To hear these swine tell it, the only sensible way to increase the wealth of ordinary individuals is to confiscate at least a third of their income; sift that ill-gotten gain through the government’s waste, administration, and corruption filters; then hand the poor victims a tiny fraction of their own money back to them as “stimulus,” “reparations,” “benefits,” etc—all of which will be taxed also, of course—even as they constantly remind one and all of the selflessness of their big-hearted “benefactors” in government, without whose generosity all would surely be lost.

When the hapless suckers have gotten a bellyful of having their lifeblood sucked out of them, they may become restive. If so, the Government Class will usually begin to round up the disgruntled opposition to be put on trial (maybe, someday) for “treason,” “insurrection,” “disloyalty,” “incitement,” or “hate speech.” Some could be brought up slightly lesser charges for offenses such as “conspiracy,” “uncooperativeness,” “obstruction” or “interfering” with an arrest, investigation, surveillance, a government agent or agency, or any official procedure, function, or activity.

As the slow implosion of the whole farcical system accelerates, the grip of the Government Class will paradoxically tighten—until one fine day it too fails. At which point all hell breaks loose, and the whole circle-jerk begins anew.

So yeah, I think it’s high time we elevated our Ho’ Class and started viewing those noble, courageous heroes from a different vantage. Hey, if the choice is between them and the GC vermin, I can easily tell ya who gets my vote, six days a week and twice on Sunday. Meanwhile, in light of my aformentioned error, I’ll leave you with this.



His got up and go has got up and went

ZOMGtoofrigginFUNNY.


Sorry, Jules; I love ya and all, you know I do. Nonetheless, I must assure one and all that I do NOT “hope he’s ok.” In truth, I do not give a tinker’s damn whether he is or not. Nor do I feel the slightest twinge of pity for this shambolic morgue-escapee. His current plight, after all, was entirely self-created. His suffering—grossly exacerbated by his numerous physical and mental infirmities—is directly and solely a result of his moral and ethical ones.

Biden’s greed, self-absorption, corruption, and core dishonesty led him to where he is. So let him enjoy it, then. This latest humiliating, pathetic collapse doesn’t even amount to a down-payment on the titanic just-deserts debt Gropey owes. He can die screaming and then burn in Hell for a thousand years, as far as I’m concerned.

All of which means I find this next one even more side-splitting:


Heh. Nice shot, Mr Preznit, sir!

Fight the Power!

Pegging away at the insidious Eye in the Sky.

Drone-bottle.png

Kinda small and fuzzy-looking, I know. Hopefully you greybeards will be able to read it okay, but for anyone whose eyes just can’t get that squinty, here’s what it says:

***Attention Wayne Hills Residents***

Please stop throwing beer bottles at the drones. They are property of Portsmouth Police Department and they run surveillance on the property for your protection. We repeat, STOP KNOCKING DOWN OUR ANTI-DRUG ACTIVITY DRONES!

Heh. Yeh, yeh, yeh; suck it, espionage-boy.

However “too little, too late” in coming it may be, as far as I’m concerned there can never be a bad time to start cocking the snook at the surveillance/police state Authority, any way one can come up with to do it. These two are sterling examples of that good old red-blooded American FUCK YOU! spirit—the spirit of for-real resistance, a thing we don’t see anywhere close to enough of these dark days—and the CF chapeau is humbly doffed to ’em for this inspiring display of it. Verily, this anonymous couple is an example to us all.

Plus, as Glasser says in his caption: beer bottles are cheaper than shotgun shells.

“The Ultimate Party Animal”

I love this story so much it hurts. I mean, physically hurts.

Who is Cocaine Bear? Kentucky legend is being made into a movie directed by Elizabeth Banks

See what I mean? Right out of the gate, you just know it’s going to be good.

Though it died in Georgia, the real-life cocaine bear gained notoriety in death and has become a legend of the kind that only Kentucky could produce.

“The real-life cocaine bear.” Pardon me while I savor the flavor of a phrase I never for a moment dreamed I would ever get the opportunity to type.

The bear was the victim of a fatal overdose that occurred when it ate a cache of cocaine that Andrew Thornton, a former Lexington narcotics officer turned drug smuggler, threw out over North Georgia.

Thornton was carrying $15 million in cocaine when he died parachuting out of a plane over Knoxville in September 1985. That saga is chronicled in Sally Denton’s 1989 book, “The Bluegrass Conspiracy.”

Tally so far: a drug cop gone bent. Death by skydiving. Gunny sacks of go-powder scattered across hill and dale. A fiending ursine who tragically succumbs to the killing combination of curiosity, incaution, and overindulgence, leading to posthumous fame and glory as a beloved wildlife icon.

Most anybody would find the story so far absorbing enough to establish it, as described by the author of the above report, as a bona fide saga. I can’t imagine any reasonable soul feeling shortchanged if it ended right there.

Incredibly, though, that was only the beginning.

The 175-pound bear’s body was found several months after Thornton’s and preserved with taxidermy. It was passed among various owners until it eventually was acquired by the operators of Lexington-based retailer Kentucky for Kentucky.

A kooky television ad featuring the bear, which has been dubbed Pablo Escobear, made headlines five years ago.

And Escobear is still enjoying fame.

Pablo Escobear. Heh. I dunno, I think I still prefer Cocaine Bear. Hold onto your hats, though; this epic tale is just getting off the ground.

Last month, Kentucky for Kentucky debuted a new mug design featuring the bear’s image. It reads, “Bluegrass Conspiracy’s Cocaine Bear The Ultimate Party Animal.”

The “Cocaine Bear” movie, written by Jimmy Warden, will be produced by Phil Lord and Chris Miller along with Banks and Max Handelman’s Brownstone Productions, Deadline reported.

Banks, Lord and Miller teamed up previously on “The Lego Movie” series. Banks most recently directed the 2019 “Charlie’s Angels” film.

According to The Hollywood Reporter, filming for “Cocaine Bear” could begin this summer.

Universal is backing the flick, in one of the most astute moves seen out of faltering Follywood in recent memory. Reading the above, one marvels that a movie hasn’t already been made; I mean c’mon man! Whatever might the movers and shakers in the world of feature film be thinking, letting a sure-fire blockbuster like this skate right by unnoticed for so long? But hey, late is better than never, I guess.

So does this report provide a pic of Cocaine Bear’s preserved corpus enjoying its enshrinement at Lexington’s Kentucky Fun Mall, you ask?

Ohhh, you just better bet it does.

CocaineBear.jpeg

I repeat: EPIC. All hail thee, dear Cocaine Bear! Forever may your memory be treasured. And may the cinematic chronicle of your unjust fate do truly boffo box office.

(Via Ed Driscoll)

Beer milkshake!

In the comments to last night’s Marcia Ball post, kennycan says:

Actually, now that I looked it up, it turns out the first video Mike posted is actually a Dr. John (Mac Rebennack) written song.

I didn’t know that myself, but it seems likely enough. Point is, that put me in mind of a truly wonderful movie from 1982: Cannery Row, one of my personal all-timers. The movie tanked commercially and got at best a lukewarm critical reception—a combination offering the most condemnatory statement imaginable regarding the abysmal depths to which American taste and discernment in cinematic entertainment have plummeted.

The movie was a sort of cinematic mashup of two John Steinbeck tomes, Cannery Row and its sequel Sweet Thursday, with a stellar cast that included Nick Nolte, Debra Winger, Frank McRae, and M Emmett Walsh, among others. John Huston lent his dulcet, honey-voiced tones as narrator, and the soundtrack was muchly enlivened by the presence of…you guessed it…Dr John the Night Tripper.



Amusing coinkydink: the above music is a frenetic slice of boogie-woogie heaven titled Mac’s Boogie, composed and performed by…you guessed it…Mac Rebennack, a/k/a Dr John. In the film’s big party scene, Rebennack’s masterful piano work is cinematically portrayed by M Emmett Walsh’s character, whose name just happens to be…you guessed it…”Mac.” For reasons I won’t pretend to comprehend, nobody ever released a Cannery Row soundtrack album, despite the movie being liberally strewn with rich buttery musical goodness throughout. Mac’s Boogie is available elsewhere, thankfully.

Interesting trivia item:

Raquel Welch was originally cast as Suzy. She was fired after five days of filming. She allegedly took too long to get ready each day. Welch then sued the MGM studio for wrongful termination and in the mid-1980s won getting a multi-million dollar settlement. Turner Entertainment had to do the pay-out as by that time they were the owners of MGM.

Do please understand that I love me some Raquel, really I do. But I cannot for the life of me imagine her in the role of Suzy DeSoto. Winger was note-perfect for it, inhabiting the character as naturally her own skin. Whatever her appeal—admittedly, she has it in buckets—Raquel would have been just sinfully wrong.

Ah well, enough of all that. If you like smash-bang shoot-em-ups; interminible car chases and/or fight scenes; a surfeit of explosions; gangsta-rap glorification; blood ‘n’ gore galore; fart jokes and other juvenilia; zombies, monsters, and/or comic-book superheroes; or great big titties bouncing around in the open air, then I’m afraid Cannery Row is probably not going to be your cup of tea. If, on the other hand, you lean more towards a fine story well-told; lovely cinematography; an excellent score; a light, breezy overall tone with some truly funny bits; and a knockout punch of a plot twist at the end that, trust me, you will NOT see coming—well, you can’t do much better than this overlooked, underrated gem of a movie.

If you see this movie and don’t care for it, don’t tell me. I wouldn’t want such a disgraceful revelation compelling me to adjust my estimation of anybody here; I’d prefer to just remain in the dark about your appalling lack of character, thanksveddymuch. Heck, Nolte’s facial expression in the scene referred to in my post title is worth the price of admission all by itself.

How you carry on!

In honor of International Women’s Day: something so hot it sizzles, from my idea of what a real woman really is: Texiz-born, Loozyanner-raised Austin legend Long Tall Marcia Ball.




Marcia’s slashing keyboard attack, all with that leg casually swinging to the beat, is plenty enough to make this tune soar. But (surprise surprise!) it’s the guitar solo that really sends me, for a reason none but a fellow picker will understand. Watch carefully: the guitarist (a fella yclept James Hinkle, no slacker his own self where o-fficial Texas Legend™ status is concerned) goes twice around with the solo, as everybody including he himself would expect. Then Marcia unexpectedly lays back to let him take a third go. As you’ll notice, he’d already gone back to playing rhythm for a few bars before realizing the boss-lady, rather than going into the next verse, had decided to give him his head—on live TV, no less.

In obvious flustercation, James dithers and mumbles uncomfortably for a cpl-three bars before regaining his equilibrium to light back into the festivities with a real vengeance, uncorking what turns out to be far and away the highlight of the evening. The ACL audience, bless their wise and experienced hearts, reacts to the improv-a-ganza they had just witnessed with raucous delight, whereupon Marcia grins hugely and salutes Hinkle’s triumph with a shot from the ol’ finger gun.

Oh, this hyar is definitely A Moment alright—one that every professional player lives and breathes for. In fact, it’s exactly the kind of indescribable feeling that drives those lucky enough to experience it to commit the completely unnatural act of climbing onto a stage in the first place and keeps us coming back again and again, looking for more of the same. You don’t get it all that often, unless maybe you’re Stevie Ray Vaughan or some other one-in-a-million talent. But I promise you with all my heart and soul, people: you feel that thrill just one time and you will be hooked forever. It is NOT the kind of thing you ever get over, at least for some of us.

Nope, you’ll cheerfully spend the rest of your life chasing another taste of that glorious high, thereby condemning yourself to a life of poverty and bitter travail, in most cases, without a trace of regret. In fact, I remember years ago hearing an interview with Dave Edmunds wherein he said pretty much the same thing with only slightly different wording, probably because of him being a Welshman and all. I wish I could dig that interview up now that I’ve gone and reminded myself of it, but I’m confident there’s no chance of that and I ain’t gonna bother looking.

Anyways, y’all enjoy yourselves an encore jolt of Marcia & Krewe, doing another rollicking little number whose lyrics I especially like.



And to think there are those who insist girls can’t rock. Clearly the poor dears don’t know Marcia Ball well enough, thus are more to be pitied than censured.

Update! I should maybe point this out before someone waxes all indignant in the comments over it: yes, I was already aware of the Commie origins of International Women’s Day. I was only using that as an excuse for putting Marcia up, that’s all. Honestly, I’m amazed I never had her up here before now, and can offer no excuse for that unforgivable lapse.

Poohsecution

You’re gonna get a fair trial, followed by a first-class hanging.

A solemn silence turned collective gasp in the District of Columbia Woke Circuit courtroom as two bailiffs entered the door beside the jury box with the small cream-colored bear suspended between them, his stumpy hind legs wheeling fruitlessly to seek purchase in the unavailing air. The Queen of Hearts, presiding, banged her gavel as the little bear was seated at the table for the defense beside another rather small, darkish, furtive figure.

The Queen of Hearts peered over her half-glasses at the defendant and snarled, “State your full name and residence.”

“Winnie-the-Pooh,” the defendant said. “From the Hundred Acre Wood.”

“What is your personal pronoun?”

The bear looked perplexed. “Oh, bother,” he said. “Nobody I know has such a thing?”

“Of course they do,” the Queen said.

“Perhaps it’s ‘the’,” the bear said.

“That is a definite article, not a pronoun!” the Queen barked. “Are you an imbecile?”

“I’m not sure.  Maybe it’s ‘dear’”—

“That’s enough out of you!” the Queen said. “And let’s have no more impertinence! Do you have counsel?”

“Why, yes,” the bear said. “Mr. Kafka, who is seated beside me.”

“You are mistaken,” the Queen said. “That is a cockroach seated beside you, and the court is displeased to see it. Bailiff, please remove that disgusting cockroach from my court.”

Mr. Kafka, gesticulating in protest with all six arms and legs, had to be dragged out.

“First witness!” the Queen screeched. “Counsel for the prosecution….”

“Calling Uncle Remus,” said the prosecutor, Andrew Weissmann, famous for his exploits in the Enron case and with The Mueller Team in the old Russia collusion days.

An elderly gentleman-of-color with white beard and a kindly face limped forward and took the witness stand.

“Do you know this bear?” Weissmann asked.

“I knows a Brer B’ar,” Uncle Remus said. “But he a black b’ar. Dishyere one a white b’ar.”

“Exactly!” Weissmann said. “Dismissed.”

“Dat all?” Uncle Remus asked.

“It’s plenty,” Weissmann retorted and smirked at the jury, composed of members from the United Federation of Teachers, the Southern Poverty Law Center, and Antifa, who all nodded amongst themselves.

“A white bear!” Weissmann repeated for emphasis, shaking his head. “And not a polar bear, either. A white bear. From England. Think about it…!”

The jurors emitted growls of opprobrium.

Alas for poor Pooh; like so many unassuming, innocuous Normals out there, he never knew what hit him. Kafka himself would be paralyzed with stupefied disbelief at how Kafkaesque the world has become.

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