Toxic fruit of the Communist tree

Never bite an apple the serpent offers you, no matter how delicious he claims it is.

Lenin everlasting
On the totalitarian’s continued relevance.

Later in this issue, Gary Saul Morson writes about Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s masterwork The Gulag Archipelago. Much of that book is devoted to the details of the dehumanizing brutality of the Stalinist regime: its terrifying sadism and staggering assault on basic human dignity. The Stalinist horror show, in which terror was perfected in the forge of deliberately arbitrary deployment, had its roots in the brief but brutal reign of Vladimir Lenin. This year marks the centenary of Lenin’s death. In January 1924, the consummate communist, having blighted as many lives as he could in his two years of rule, finally shuffled off his mortal coil, aged fifty-three. “That was young,” you may say. But we reply, “Not nearly young enough.”

It is worth pausing to remember the hideous legacy of that ice-cold totalitarian. What we have in mind is not so much Lenin’s butcher’s bill as his more general modus operandi. Estimates of the number of people Lenin had tortured, maimed, and murdered vary, but are always well into the millions. But what may be just as creepy is his model of government.

We were reminded of this when, late last year, Miguel Cardona, President Biden’s secretary of education, gave a talk to explain education-department priorities. Promoting a kinder, friendlier department, he said, “I think it was President Reagan [who] said, ‘We’re from the government. We’re here to help.’”

We suppose that was intended to be reassuring. What Reagan actually said, however, as was pointed out about ten thousand times on social media, was the opposite. “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are ‘I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.’”

Lenin would have known exactly what Reagan meant. The difference is that Reagan’s observation was meant as a warning, an admonition about the dangers of overweening bureaucracy. Lenin, by contrast, regarded the terrifying side of unlimited government as a feature, not a bug. He liked the terror. It has always been thus with budding totalitarians. While Maximilien de Robespierre was a piker by comparison with Lenin, he nonetheless sang from the same chorus sheet, doing his best to disfigure France in the brief time allotted him. An ardent student of that supreme political narcissist Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Robespierre was always going on about “virtue,” though he conflated the emotion of virtue with what a Marxist might call “really existing” virtue. Above all, Robespierre knew that achieving the utopia of his dreams would not be easy or painless, which is why he spoke frankly about virtue and its “emanation,” terror.

At the center of the totalitarian impulse is the belief that ultimately freedom belongs only to the state, that the individual should not be treated as a free actor but rather, as Lenin put it, “ ‘a cog and a screw’ of one single great Social-Democratic mechanism.” Of course, few canny bureaucrats quote Lenin today, his association with tyranny having knocked him out of the great game of political PR.

But is he completely gone? One of the most depressing recent spectacles has been the rehabilitation of people and movements that, just a few years back, seemed safely consigned to the underworld. But watching Eloi-like college students praising Hamas, chanting genocidal formulae such as “From the river to the sea,” even excusing the incontinent maunderings of Osama bin Laden, makes us wonder whether any enormity is sufficiently grave to overcome the moral anesthesia of the entitled class. Someone once described the on-again, off-again socialist Philip Rahv as a “born-again Leninist”—their number, it turns out, is legion.

Which is why we predict an effort, perhaps sotto voce at first, to rehabilitate Lenin. After all, he articulated exactly the desire of everyone, from the creepy Doyen of Davos, Klaus Schwab, on down, who tells you that he’s from the global government and he’s here to help. What socialism implies above all, said Lenin, is “keeping account of everything.” Could the covid police, the bureaucrats pushing a cashless society to gain complete control over your spending, or the climate-change fanatics who want to limit your travel and impound your gas stove have put it any better?

Mebbe so, mebbe not, but it’s a lead-pipe cinch they’ll try to put it differently, the better to disguise their true totalitarian ambitions.

There isn’t really any need to speculate on whether the Goosesteppin’ Left might attempt to “rehabilitate Lenin” someday, as the author frets, because they already did it. Pulled the hocus-pocus off quite handily too, with astonishing ease—so much so that they’ve managed to drag us to the very brink of Civil War II with it. Lenin may have departed this vale of tears a century ago in the strictly physical sense, but his monstrous spirit lives on in Amerika v2.0. Truth is, he’s running things from beyond the grave right here, right now.

As the old saw warns, those who don’t remember history are doomed to repeat it. ADDENDUM: Those who don’t trouble themselves to learn history in the first damned place will never even know they’re repeating it, and probably wouldn’t care anyway. Unlike the dozens of failed efforts across the globe in half-assed loser-nations, they solemnly guarantee that True Communism is gonna WORK, this time for SURE, and will be implemented fully, correctly, and competently, to the enormous benefit of all. And if you don’t believe it, just ask ‘em, they’ll tell ya—at excruciating length, repeatedly, until the droning Commie mantra makes you want to retch.

In what might be the most eye-tearing example of irony ever, these asstards somehow missed completely the fact that Adolf Hitler, the abominable right-wing (!!!) dictator, said pretty much the exact same thing upon coming to power: to wit, that his Thousand Year Reich would teach the stupid Russians—who, being stupid Russians and all, had stupidly wrecked the reputation of a superlative German intellectual, one Karl NMI Marx, with their wretched, stupid-Russian rendition of the Great Man’s Sooperdoopergenius© theories—how Marxism ought really to be done, leaving the stupid Russians behind to choke on a thick, swirling cloud of History’s Own Dust, a defeat for the stupid Russians accomplished courtesy of universally-acclaimed Aryan racial superiority.

Herr Hitler, of course, wasn’t at all “right-wing,” never was (nor was he Aryan*). That specious notion just another successful Leftard rewrite of history—a deception, shorn of the most threadbare scrim of truth to cover it up. Der Feuhrer hated Christianity, capitalism, and Slavs above all else except possibly (((DemPeskyJOOOOOZ!!))), and said so explicitly times beyond number, in both his speeches and his writings. The Nazi Party’s name is an acronym for “National SOCIALIST German Workers’ Party,” after all, and was by no means intended to be taken as either a sly misdirection or some kind of in-joke at the time. It means what it says and says what it means—period, full stop, end of fucking story.

Anyhoo, “rehabilitate Lenin”? No way, man; Our Fellow Americans of the Loyal Opposition are way too honest and above-board to ever even think of trying to pull such a lowdown dirty trick. Right? RIGHT? RIIIGHT?!?

Yeah, you just keep right on telling yourself that. If you do so long enough, eventually the headache from having reality smack you upside the noggin over and over trying to wake your dumb ass up will just go away. As a mantra of a somewhat different type than the puke-inducing Commie one mentioned earlier, it’s a more effective painkiller than a fistful of Ibuprofen. Maybe Demerol, even, or so I’ve heard.

* Aryan, in Nazi Germany, was a nebulous, ever-shifting categorization, a perversion of a field of study whose definitional criteria, from its origins and continuing over many years, were centered not on race, but language. A further irony involves the concept of “race” itself, which, through continual re-definition and politically-useful modification, eventually became every bit as flexible, malleable, and impossible to nail down as “Aryan” was, both terms reduced to little more than meaningless absurdities by the close of the war, of use only to historical archivists, mid-level bureaucrats “just following orders,” and sundry other sub-species of paper-shuffling rumpswabs.

For instance, according to Hitler the French had their own separate racial category—as he said, close to the German “race” but not quite their peers, respectable but still inferior to the Germans. The Italians, southern Eyeties in particular, he felt were the second “sickest” race in Europe (the quasi-human Hungarian knuckledraggers occupied the Number One slot on Hitler’s “Inferior” race card), informing his Axis co-swine Mussolini in 1934 that all the Mediterranean “races” had been “tainted with Negro blood.”

As every student of history well knows, Adolf Hitler was a truly sick, twisted whackjob, crazy as a shithouse rat. His mental condition steadily deteriorated throughout the course of the war, getting worse in sync with Germany’s gradual collapse until he was observably delusional by the time of its defeat: hysterically barking out orders for the re-positioning and re-deployment of phantasmagorical divisions, Luftwaffe squadrons, and naval flotillas which had long since surrendered, been transported en masse to Allied POW facilities, or otherwise obliterated—orders that shocked his more-rational subordinates (most if not all of whom were fully cognizant of the bleak reality outside their Supreme Commanders cramped, noisome bunker HQ) into a state of horror, fright, and indecisive stupefaction.

Hitler’s obssessive fixation on “race” distinctions—distinctions based not on genetic science (at that time in its infancy and scantily understood) but on the vagaries of nationality alone—is just one more piece of evidence confirming his deeply-disturbed mind.

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OH NO, NOT THAT!

Well, that does it, folks, we’ve no choice now but to give ‘em whatever they want. With this announcement, we Climate Deniers are well and truly done.


Um, okay, who wants to tell these two smug, unappealing termegants? Because to be perfectly honest about it, I wouldn’t throw so much as a three-stroke hump, pump, ’n’ dump into either the sloppy, sag-bellied she-manatee on the left or the withered, leather-snootched corpsicle at right on a fucking bet. Not if they were the last two human females on Earth, I was 16 and kneewalking drunk at last call on Saturday night, horny as a two-peckered billy goat, and desperate enough to fuck mud. Not even with Divemedic’s dick and Big Country pushing, I wouldn’t.

Lock up the nookie jar if you want, “ladies,” it ain’t gonna harelip me none, I’m afraid. Whatever it is you think you’re peddling, there is NO market for it over here. Compared to these two godawful crones, Mother Thumb and her four daughters look like the hottest date imaginable.

“Pussy boycott?” By all means, please, please do; have a heart, don’t make us beg you to. For the second time this week, the story of Br’er Rabbitt and the briar patch springs immediately to mind.

I did enjoy this response:


Heh. Yep, agreed.

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Rum, sodomy, and the lash

But mainly, y’know, sodomy.


Think about that next time some chest-thumping yayhoo starts bending your ear with all that “strongest military, world’s lone superpower” hoo-raw.

SHOCKER: Dog bites man!!!

Seriously now, is there anybody out there who DIDN’T know this Breaking News BLOCKBUSTER!!© by now? Could there possibly be? Asking for a friend, that’s all.

NIH official finally admits taxpayers funded gain-of-function research in Wuhan — after years of denials
It’s about time!

At long last, National Institutes of Health (NIH) principal deputy director Lawrence Tabak admitted to Congress Thursday that US taxpayers funded gain-of-function research at the Wuhan Institute of Virology in China in the months and years before the COVID-19 pandemic.

“Dr. Tabak,” asked Rep. Debbie Lesko (R-Ariz.) of the Select Subcommittee on the Coronavirus Pandemic, “did NIH fund gain-of-function research at the Wuhan Institute of Virology through [Manhattan-based nonprofit] EcoHealth [Alliance]?”

“It depends on your definition of gain-of-function research,” Tabak answered. “If you’re speaking about the generic term, yes, we did.

The response comes after more than four years of evasions from federal public health officials — including Tabak himself and former National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) director Dr. Anthony Fauci — about the controversial research practice that modifies viruses to make them more infectious.

Said Dr Tabak to commit “suicide” by shooting himself in the back of the head 12 times in 5…4…3…2…

Follows, a veritable shitstorm of the de rigeur weasel-words, ass-covering, and evasiveness regarding what the actual, literal meaning of “gain of function” might and might not be, burped up by a Swamp critter cast of thousands, before we get to this, from Rutgers University genetics prof Dr. Bryce Nickels, also a co-founder of the pandemic oversight group (whatever that is) Biosafety Now:

“It’s pure insanity to continue to delegate responsibly for risk/benefit analysis of research that poses an existential threat to humanity to the scientist that will perform the work and their institutions,” Nickels claimed.

“We just had a devastating pandemic likely caused by creation of a [Pathogen with Enhanced Pandemic Potential] in a lab, and yet scientists want the public to trust them that they can police themselves?” he balked. “That’s just total and complete nonsense.”

Excellent point, Doc, but know what’s REALLY “complete nonsense,” in my humble estimation? That all y’all “experts” are still trying to peddle the FauxVid tyranny trial-run as a “devastating pandemic” to the contemptible panic-ninnies who fell for your bushwa the first time around, that’s what.

Ho-hum. Let’s tot it up, shall we?

  • A once-proud people terrorized, traumatized, and stampeded like mindless cattle
  • A booming national economy trashed
  • “Social distancing,” “mask mandates,” et al
  • A supply chain irrepairably damaged
  • Election-fraud mechanisms normalized, institutionalized, and permanentized
  • Bedrock American liberties and rights flung down and danced upon
  • Small businesses driven into bankruptcy while “essential” megacorporations are given a bye
  • Untold millions of lives, careers, families, relationships, critical health-treatment regimens, and educations disrupted and/or ruined
  • The Have-nots forced to cower in their homes under contra-Constitutional lockdowns while the Haves party hearty exactly as before

All this wanton destruction, impoverishment, and immiseration, brought about entirely by FederalGovCo skullduggery, psychopathy, and brazen lies. State and local governments also, lest we forget. Yet not one, not even ONE, of the perfidious plutocrats behind this con-job have so much as lost their cushy goobermint sinecures and/or bloated pensions over it. NOT. ONE.

TRUST these verminous orcs, or the Mordor On The Potomac megalith they run, again? Shyeeaaaaahhhh, that’ll be the day.

Tellyawhat, get back to me when the grisly homunculus Fauci, his henchman Peter Daszak, and the rancid tub of goo Deborah Birx—at the very, very minimum—have been duly sentenced to rockin’ orange in Supermax for the rest of their worthless existences, thenksveddymuch. Until that frabjous day arrives, it’s all just more of the same old talky-talk, in which I have a good deal less than no interest whatsoever. Investigations, hearings, blue-ribbon commissions, fiery speeches from DC ProPols, Congressional inquiries, lawsuits, etc etc ad infinitum ad nauseum—ummmm, yeah, NO. I’m with Ace:

He is a murderer and a perjurer. We cannot convict him for his millions of murders, but we can convict him of his dozens of perjuries.

This vicious malignant dwarf must spend the rest of his golden feather-bedded years in a federal prison. He spent his whole working life in the federal system; he should die there too.

A fuggin’ MEN, brother. Alas, I won’t be holding my breath waiting for it, and neither should you.

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Nopeworthy

The local classical radio station which I listen to pretty much all day every day is, as you would expect, a dyed-in-the-wool, Mark-1 Mod-0 Left/“liberal” outlet, as steeped in the brain-devouring catechism of Wokester/PC as it’s possible to be. So naturally, they have this godawful program they run several times a day called Noteworthy (or, as I refer to it with a snarl, Notworthy©, for the sake of accuracy and truth in advertising), dedicated to seeing to it that “marginalized” Black Lesbian non-binary Lesbian Neegrow Composers Of Color (also ©) get the greater exposure the PC knotheads running the station feel they “deserve.”

Problem being, they don’t, they really don’t. From the Notworthy webpage:

NoteWorthy is a series of audio stories created to broaden our view of classical music by shining a light on the lives and music of artists of color, women, and others from historically underrepresented groups. Each episode provides an introduction to an artist, performing ensemble, musicians, or composer from all eras and genres of classical music. In a couple of minutes, you can learn about the contributions these artists have made and are making to the art form while discovering some great music along the way.

“Underrepresented,” is it? So now we’re required to adjust our musical tastes according not to talent or creativity but to make up the numbers based strictly on a composer’s skin color, ethnicity, gender (if any), and/or preferred sex-kink? Good to know, I guess. Pleasing to the ear, inspiring, imaginative, truly innovative? None for me, thanks, I’m a “liberal.”

With the barest handful of exceptions—practically all of them alive and working no later than about 1945-50—Noteworthy’s lousy, talent-bereft stable of contemporary (mostly) hacks aren’t fit to carry Ludwig Van’s jockstrap. Exhibit A: Etharnopian “composer” Emahoy Tsegue-Maryam Guebrou’s rousing piece for solo piano entitled “In Memory Of Catherine Brady.”

It carries on like that for a long, miserable while, but the first minute and a half to two minutes of it will give you the general flavor. I can’t in good faith recommend you bother with any more of it than that lest you wind up hurling something hard and heavy through your monitor screen in a fit of philistine pique at the kind of twaddle some PC über alles pinheads are willing to laud as “genius” nowadays.

Now, having played a heck of a lot of classical and ragtime piano myself since I was seven (7) years of age up until the curse of DuPuytren’s Contracture ruined all that for me several years ago, I feel myself eminently qualified to point out that what this hot mess sounds like to my trained and experienced ear is the sort of thing a concert pianist might run backstage to limber up the hands, wrists, and fingers as a pre-show warmup. Compare, contrast the above “marginalized” Noteworthy composer’s random, tuneless noodling around brilliant work with, oh, f’rinstinct, the moving, hauntingly beautiful Larghetto movement from Mozart’s Piano Concerto No 26 in Dmaj.

Comparison? Ain’t none, sorry. Mozart’s music has stood the test of time, still beloved and enjoyed 233 years after he prematurely departed this mortal coil in 1791 at the too-tender age of thirty-five. Likewise Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Haydn, and so many truly noteworthy (a-HENH!) others. The music of the masters from the Baroque, Classical, and Romantic periods will live forever. With good and valid reason, too.

Contemporary trash-haulers such as Msxz Guebrou and her fellow dumpster-diving luminaries being pimped all to hell and gone by the Progressivist lackwits behind the Notworthy© program, on the other hand? If their “art” is remembered more than three (3) minutes after the latest NW episode has concluded, the stench dissipated, the resultant pounding headache set in, that’ll be about two and a half minutes longer than it merits.

The underlying conceit here is that these self-indulgent muttonheads are being unjustly denied their due and proper because Racism, Sexism, Homophobia, all the standard hobgoblins of the small “liberal” mind—prolly Republicans, Whypeepuh, ((((Dem JoojoojooJOOOOOZ!!!))), Election Deniers, Fox News, and of course Trump, too. T’ain’t so, McGee. With vanishingly few exceptions, the reason WDAV’s precious Notworthy© noodlers, doodlers, and purveyors of musical meat-beatery are “marginalized” and “underrepresented” is plain as the nose on Jimmy Durante’s face: because they deserve to be. Because they, y’know, suck dead green donkey dicks. Full stop, end of fucking story.

As composers of classical/orchestral/symphonic music they do, at any rate. They might be really nice people, excellent mechanics, great cooks, I couldn’t say. But composers? Yeah, no.

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Orange Man BAAAAAD

That consarned Trump, what a repulsive sicko pervert he is.

Stormy Details of Past Affairs: When a President Watched As His Aide Had Sex With a Girl
Most of what follows aren’t rumors. It’s not a Stormy Daniels, “she said- he said” allegation. There are multiple witness accounts. The president had quite a sexual appetite, beginning with his loss of virginity at 17 to a Harlem prostitute. After he was elected president, he arranged for a tryst with a 19-year-old White House intern. It lasted a year – perhaps because the teenage intern aged out. There were other interns and at least one famous movie star.

The president watched, and a Secret Service agent observed as the president’s Special Assistant was “banging a girl on the edge of (the) pool” just feet away. One would think that the media would spend days, if not weeks reporting those details if they could verify that Trump was that president.

S’awright, we all know he did it. That, and much, much worse, even. Why, the putrid demon-fiend said “grab ’em by the pussy,” for Christ’s sweet sake!

But he wasn’t. That president was the mythical King of Camelot, the icon of the Democrat Party, and an equal to Lincoln in stature. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was that adulterous cad of a chief executive.

John Kennedy couldn’t keep his pants zipped and reportedly looked at his watch while he gave his sexual attention to extra-marital partners. From start to finish — 15 minutes was all the time they got. Then, out the door. It wasn’t a secret. His wife knew. The Secret Service knew. Reporters knew. J. Edgar Hoover knew and threatened to use Kennedy’s trysts as political blackmail. But JFK was the golden calf.

Ahh, the exalted, golden days of holy Camelot, when D卐M☭CRATs and their pet Enemedia poodles ruled the DC roost with benevolence and skill, and none dared question or defy their absolute right to do whatever they pleased. Enlightened, evolved, compassionate, “mostly peaceful,” sensitive: t’was a better age, a better America, and a better President, that’s for sure.

A washed-up porn pin cushion and her story about blacking out and not remembering what happened should never have seen the light of day or the inside of a courtroom. Her new claims that it wasn’t “about the money” and her insistence that she was an apparent unwilling victim are equal parts garbage, legally irrelevant, and clearly intended to prejudice the 12-person jury. The scandalous testimony Judge Merchan allowed has been, without doubt, utterly irrelevant to the case at bar. Merchan is sheep-dogging a kangaroo court, a political show trial that the KGB’s Lavrenty Beria would be proud of.

I got your attention by leading with a false suggestion. Misdirection. That’s what the prosecution is doing in Manhattan. Trump wasn’t “banging” interns. And this trial isn’t about Daniels or her claims. It’s [supposed to be] about business documents. But the prosecution got what it wanted. A false suggestion that Trump may have raped Daniels. 

Orange Man bad.

The Manhattan trial and the blatant misconduct of the trial judge have made it crystal clear for Americans. This isn’t about what Trump did or didn’t do. It’s about getting Trump.

Well, I mean, DUH. The only question remaining now is how much more of this arrant horseshit Real Americans will put up with before they finally get up off the couch, raise up on their hind legs, and strike back at their antagonizers.

The greatest irony of all is that Bad Back Jack’s radical-supply-sider tax cuts were more draconian than either Reagan’s or Bush’s cruel, heartless, ruinous ones in percentage terms, yet elderly shitlibs nevertheless drench their Depends to this very day in rapturous memory of the self-serving, womanizing, election-buying rich-boy heel that was taken from them far too soon. Go figger. Worked a treat at stimulating a stalled economy too, in all three instances. Then again, tax cuts almost always do, regardless of who implements them—almost as if there might be some sort of symbiotic, mutually-reinforcing relationship between them (for more on that curious, inexplicable conundrum, please see this post).

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“The next civil war will be between bat shit crazy women and everyone else”

An idea originated by Bill Whittle per Stephanie Gutmann, via Glenn Reynolds.

This post has been a long time developing. Back during the #MeToo pogroms, and the pink pussy hats, and the screeching on Capitol Hill, and the Stalin-esque career-killing accusations and the disappeared men, I wanted badly to write something titled “Why Are Women so Angry?”—for watching #MeToo had been like watching the spread of a contagion, a mind virus, to use Elon Musk’s term, and a contagion that was spliting society further into two camps.

There is certainly a growing political divide between men and women. Women are more likely to be left-wing and in so far as left wing is crazy….

Now, rampaging leftism will certainly get you to crazy pretty fast, but it’s this quality of crazy even among women who aren’t overtly political: The quality is there in the blowsy thirty-something woman in the unflattering bike shorts and crop top doing an illegal climb to the top of a fragile Mayan pyramid in the Mexican jungle, where she does a bawdy dance (Instagram, don’t you know.) It’s the much older women having affairs with teenaged boys and then filming themselves (Trigger Warning! This is an actual YouTube genre) making out with much younger men, even boys. It’s the flagrancy, the exhibitionism, the unhingedness we saw so often during the Gaza Encampments among the women who often seemed to be leading the crusades and who, so often, just seemed to be using “Gaza genocide” as an excuse to get hysterical.

There are actually good reasons (not excuses, reasons) why Bat Shit Crazy contagion should be at peak right about now:

FULL DISCLOSURE: I am not necessarily opposed to the exhibitionism per se, if it was actually attractive women participating instead of the usual shrieking, butt-ugly manatees who no sane person wants to see get nekkid doing it. Follows, an in-depth listing and analysis of a few of those good reasons, and then:

Is all of this a recipe for civil war? Probably not.

People who throw around the notion of an incipient civil war seem to forget that wars still depend on a huge supply of young men, fit and motivated enough for that “bitter arithmetic” and, what with very real testosterone deficits among men these days, we barely have enough sufficiently aggressive men to fill our regular army.

So we may not see civil war (at least along these lines) any time soon, but we can expect lots more Bat Shit Crazy before a new CINC can help restore sanity.

I must beg to differ with that last; it is NOT up to any CiNC, new or old, to help restore sanity, nor should we be looking for one to do it for us. The mindset that reflexively looks to FederalGovCo for the solution to every problem great or small is a major factor in how we got ourselves into this mess in the first damned place.

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Put-up job

Waitwaitwait, you mean to tell me that the whole thing was all just a DO(I)J swindle all along?!? That Meinherr Garland’s DO(I)J really, truly is as marrow-deep corrupt and partisan-politicized as some of us have been insisting for years? Why, I can’t believe it. I WON’T believe it.

The DOJ’s Doctored Crime Scene Photo of Mar-a-Lago Raid
New disclosures in Special Counsel Jack Smith’s espionage case against Donald Trump reveal the FBI tampered with evidence to create the infamous photo–and DOJ has lied about it for nearly two years.

It is the picture that launched a thousand pearl-clutching articles.

A few weeks after the armed FBI raid of Mar-a-Lago in August 2022, the Department of Justice released a stunning photograph depicting alleged contraband seized from Donald Trump’s Palm Beach estate that day; the image showed colored sheets representing scary classification levels attached to files purportedly discovered in Trump’s private office.

Included as a government exhibit to oppose Trump’s lawsuit requesting a special master to vet the 13,000 items taken from his residence, the crime scene pic immediately went viral—just as Attorney General Merrick Garland, who authorized the unprecedented raid, intended. 

At the time, even regime-friendly mouthpieces questioned the need and optics of the raid; the photo helped juice the DOJ’s justification for the storming of Trump’s castle.

“[The] question of whether Trump had classified material with him at his Mar-a-Lago resort has captured the public’s attention. The photo published by the government appears to answer that question quite affirmatively,” Washington Post resident fact checker Philip Bump wrote on August 31, 2022.

Yeah, well, y’know, the Washington Post. That would of course be the longtime regime house organ Washington Post, after all. Fake News doesn’t come any more Fake Newsier than them. Onwards.

Some of Bump’s colleagues were more hyperbolic. An ex-CIA officer told ABC News the cover sheets indicated the highest level of secrecy, which in the wrong hands could have resulted in murder. “People’s lives are truly at stake. Without being melodramatic, anything that helps an adversary identify a human source means life and death,” intelligence expert Douglas London melodramatically warned in reaction to the photo.

The New York Times insisted the photo was consistent with how the FBI handles criminal investigations. “[It] is standard practice for the F.B.I. to take evidentiary pictures of materials recovered in a search to ensure that items are properly cataloged and accounted for. Files or documents are not tossed around randomly, even though they might appear that way; they are usually splayed out so they can be separately identified by their markings,” reporters Glenn Thrush and Adam Goldman wrote on August 31, 2022.

Except…that is not what happened.

And it most certainly wasn’t, as the article goes on from there to detail. Highest possible kudos for the indespensible Julie Kelly for yet another marvelous real-journalistic coup de main. The woman is like a fucking machine.

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Yet another BM (Biden Moment)

***”President”*** shits self again, women and minorities hardest hit.


Yep, as someone who has raised a toddler my own self, I can definitely say that the sudden halt and semi-squat accompanied by the dreamy-eyed gaze into the far distance is all too familiar.

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Sweet home Shithole Chicago

Hog butcher for the world, City of the Sloped Shoulders, to update Sandberg to better reflect modern reality. They tell me you are wicked, and I believe them.

Chicago Mayor Panics, Runs From Reporters Asking About Slain Cop’s Funeral
Mayor Brandon Johnson had another one of his panic attacks Thursday, running away from reporters like NBC Chicago’s Mary Ann Ahern, who just wanted to ask him–among other things– about his administration pressuring the family of slain Chicago Police officer Luis Huesca, to let Johnson attend his funeral. Johnson ultimately did not attend, even though he and other officials spilled their petulant, childish drama over the somber event. To watch him succumb to his panic attacks over questions about the funeral I leave this link: https://x.com/MaryAnnAhernNBC/status/1786118723230707763 “Why do you have to run from us Mr. Mayor?” asked Ahern.

But Ahern knows the answer. He’s a snowflake, a grape who can’t take the pressure of leadership. And there are just about 100 days until the hard left tear up the Democratic National Convention. What a party it will be.

According to reporting by Fran Spielman of the Sun Times, Johnson’s team tried to push the mourning Huesca family into inviting him to the funeral of the slain officer. I’ve never seen anything so despicable in Chicago politics and most of you know I’ve seen a lot.

If there’s anything lower than that, it’s running away like a whipped dog when you get caught.

He has a coward’s built-in excuse though, he might say Huesca’s mother didn’t understand the bad Spanish of his police officials and aides who initially tried to intimidate her by insisting he had to attend her son’s funeral, that it was mandatory. That it was all lost in translation. He’s craven enough, with his panic attacks, to try it. And he’ll always play the race card if it doesn’t work.

It’s John Kass, who as is his usual wont pulls not a single punch throughout, so of course you’ll want to read the whole thing.

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Blibbering

Yeah, he’s just fine, no Alzheimers issues here, nosireeBOB.


Follows, several more videos confirming Pedo Peter’s total lucidity, clearheadedness, and remarkable facility for quick-wittedness and spontaneous speech, all from the same Medal of Presidential Paralympics in Freeduuhhhh…yeah, you know, the thing.

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Human? Hardly

Sefton flubs one.

Remember that Joe Biden, as horrendous an example of a human being to have ever obtained political office in this country, just behind the Clintons and Kennedys, was deliberately chosen by Obama because his veneer of being an alleged moderate of the old school gave Obama the cover, on top of his mulatto melanin, to unleash his radical Maoism on America with impunity.

Silly JJ, human beings don’t obtain political office in this country. Not since, oh, around the 1930s, if not earlier.

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Birth of a legend

And a culture—or sub-culture, or counter-culture.

What Do You Got? The Wild One, The Loveless and the Biker Movie
On the fourth of July weekend in 1947, a group of bikers rode into a small California town and, depending on who you believe, either had a great party or went on an orgy of destruction. This single incident – now famous as the Hollister Invasion or the Hollister Riot – created both the abiding myth of the outlaw biker and the renegade bike gang, and inspired the movie that provided the template for every other biker movie to follow.

The occasion was the first major bike rally held by the American Motorcycle Association in California since before World War Two, and while attendance was expected to be high, nobody anticipated what would really happen. Hollister – about two hundred miles south of San Francisco and inland from Monterey and Carmel – had always been friendly to bikers, hosting regular races and hill climbs on the Bolado Racetrack.

It had, according to Tom Reynolds’ Wild Ride: How Outlaw Motorcycle Myth Conquered America, “twenty-seven bars, twenty-one gas stations and only six policemen.” It had its own bike club, the Tophatters (still in existence today) – one of dozens, probably hundreds of groups of mostly ex-servicemen who got together to ride, race, drink and raise a bit of hell just before the Hell’s Angels formed a year after Hollister and took over the image of the outlaw biker forever.

Uhh, not to pick nits or anything, but having had a few good friends flying the Red & White patch over lo, these many years—enough of them to know it actually does matter to them, if no one else—technically it’s supposed to be Hells Angels, no apostrophe. Kinda undermines the author’s credibility a wee mite, I think. A bit odd too that, in this recounting of the Hollister debacle, no mention is made of the less-hyped but way worse Laconia whoopjamboreehoo in 1965. Then again, maybe nobody’s made a movie about that one yet. Speaking of Hollister and hype, though, the iconic Life magazine photo of one of the likkered-up, violent “rioters” is instructive:

As it turns out, the provocative pic was almost certainly staged by Life’s sensationalist “photojournalist” and his assistants:

The reliability of the striking photo has been debated, with some sources suggesting that the scene was overtly staged. While the photograph was taken by Barney Petersen of the San Francisco Chronicle. the Chronicle did not run it, nor any other images, in its initial two articles covering the event. The bearded individual standing in the immediate background of the photograph, Gus Deserpa, has said he is sure that the photograph was staged by Petersen, and gave the following account: “I saw two guys scraping all these bottles together, that had been lying in the street. Then they positioned a motorcycle in the middle of the pile. After a while this drunk guy comes staggering out of the bar, and they got him to sit on the motorcycle, and started to take his picture.” Deserpa claims he deliberately tried to sabotage the staging by stepping into the shot, but to no avail.

Barney Peterson’s colleague at the Chronicle, photographer Jerry Telfer, said it was implausible that Peterson would have faked the photos. Telfer said, “Barney was not the type to fake a picture. Barney was the kind of fellow who had a very keen sense of ethics, pictorial ethics as well as word ethics.”

And you can believe just as much or as little of that as you like; surely, no “journalist” would ever lie, right? RIGHT?!? Why, it’s simply UNPOSSIBLE!!!

Anyways. Onwards.

“Nobody has ever fully explained what happened in the town on Independence Day weekend in 1947,” writes Reynolds, “because the allure of the myth is far more tantalizing than whatever facts can be gleaned from eyewitnesses or news photographs. Descriptions run from just a wild party to a rural version of the Rape of Nanking.”

Hollister would inspire a film, The Wild One (1953) – the film that Marlon Brando made between A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) and On the Waterfront (1954) and arguably did more than either film to create Brando’s persona, both on and off the screen. Its basic plot – bike gang comes into conflict with squares, causes mayhem/destroys small town/inspires vigilante payback – is really just a western with wheels instead of hooves, which is why it would be so easy to copy for decades to follow, in films with titles like Dragstrip Riot, The Wild Angels, Devil’s Angels, The Rebel Rousers, Angels from Hell, She-Devils on Wheels, Satan’s Sadists, Angel Unchained and dozens more whose plots vary as much as their titles.

The Wild One begins with a warning: “This is a shocking story,” the boldface card explains over a shot locked off just above the asphalt of a country road stretching to the vanishing point. “It could never take place in most American towns – but it did in this one.”

The first time I watched The Wild One as a teenager I constantly wondered when I’d seen it before; every plot point and conflict worn itself into the pop culture collective memory of the “biker picture” I shared with everyone else: the combination of curiosity, excitement and revulsion when the locals encounter Johnny Strabler (Brando) and the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club; the gang’s goofy mix of childish provocation and cornball hipster slang; the belligerent square john local businessman who insists they have to take matters into their own hands and teach these hoodlums a lesson.

Even Johnny’s signature line, among the most famous Brando ever uttered in his career (“Hey Johnny, what are you rebelling against?” “What do you got?“) had been rendered as rote as pantomime by the time I finally saw it on screen and in context.

The Wild One – directed by László Benedek (Song of Russia, Death of a Salesman), produced by Stanley Kramer and based on “Cyclists’ Raid”, a short story by Frank Rooney published in Harper’s magazine – strains for relevance. Even the costume Lee Marvin wears as Chino, leader of rival bike gang The Beetles, is based on “Wino Willie” Forkner, founder of the Boozefighters, the outlaw gang that was blamed for most of the trouble in Hollister.

(Forkner was a consultant on The Wild One but quit in protest at the portrayal of bikers. The Boozefighters are still around, with chapters all over the world.)

Interestingly enough, and to my bemused astonishment when I learned of it, there’s a Boozefighters MC chapter in CLT, of all locales. I met a young fella in a Boozefighters cutoff at one of our Double Door shows, asked him about it, and saw him at several more of our shows after. Friendly, personable guy, in fact, accounting for my initial astonishment, since the original Boozefighters MC members (Wino Willie most definitely included) were notoriously some of the toughest, rowdiest, most flat-out dangerous one-percenters ever to fly a patch. Even first- and second-generation HA patch holders gave them respect, when they weren’t just avoiding them outright.

Despite my snarky dig at the author’s credibility before, it’s nonetheless a decent enough piece all in all. Certainly, his point about most of the biker-exploitation flicks being sub-par is not something I’ll dispute; I’ve seen all the ones he writes about and many more of the genre besides, and if you’re not into gazing at rip-snorting custom Harleys tearing around the landscape there ain’t much in ‘em for your average Joe Cager to enjoy.

One thing that does puzzle me a mite: contra his sniffy disdain for the biker movies of the 50s and 60s, McGinnis goes on to more-or-less gush at great length about The Loveless, characterizing it as a film with pretentions to High Art whose flaws prevent it from living up to its lofty cinematic ambitions. I saw it many years ago and thought it a real stinkburger myself, not even a patch on The Wild One, which I liked a lot back when I first saw it and still do now. Ultimately, though, even the presence of Willem DaFoe in his first starring role can’t quite redeem the flick for McGinnis:

As the film comes to its conclusion we’re waiting to see if the town is happening to the bikers or the bikers are happening to the town. The directors deliver just the right amount of sex and violence; by the time the smoke clears on the bodies they’ve made precisely the film a young man thought he was going to see when he paid for a ticket to The Wild Angels.

But the film hits its apex just before the cathartic explosion of gunshots and blood at the end, when the gang sit drunkenly around a table at the lounge, bragging about where they’re going and what they’re going to do. Dafoe’s Vance – with a straight face that hints at the talent he’d demonstrate repeatedly over the decades to follow – silences them all by bellowing out four words that impeccably sum up The Loveless:

“We’re going nowhere. Fast.“

As I recall, the friends with whom I watched The Loveless on VHS erupted in gales of laughter at DaFoe’s simultaneously wooden yet canned-hammy delivery of that line. “Bellowed”? Not in the movie I saw, it wasn’t. Mumbled, more like, or maybe grunted. DaFoe’s face shot adoringly from below as he runs the line; lit cigarette a-dangle from his lips; meticulously-coiffed pompadour afloat over his head like an angel’s halo; trying his very damnedest to look menacing and failing miserably: it was the best unintentionally-comedic performance of all time, hands down. He shoulda won an Oscar for it, assuming there’s a category for such. Happily for all concerned, Willem DaFoe overcame this embarrassing misfire, going on to become one of our finest actors ever.

In any event, The Loveless is as dull, flaccid, and aimless a movie as I ever did sit through. Too-pretty actors turning in lifeless performances; a shambolic, meandering plot arc; disjointed scenes in which the sole point seems to be striking sultry, cliched, wholly-unconvincing tough-guy poses for the camera; unidimensional, affectless, and un-relatable characters; a piss-poor excuse for a “script” bodged together by writers who obviously know no more about bikers than I do about writing screenplays; ludicrous, stilted dialogue no self-respecting real-world biker would ever be caught dead uttering, The Loveless does somehow pull off the cinematic quasi-miracle of being both overblown and underwhelming.

Any of y’all miscreants with a hankering some lazy summer evening to curl up on the couch with some popcorn, a cold beer, and a real, honest to God biker flick, just check out Hells Angels Forever instead, that’s my advice.

No, this is definitely NOT Roman Gabriel’s NFL

Nor Johnny Unitas’s, nor Ollie Matson’s, nor Bart Starr’s, nor Jim Brown’s, nor Mike Ditka’s. Nor mine, nor yours. The people running the show now don’t want it to be, see. And as far as I‘m concerned, may they have joy of their choice, they can fucking well have it.

NFL Funded Left-Wing Group Bailing Out Anti-Israel Bridge Blockers
Community Justice Exchange received grants from NFL’s ‘Inspire Change’ program as recently as 2022

The left-wing nonprofit that bailed out anti-Israel protesters who blocked bridges and highways across the country last week was a multi-year partner of the NFL’s “Inspire Change program” whose work is still promoted on the NFL’s website.

Community Justice Exchange set up a “bail and legal defense fund” for those arrested during last week’s A15 protests. The protests targeted major airports, highways, and bridges in dozens of U.S. cities including San Francisco, Chicago, New York City, and Philadelphia. Their explicit goal was to disrupt economic “choke points” to maximize financial disruption, as explained on their website.

The online fundraiser, hosted by ActBlue and organized in conjunction with A15 Action, told donors that the funds will “support community members who are criminalized in the U.S. for their solidarity with Palestine.”

As an official “Inspire Change” partner, the Community Justice Exchange received grants and publicity in its work “to end money bail and pre-trial detention at the local level and immigration detention at the national level.” The NFL’s partnership with the Community Justice Exchange was last extended in June 2022, according to an announcement from the league. The league touted the left-wing group’s “work with organizers, advocates, and legal providers across the country that are using community bail funds as part of efforts to radically change local bail systems and reduce incarceration.” The grants went toward “coordinating and supporting the 100+ local protest to bail funds and a centralized rapid response fund to support those protesting for racial justice.”

The partnership appears to have since lapsed—the nonprofit wasn’t on the list of grantees announced in May 2023. The NFL’s “Inspire Change” website lists Community Justice Exchange under “Previous Grant Recipients” and still includes a link to the group’s website.

Proud of their little Left-wing fascist goon squads, aren’t they? Like I said, they can have it, all they want and then some. Myself, after being the most rabid Cowboys fan imaginable from my childhood well into my “adult” (a-HENH!) years, I haven’t watched any NFL game—regular season, playoffs, Stupid Bowl, whatever—in several decades now, haven’t missed it even slightly, and almost certainly will never watch another.

Enjoy your “partnership” with the selfsame Leftard pussyfarts who have been trying to get football banned altogether for being “too violent,” “too dangerous” for, oh, ’round about twenty-thirty years or so, while it lasts. You can all go straight to Hell together for all me, and good fucking riddance to the whole sorry lot of you.

Via Sefton—welcome back, JJ!

Update! How we know for sure and certain that there’s really no such thing as zombies, the living dead, angry ghosts who walk among us seeking vengeance against the hated living, &c: Because the shades of Henry Ford, Charles Lindbergh, John D Rockefeller, Tom Landry, and many others—all of whom were hardcore capitalist Reich-wingers, if not straight-up Fascists, in life—haven’t risen from the grave en masse to tear out Wokester throats in righteous rage over their wanton despoliation of all they once held dear on this tormented Earth. That’s a by-God “tell” if ever I saw one.

Well, excepting the ((((JooJooJooJOOOOOO!!!))))-hate, of course. That would been totally jake with at least a couple of the aforementioned.

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Another day…

…another looney-tooney “transgender” attempted murder.

School Ignored Trans Student’s ‘Hit List, Leading to a Bloody Beat-Down
“I’m gonna murder you,” shouted the trans-identifying student at Pennbrook Middle School as the 13-year-old blindsided a 12-year-old girl last week and bashed her skull repeatedly with a Stanley cup (ie, a Thermos—M). The victim had to be hospitalized, her scalp stapled back together, and she had to go through a concussion protocol, according to police.

It’s about as horrible a middle school assault as can be imagined, not in the least because students and staff alike were well aware of the perpetrator’s “hit list.”

The Daily Mail reported Monday that another 12-year-old female student — remaining anonymous because of her age, like the victim and the thug — made a public statement that “she and two fellow students filled out paperwork explaining what they knew was going to happen if nothing was done and said that she was warned ‘watch your back’ at lunch.”

“You could’ve stopped it,” she said. “It was five hours from when I told you it was going to happen. I don’t get how you couldn’t have stopped that.”

“We had to watch [the victim] taken out with blood dripping down her face and I will never forget that! Laying in bed last night I just kept repeating it in my head.”

Reportedly, she was next on the hit list — the one the school did nothing about except to tell the “trans” kid’s potential victims, “Don’t worry about it, it’s not gonna happen.”

Let’s talk for a moment about the so-called “trans” phenomenon we’ve seen explode these last few years.

NononononoNOOO, we shouldn’t. In fact, we mustn’t, not for any reason whatsoever. That would be WRONG, see.

So naturally, the vicious anti-“trans person” H8RRRbigot author then goes on to do precisely that, the “transphobic” sumbitch. Why, it’s an act of actual, literal genocide, that’s what it is! Probably another of those vile, vicious, H8ful Trump-suckers, I bet.

If these deranged mutants keep it up with the batshit-insane mayhem—which they will; the voices in their heads seem to require it of them, while Leftard chaos-pimps stand up and cheer, denigrate the brutalized victims, or at best maintain strict silence—one has to wonder how much longer it’s going to be before these twisted maniacs wind up with some real, bona fide hatred and retaliatory violence to contend with. For the nonce, it’s as our blog-buddy of twenty-mumblemumble years’ standing Stephen concludes, in response to yet another explicit threat of freakshow-violence against specific cis-het oppressors:

But don’t worry. He won’t actually hurt anyone. Right up until he does.

Pretty much, yeah.

Update! At the “Thermos” link above, Ace coins a term I expect will come in mighty useful for saner sorts going forward, regrettably: “Transgender Rage.”

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