Category: Flotsam and/or Jetsam

Catchall for whatever doesn’t fit elsewhere

The future is here!

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Or at Hill AF Base, at any rate.

America Airlifts Its Nuclear Future as Pentagon Delivers Microreactor in Historic C-17 Mission
A C-17 Globemaster III lifted off from March Air Reserve Base in California on Sunday carrying cargo that would have seemed like science fiction a generation ago: a next-generation nuclear reactor, bound for testing in Utah. The reactor was flown to Hill Air Force Base in Utah and is expected to be transported to the Utah San Rafael Energy Lab in Orangeville for testing and evaluation, marking a turning point in America’s race to reclaim energy dominance.

The airlift wasn’t just a logistics operation. It was a declaration that the United States intends to win the advanced nuclear race while China builds Generation IV reactors and the rest of the developed world stumbles through energy crises of their own making. President Donald Trump’s executive order to modernize America’s nuclear energy infrastructure and strengthen U.S. national security set this moment in motion, and the Department of War wasted no time executing the mission.

The reactor being transported is part of a collaboration between the Pentagon and Valar Atomics, a California-based startup founded by 25-year-old Isaiah Taylor. The company’s Ward 250 reactor represents a fundamentally different approach to nuclear power: small, transportable, factory-built units that can be deployed wherever they’re needed rather than massive installations that take decades to construct. For military installations that currently depend on vulnerable civilian power grids or diesel generators, the implications are profound.

For the military, reliance on diesel generators when deployed and local electric grids here at home is widely viewed as a significant national security threat. Every forward operating base running on fuel convoys is a target. Every domestic installation tied to the civilian grid is one cyberattack away from going dark. The microreactor solution eliminates both vulnerabilities. These units can be transported by C-17, set up at remote locations, and provide reliable power independent of supply lines or grid infrastructure.

Lots of very intriguing, very enheartening stuff in this one, folks. Bottom line:

The image of a nuclear reactor loaded into a C-17 represents more than technological capability. It represents a shift in how America approaches both energy and national security. For too long, those domains were treated as separate concerns, managed by bureaucracies more interested in process than results. The Trump administration’s executive orders and the military’s execution of programs like Janus reflect a different calculation: that energy security and military readiness are inseparable, and that restoring American dominance in both requires breaking old patterns.

Whether Valar Atomics ultimately succeeds or another company takes the lead matters less than the broader trajectory. The reactor sitting in Utah for testing is proof that America can still move quickly when leadership decides that winning matters more than managing decline. The question now is whether that momentum continues or whether it gets buried under the same regulatory and political obstacles that have paralyzed American energy development for half a century.

Time will tell, as ever. Either way, it’s good to know that SecWar Hegseth is working on it for us in accordance with the tasking set forth by President Trump, with eyes set firmly on the road ahead and not the dim and distant past.

These kids today

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They’ve taken a SERIOUS wrong turn somewhere along the line, the mincing little queefs.

The Least Laid Generation in History: Gen Z Is Ghosting Sex — and the Implications Are Huge
It’s not just sex: Alcohol consumption has dropped by 54%, with youth (18 to 34) drinking falling ANOTHER 9% just between 2023 and 2025.

Maybe that’s not coincidental. Perhaps there’s a causal link (as famed philosopher Jimmy Buffett suggested). Maybe, just like peanut butter and jelly are complementary products, sex and alcohol are, too.

Back in 1991, more than half — 54.1% of all high school students — were sexually active. (The other 45.9% lied about it.) By 2007, the number fell to 47.8%. Four years later, it dropped again to 43%. By 2017, it was just 39.5%.

As of 2023, it’s 31.6%.

What’s going on with kids today, with their wild, out-of-control abstinence and crazy teetotalling?!

Can’t say as I blame ’em, really. Beer and/or hard likker taste about like unwashed butthole smells, frankly, and modern “women” are kinda scary: mean, eternally pissed off at any and everything, and extremely loud about it. Fat as hell, too.

Trump’s best hire?

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Can only be the remarkable Marco Rubio for SecState. He just went to Munich and demonstrated why.

Rubio on Fire! We Won’t Be ‘Polite and Orderly Caretakers of the West’s Managed Decline’
Rubio told European leaders that the post–Cold War era is over, that the “euphoria of this triumph led us to a dangerous delusion: that we had entered, quote, ‘the end of history;’ that every nation would now be a liberal democracy; that the ties formed by trade and by commerce alone would now replace nationhood; that the rules-based global order – an overused term – would now replace the national interest; and that we would now live in a world without borders where everyone became a citizen of the world.”

He said that this idea was foolish and “ignored both human nature and it ignored the lessons of over 5,000 years of recorded human history.”

While championing the Donald Trump administration’s America-First foreign policy, he also reaffirmed the bond between our nations, saying that the Western Hemisphere may be our home, but we’re a child of Europe, and we share history, culture, and heritage. “We belong together,” he said.

But he also made it clear that the world has reached a turning point and course correction is required. Europe must save itself because, “we in America have no interest in being polite and orderly caretakers of the West’s managed decline.”

“The fundamental question we must answer at the outset is what exactly are we defending, because armies do not fight for abstractions. Armies fight for a people; armies fight for a nation. Armies fight for a way of life,” he said. “And that is what we are defending: a great civilization that has every reason to be proud of its history, confident of its future, and aims to always be the master of its own economic and political destiny.”

Rubio also spoke of how “we can no longer place the so-called global order above the vital interests of our people and our nations,” and how we must reform global institutions. He used the United Nations as an example, explaining that it has potential to be a “tool for good” but right now, it’s basically useless.

Great, GREAT stuff from the man Trump blithely dismissed as “Little Marco,” hurled right into the teeth of the dying Eurolion in his very den. At this point, I’m happy to say that Trump was all wet on that one; as he has shown again and again during his tenure at State, Marco Rubio is anything BUT “little.”

No, daddy, NO!

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Not the genital cuffs AGAIN!

Cynical Publius
@CynicalPublius

RE: Vance Getting Booed at the Winter Olympics

So a bunch of Eurotards from Europe’s fashion capital booed our Vice President and Second Lady at the Winter Olympics opening ceremony.

Democrats, of course, are thrilled by this because they too hate America. I, of course, could not care less.

But let me tell you what is really going on.

The USA is Europe’s Daddy, and has been for 80 years. Europe is the stumblebum adult male child in his 30s living on Daddy’s couch. He can’t hold a job, all of his relationships are disasters and he depends on Daddy for all sustenance and protection.

One day Daddy gets fed up with Sonny’s unwillingness to pay his own way. Daddy is also pissed because Sonny does not support free speech or free markets, and because Sonny fails to protect himself from Muslims who beat him up in the street daily. Daddy finally says:

“ENOUGH! You are on your own. Get out of my house. No, I will NOT lend you more money.”

So Sonny has to finally stand on his own two feet and he resents it. So the next time Sonny sees Daddy, he boos him.

That’s what happened in Milan.

It’s always about envy, resentment, and feelings of inadequacy with these delinquent brats.

“The end of democracy”

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Isn’t everything?


“Show more,” I defy thee!

Hi everyone declaring Don Lemon’s arrest the end of democracy… and I say “everyone” because not a single one of you did anything but cheer real fascism against real journalists…

BTW, a few years later the fascist state of CA and the fascist DA Kamala Harris (yes, THAT Kamala) were forced to drop their fascist charges. All of them.

You’re all hypocrites. You have no principles. Have a nice weekend. Cry more.

Love that Parthian shot at the very end there. “Cry more,” indeed. Heh.

(Via Insty)

War, peace, all that

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The Jeddak of Jeddaks expounds on…well, pretty much everything, basically.

The Caracasian Cut
Regime decapitation and the consequences of competence

We might ask, in the spirit of an augur inquiring after the flight of a dove at daybreak, a circling hawk at high noon, or the cold gaze of a crow in the gloaming, what is the meaning of the Caracas raid? We do not need to assume that the meaning we look for in this action is intentional, though we should not rule this out, either; what matters is how the act will manifest symbolically, how it will be interpreted in the minds of onlookers, which it will do regardless of intention.

The superficial import of the action is clear enough. America has seized control of Venezuela’s vast oil reserves, the largest in the world, and at a stroke applies crippling pressure to the economies of China, Iran, and Cuba (who were Venezuela’s best grey-market customers), as well as to the economies of its adversary Russia and its wayward sibling Canada (both of which depend for their prosperity upon high oil prices). Both China and Russia have been deprived of a key New World ally, and thus the Monroe Doctrine is reasserted, and foreign powers pushed out of Washington’s sphere of influence. A hostile communist government has been decapitated, opening the way for the millions of Venezuelans displaced by Bolivarian tyranny, refugees whose presence has destabilized Venezuela’s neighbours for many years now, to return home.

Trump’s declaration that America now owns Venezuela’s oil feels a bit premature. Can one really claim control, without boots on the ground? I confess that it is not at all clear to me exactly how this is all supposed to work. Perhaps it is meant to function through pure intimidation: whoever ends up assuming power in Venezuela, they will know that if they don’t do as they’re told, they might be next, and perhaps will not be given the grace of an arrest and a show trial but simply executed without warning by drone; meanwhile, America offers itself as the sole legitimate customer for Venezuela’s sole marketable product, while providing its oil industry engineers to rebuild (and assume control of) infrastructure fallen into disrepair following Chavez’ nationalization and subsequent decades of neglect and mismanagement. Trump holds out one hand in an offer of assistance and mutual benefit, while holding back his other curled in a mailed fist, a threat made plausible by the fact that he just punched them hard in the mouth.

Still, all of this is nothing more than realpolitik, the hard edges of power in the material world.

The real meaning, the symbolic importance, lies deeper. It is not measured in dollars or barrels of oil. It is a message.

Over the last several months of military buildup in the Caribbean, many have issued dire predictions of the inevitable boondoggle that would result if the US allowed itself to be drawn into an invasion and occupation of Venezuela. A repeat of Iraq and Afghanistan, or worse yet Vietnam, an ugly guerrilla war in the steaming tropical jungle that would drain American blood, treasure, and will into the fetid third world swamp in tragicomic counterpoint to MAGA’s promise to drain the swamp at home. There was excellent reason for this cynicism. Every military adventure of the GWOT has been a debacle. Trust is as thin as ragged tissue paper.

Calmer heads pointed out that there was little prospect of an invasion: the forces being assembled in the Caribbean could land at most a few thousand troops, enough for a punitive expedition but hardly sufficient for an occupation. The plan, therefore, was clearly something other than an occupation, though exactly what it was no one could say for sure. My personal guess was that they were simply intending to squeeze the Venezuelan communists to death, enforcing the embargo on oil exports by interdicting contraband tankers flying under the false flags of countries they weren’t actually registered in, and watching from a safe distance as the unpaid military and unfed people turned on one another like starving jackals behind their besieged walls. Ugly, with an immense human cost, but effective.

I certainly never expected them to simply descend like Odin with the Wild Hunt and snatch the country’s president in a lightning raid.

Neither, of course, did anyone else expect such an audacious manoeuvre. Which was the point.

This being a characteristically superb piece in the grand old John Carter style, you’ll definitely want to read it all.

Update! Okay, after scanning through the piece again, I realized just how profoundly remiss of me it would be not to include this delicious bit.

This is the same American military that spent twenty fruitless years fighting to replace the Taliban with the Taliban, climaxing with a humiliating route from Kabul in which billions of dollars of military equipment were abandoned to the very Taliban that the military fought so hard to replace the Taliban with.

It is the same American military that, until just a year ago, was struggling to fill its ranks, because the warrior class had concluded that it was not a military worth belonging to, that a government which held them in such contempt was not a government worth fighting for.

Only one thing changed: a year ago, when Trump won the election, the American state was decapitated.

Because Trump won the election, he could fire the fat bureaucrat Lloyd Austin as Secretary of Defence, and appoint in his place the energetic, muscular young Hegseth as Secretary of War. Because Hegseth was the Secretary of War, he could begin eliminating the dross of the Cancelled Years and refocus the American military on its actual mission.

It turned out to be that simple. Change the leadership, replace the dance troupe of hollow men and men in dresses that has cavorted through the halls of power for far too long with platoons of competent men, and allow the competent men to do what they know how to do, without interference from politicians, lawyers, and ideologues. Just point them in the right direction and get out of their way.

OOOF! That one’s gonna hurt all the right people in all the right ways, for all the right reasons.

Who ever said crime doesn’t pay?

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Couldn’t prove it by übercorrupt ProPol Faux Jaux Bribem, that’s for sure.

Biden’s ‘extravagant’ pension is largest of any president in history – and even more than what he earned as prez
Former President Joe Biden’s long career in politics allowed him to retire with the largest taxpayer-funded pension of any ex-prez in US history — $417,000, or more than his presidential salary, an expert says.

Biden, 83, was in line to rake in the massive amount from two pension funds in his first year as former president, according to an analysis by National Taxpayer Union Foundation Vice President Demian Brady.

“It’s pretty unusual, historically unusual, to have such a large pension amount,” Brady told The Post.

The hefty estimated annual sum is double what Biden’s former boss, Barack Obama, has received in retirement pay after leaving the White House and $17,000 more than Biden’s $400,000-per-year presidential salary.

It also reflects Biden’s “unique situation” as a former senator, vice president and president, a career path that has allowed him to take advantage of a “loophole” letting him tap into multiple taxpayer-backed retirement funds, Brady said.

Biden, who once described himself as “one of the poorest members” of Congress, is able to collect the lucrative payouts by double-dipping in benefits established under the Former Presidents Act of 1958 as well as the Civil Service Retirement System for ex-senators.

Fucking crook. What a scumbag, eh? Far from being a lucrative career choice, being a ProPol ought to be legally sanctioned as a Federal felony, punishable by firing squad. There really should be a bounty on the shit-slurping oxygen thieves; in a more perfect world, they’d be hunted for sport, the pelts redeemable at any local bank for your choice of a toaster oven, a handsome Atlanta Braves baseball cap, or These Magic Beans™.

Not Too Old Jaux though, right? I must say he was worth every penny, if only for the entertainment value: hilarious pratfalls, incoherent mumbling, and losing control of his bowels during a grip-n-grin with British royalty.

Der Bingle

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A Christmas story for the ages, one that exemplifies courage, character, and unswerving commitment to the non-negotiable demands of personal honor, patriotic duty, and obligation.


“Show more,” my saggy, baggy ass.

Late in Bing Crosby’s life, his nephew Howard asked him a casual question while they were out playing golf together.

“What was the single most difficult thing you ever had to do in your career?”
Howard expected Hollywood stories. Maybe gossip about a demanding director. Perhaps the pressure of a high-stakes film production or a struggle with studio executives.

Bing didn’t have to think about it at all.
December 1944. Northern France. The war in Europe was grinding toward its bloody conclusion.

Bing Crosby was on a USO tour, performing for American GIs and British soldiers far from home during the coldest, darkest days of winter.
That night, they set up an open-air stage in a field.

Fifteen thousand soldiers gathered to watch. Bing was joined by Dinah Shore and the Andrews Sisters.
They sang, they joked, they made the men laugh and holler—a brief moment of joy in the middle of a war zone.
Then came the closing number.
“White Christmas.”

The song had already become an anthem for homesick soldiers since its release in 1942. It played constantly on Armed Forces Radio. Men who hadn’t seen their families in years, who didn’t know if they ever would again, heard those opening notes and thought of snow-covered streets and Christmas trees and the homes they’d left behind.

As Bing began to sing, he looked out at the audience. Fifteen thousand men were crying. He had to finish the song. He had to maintain his composure and his vocal control while 15,000 soldiers wept in front of him. He told his nephew it was the toughest thing he ever had to do in his entire career.

What made Bing Crosby’s USO performances different from his Hollywood appearances were the small choices he made. He refused to wear his toupee. He hated the thing—called it a “scalp doily”-and wore it only when absolutely necessary for films.

But entertaining troops was different. “If I’m entertaining troops,” he said, “I’m not going to wear anything phony like a toupee. Forget it.”

He also insisted that officers and brass could not sit in the front rows. Those seats were reserved for enlisted men. The soldiers who would be on the front lines. The men who faced the greatest danger.

A few days after that performance in the field, those same soldiers were sent into combat. The Battle of the Bulge began on December 16, 1944. It was the largest and bloodiest battle fought by the United States in World War II.

The Germans launched a surprise offensive through the Ardennes Forest in a desperate attempt to split the Allied lines. Many of the men who had wept listening to “White Christmas” in that field in France never came home.

Bing Crosby tried to enlist when the war began. He was told he was too old. General George C. Marshall, the Army’s chief of staff, told him directly:

“Look, Bing, we don’t need you in the front lines. We need you raising money for the war effort.” He wasn’t just an entertainer to them. He was a piece of home. Bing never forgot it. 🙏♥️

Leftists who viscerally hate anything that reminds them of what America once was have smeared Bing Crosby as a nasty, hateful racist, bully, and two-bit tyrant who viciously ran roughshod over others and used his wife and children as punching bags—a distorted, unidimensional portrait which disgracefully omits the man’s finer qualities.

In praise of…pit bulls?

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These excellent but overly-maligned doggehs are due some, that’s for sure. But, as those of us who have had pitties before already know, almost all of what the congenitally dishonest, pig ignorant “they” say about the breed isn’t remotely true.

The Jews of the Canine World
Pit bulls have been unfairly stereotyped as genetically dangerous monsters. Sound familiar?

I’ve always loved dogs that look like pit bulls: wide and smiling faces, goofy expressions, broad chests, sturdy bodies, short coats, enthusiastic tails. I grew up not knowing about dog fighting, or about this breed’s vicious reputation. My terror was reserved for German shepherds (my equally frightened little brother tremulously called them “sheffers”), with their pointy, mean faces and loud barks. There were some territorial ones in the yards in my Providence, Rhode Island, neighborhood.

But after moving to New York, I came to understand that pit bulls are hated. My little East Village copy shop, where we got Josie’s bat mitzvah invitations, has a big, short-coated, wide-chested, flat-faced dog behind the counter. His name is Curtis. He comes when you call and accepts head-pats with dignity. But when I asked the owner, Santo, what kind of dog Curtis was, he hesitated. “He’s a mix,” Santo said. “Terrier, other things … pit bull.” He clearly was reluctant to say those two words. He thought I’d recoil.

You know what people say about pit bulls: Violence is in their genes. They have double rows of teeth. Their jaws can unhinge like a snake’s. Their jaws lock after they bite. They don’t feel pain the way other dogs do. In 1987, U.S. News and World Report called them “the most dangerous dog in America,” able to “chomp through chain-link fences.” The Guardian called pit bulls “dogs of war who can bite through concrete.” Time called them “time bombs on legs” and started a story on them with a quote from The Hound of the Baskervilles:

Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish, be conceived than that dark form and savage face.

A friend had her family dog genetically tested, and when she discovered it had some pit bull lineage, she gave it away. Her kids sobbed. But what if the dog just lost it one day? That’s what pit bulls do, right?

None of this, of course, is true. Bronwen Dickey’s fascinating new book Pit Bull: The Battle Over an American Icon charts the evolution of pit bull stereotyping. (It begins with a quote from André Gide: “There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.”) In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, pit bulls were considered the family-friendliest dogs. Dogs that looked like them served in the Battle of Gettysburg and in Normandy. One accompanied Laura Ingalls Wilder’s family in their covered-wagon journey across the prairie. Helen Keller owned and adored one. Another (named Votes!) accompanied suffragist Virginia Watrous on the campaign trail in 1915. Still another starred in the “His Master’s Voice” campaign for RCA and another in the “Our Gang” kiddie comedies. Dickey observes that pit bulls were then seen as “quintessentially American: good-natured, brave, resilient, and dependable.” But within a few decades, they’d become DNA-driven vicious beasts, “biologically hardwired to kill.”

My first dog was a pittie, as was my last, along with a few others in between—the last one being just the sweetest ol’ girl ever to walk on four legs and shit in the backyard and tremble like a leaf in a gale during thunderstorms: the late, great Cookie (Monster). A photo of my dear, departed friend: Pretty girl, no? When I took her to the Gastonia, NC animal shelter to be put down at not quite 16 years of age, after the attendants had put her in the little cart and wheeled her off and inside to do the dirty deed I sat out in the parking lot and cried like a disgruntled infant for well over two hours. I still can hardly believe my darling pupster is gone, and I miss her still.

In praise of meat

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Or, in this benighted day and age, it might be more appropriate to say “in DEFENSE of” etc etc. Which, as the title of the article shows, the author knows well enough.

In Defense of Steak: Listen to Your Body, not the Bug People
There is a particular smell that quiets a room or backyard: beef hitting heat, butter melting, fat crackling over open flame. Conversations pause. Children wander closer. Adults become very present, childlike in their eagerness. Something ancient has briefly reclaimed priority.

This response appears across cultures, centuries, and cuisines, persisting despite decades of scolding lectures about moderation, sustainability, and restraint. No one salivates at the thought of cricket flour. No one waxes poetic about lab-grown protein slurry. Even people committed to eating less meat tend to speak about steak the way one speaks about a lost love. We are told this reaction, this anticipation of pleasure, reflects indulgence, weakness, or conditioning, but a simpler explanation exists.

Pleasure can be information.

Indeed so, and there’s every bit as much solid, useful information in this piece as there is pleasure in eating a fat, juicy filet mignon. For example:

Meat is often treated as interchangeable with whatever happens to meet a protein target, as though nourishment were merely arithmetic. This misses what meat actually is: an exceptionally efficient nutritional delivery system shaped by evolution to meet human needs with minimal friction.

Animal protein arrives complete, providing all essential amino acids in proportions the body immediately recognizes and uses. Absorption is high. Muscle repair is straightforward, using precisely the amino acids our meals just provided. No pairing, combining, or supplementation is required. Fat, so long maligned, provides stable saturated and monounsaturated fats that slow digestion, stabilize blood sugar, support hormones, and carry fat-soluble vitamins. Speaking of fat, humans did not spend thousands of years figuring out how to obtain more fat because it was harming them.

Then there are the nutrients rarely discussed in fashionable debates but central to human function: vitamin B12 for neurological health, heme iron that the body absorbs efficiently (iron in supplements or vegetables is poorly absorbed), zinc for immune function and growth, creatine and carnosine for muscle and brain performance, choline for liver and cognitive health. These are not optional extras. They are foundational for good health and a properly functioning body.

Claims that humans do not “need” animal protein hinge on a technicality. With careful planning, supplementation, fortified foods, and modern logistics, it is possible to assemble these nutrients without meat. That is not equivalence. It is compensation. A diet that requires constant vigilance to avoid deficiency is not revealing a hidden natural balance; it is leaning heavily on modern intervention and often industrially manufactured frankenfood.

I repeat: indeed. Butbutbutbut…but…WAIT, they whine. What about Eating Ze Bugs, shitlib fascists snivel. Wilson outs paid to that codswallop with a quickness.

Insects are often presented as the logical successor to meat, reduced to the claim that they “contain protein” and are therefore interchangeable. Biology is less accommodating.

Insects contain chitin, the substance that forms their exoskeletons, which humans do not digest well. Chitin inflates protein numbers on paper while reducing absorption in practice because it resists breakdown and in fact interferes with nutrient uptake. From a nutritional standpoint, counting chitin as protein is a bit like counting fingernails as food: it contains nitrogen, which looks impressive on a label, but the human body cannot do much with it. Edible, yes. Nourishing, not really.

Digestive discomfort after eating bugs is common enough that most insect products are heavily processed into powders, undermining both nutritional and environmental claims. Amino acid profiles vary widely by species, but they all tend to be lower in key amino acids such as leucine, which plays a central role in muscle maintenance and repair, particularly as people age.

Micronutrients present further problems. Vitamin B12, heme iron, and creatine are unreliable or absent, requiring supplementation to compensate. Allergy risks are also underplayed, as insects share protein structures with shellfish. Insects are edible, certainly, but edible is not the same as optimal, and bug protein is not in any way an upgrade over beef, chicken, or fish.

Annnnnd bingo, there you have it. Myself, I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck about how smart the person telling me to switch from steak to cricket paste thinks he/she/it is, I simply ain’t gonna do it.

There’s only one song I can think of that will suit.




Tell it true now, Jim.

Golden oldie

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So a cpl weeks ago I resurfaced on Fakeberg, after a VERY extended absence. I never did much like FB and still don’t, but being effectively housebound now it seemed to me that the cursed thing would be an excellent way to stay in touch with friends I’ve otherwise pretty much lost contact with. Anyhoo, as I was scrolling down through the old posts on my main page, I ran across something I thought was just way too cool.

“Conservatism is the Ramones at CBGB – loud, fast and alive. In contrast, liberalism is the headliner at a state fair concert. It’s Foghat, serenading its anesthetized fans as America slow rides into decline.

Back in the 70s, the Ramones put a steel-toed boot into the behind of a fat, flabby rock ‘n roll world that has lost its way. That’s what conservatives are doing today to American politics and culture. And the dinosaur rockers of the status quo hate it.

Look at ancient Hillary Clinton, that improbable Millennial heroine. She’s the Bachman Turner Overdrive of American politics, out there literally taking care of business – especially the businesses who take care of her by paying her hundreds of thousands a pop to come talk to them.

There’s no energy left in liberalism, no excitement, just more rules, more controls, everything the punks hated. You can’t say this, you can’t think that, everybody read the memo – today we’re scheduled to be angry at people don’t want to subsidize our birth control! Oh, and make sure you obtain a videotaped, notarized consent form before you kiss your cisgender hook-up.

Everything about liberalism is stodgy, everything is old, everything is about control. My new book, Conservative Insurgency, a speculative future history of the struggle to retake our culture, shows how the conservatives have the all of the energy and creativity. We want the freedom the punks demanded. The liberals want the opposite. The quintessential liberal isn’t a free-spirited manic pixie dream girl but a grim, bitter nightmare crone enraged because having gender-specific bathrooms in her dorm is history’s greatest hate crime.

Liberalism never tries anything new. It’s a greatest hits album from a crappy band. It’s like the latest incarnation of Styx when whoever the lead singer is announces, “Hey, here’s something off our new album” to the widespread groans of the fans. They just want to hear the classics – more regulations, more taxes, more dough for public employee unions, more stifling of innovation.”

My old and dear friend Rusty Ellis posted this on my Timeline back in July of this year; according to Crusty Rusty, I had Fakebooked it myself some years back, he was just reposting it. Got no inkling where or how I mighta run across the original item, but seeing as how it’s wrapped in quotation marks I’m sure I didn’t write it myself. Whatever the case may be, it hits the nail right square on the noggin, I must say.

Update! It appears that the above is an excerpt from a 2014 Townhall column by Kurt Schlichter. Man, talk about your Golden Oldies…

Where has the magic gone?

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Excellent piece from Ashley McCully looking into where it came from in the first place, how it was lost, and how we can find it again.

Finding Wonder in Christmas as Adults
My children finish school for the 2025 calendar year tomorrow, and that means we can finally go nuts for Christmas. Days filled with making gingerbread houses, sipping hot cocoa, gluing macaroni and popsicle sticks, and rocking out to festive tunes are on the horizon. For children, this is a season of promise and wonder. For adults, it’s wrangling sugar-fueled kids, standing in lines to pay too much for something no one truly needs, and reminiscing about the good ol’ days. Not very magical.

Even as we age, though, we all remain children of God. In fact, Jesus tells us in the Book of Matthew that we must become like little children if we want to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Take a moment and think about a kid in your life and their perspective during this time.

Flying reindeer, a snowy workshop where every toy is made for a specific child, a jolly man who goes up and down chimneys — children hope and believe in things they’ve never seen. Their faith in this goodness is inexplicable. Ask a kindergartener why they believe in Santa and you’ll find an unfounded conviction that would rival a honey badger.

When was the last time we really examined our faith? Believing in God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; the Christ child born of the Virgin Mary; the power and redemption of baptism; the resurrection of Jesus and his defeat of death; and life everlasting for those who give their life to the Lord. These are not light tenets, and it can be daunting to confront them.

One of our family traditions is cruising neighborhoods looking at Christmas lights. The bigger and brighter the display, the more mesmerized my kids are. They float between exuberance and awe, sometimes pointing and shouting things like “Epic!” and “Wow!” They are demanding I “look over there!”

Just as children believe because they are innocent, they get excited because things are still new to them. How easy is it for us to become room temperature in our faith? Imagine a first grader seeing 40,000 twinkling lights in a 300 square foot space and saying “meh.” When was the last time we really examined our faith? Here we have the greatest gift in the world — eternal salvation! — and we fail to be impressed.

God wants us to be delighted and He plants surprises for us everywhere, but we have to be willing to look and anticipate His creativity. Sure, we may be caught off-guard by a brilliant sunrise or encouraged by a random flower pushing out of a crack in the sidewalk, but the Lord knows we as adults require mental stimulation.

I shouldn’t even have to tell y’all to read all of it, but I will anyhow.

Takes one to know one

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Are ALL the hoary old homilies we learned as children going to be proven right as rain as time goes by? Looks like, yeah.

At the University of London, some competitive, if unconvincing, umbrage.

Readers will note that the students, these avowed opponents of racism, refer to themselves, and by extension all black students, as if they were some ancient and unfathomable offshoot of humanity, for whom rapport with outsiders is impossible. And who are supposedly oppressed by the unremarkable fact that, in a white-majority country, their professors will often be white and – as seems unavoidable – older than the students. Readers may also wonder how such exquisitely sensitive creatures will fare when faced with potential employers who may also be paler than themselves and, shockingly, not nineteen.

In short, the students are admitting, albeit unwittingly, that in fact they are the inflexible and bigoted ones, the ones preoccupied with racist and ageist stereotypes, and are incapable of feeling “comfortable” with people whose appearance differs from their own.

Apparently, for them, learning is next to impossible unless they are being taught by people who look just like them, are of a similar age, and who share the assumptions of a subset of nineteen-year-olds who are very much accustomed to flattery and indulgence.

Perhaps the students are too busy issuing grandiose demands to consider the humdrum fact that a person’s knowledge, perspective and experience, from which one hopes to benefit, necessarily take time to accumulate. Or to consider the possibility that stretching oneself beyond the familiar and comfortable is the general idea of education.

Fact is, these people are supremely disinterested in education; for them, it’s always and forever about indoctrination, see. Once you’ve taken that fully aboard, you’ll be amazed at how everything comes together and makes sense all of a sudden-like.

Ruh roh

Posted on      by     

Also, YIKES! And: YUCK!!

Campbell’s has dismissed an executive who allegedly referred to the soup company’s products as being made for “poor people” and denigrated its Indian employees.

Martin Bally, who was the vice-president of Campbell’s information technology department, was recorded making the alleged comments by another employee.

Campbell’s – which started producing canned condensed soup in 1897, and whose cans feature in some of Andy Warhol’s best-known 1960s pop artworks – said it had reviewed the recording and believed the voice to belong to Bally.

Campbell’s made “highly processed food” and “shit for fucking poor people”, Bally reportedly told a former employee, Robert Garza, according to a wrongful termination lawsuit filed by Garza.

In an hour-long rant, broadcast by a Michigan TV station, Bally goes on to say: “Who buys our shit? I don’t buy Campbell’s products barely any more. It’s not healthy now that I know what the fuck’s in it … bioengineered meat.

“I don’t wanna eat a piece of chicken that came from a 3D printer.”

Allegedly referring to Campbell’s employees of Indian heritage, Bally said: “Fucking Indians don’t know a fucking thing … Like they couldn’t think for their fucking selves.”

Campbell’s dismissed Bally’s allegation that the chicken used in its soups was “bioengineered”, calling the comments about its food “not only inaccurate – they are patently absurd”.

Well, I don’t know about the rest of y’all, but I am completely reassured by that heartfelt, sincere, not at all self-serving statement.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I’ve been eating Certain kinds of Campbell’s Chunky Soup for most of my life and always liked ’em well enough. That said, I must also admit that I’ve had my suspicions about the meat in ’em for years, especially the alleged “ham” in their “Hearty Bean And Ham” variety.

Sorry, Mr Anonymous Corporate Spokescritter, but I ain’t buying it. I have no idea what that nasty shit might actually be, but if it IS ham, I will cheerfully, lovingly kiss the raspy ass of every last Campbell’s executive, “chef,” and PR weasel.

How it is fucking DONE

Posted on      by     

Looks as if there might possibly be a little life left in the old town yet.

NYC serial spitter bloodied in street-style justice during epic beatdown: ‘Worse than jail’
Anthony Caines — the sicko busted by the NYPD for allegedly spitting in the faces of white women who passed him in Williamsburg — has apparently been on the receiving end of some street-style justice.

Video footage shared on social media showed two men beating and kicking a man who appeared to be accused spitter Caines, 45, outside of a hair salon on Sixth Street.

It was unclear when the footage was shot.

Caines, curled up on the sidewalk in a defensive fetal position, is dealt multiple blows by the two attackers, whose faces are never shown.

The two men laugh to themselves as they kick Caines and stomp on his legs.

Caines is heard wailing in pain during the beatdown.

The clip quickly cuts to an image of Caines with a large gash on his forehead, above his left eye. Blood streams down his face as the men issue a final warning.

Yes, the Post report includes a capture from that part of the clip, and it is GLORIOUS.

“Stop violating these females out here, you heard?” the man filming the footage tells him.

“We’re tired of that s–t,” the man explains. “You’re making us look bad.”

Caines appeared to confirm he understood, before saying, “I went to jail, didn’t I?”

“F–k jail — we’re worse than jail,” the man yells before delivering one last punch to his head.

You tell ‘im, boys. Yawp all you like about “vigilante justice,” but it’s a dead cert that Hell will freeze over before Mr Psycho-Spook hocks another loogie in that locality again. In fact, uness he lives there himself, I very much doubt he’ll ever so much as show his face in Williamsburgh again.

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