Page 236

Grotty to the MAX

Posted on August 3, 2022August 3, 2022 by Mike

Having seen this staggeringly wretched thing yesterday myself, Andrea couldn’t be righter on it.

I watch Tucker Carlson regularly. I don’t always agree with him, but I find him engaging and informative. However, when the show cuts to commercials, I hit the mute button. Today, I couldn’t find the clicker and found myself watching a Gillette Venus commercial celebrating pubic hair, something I found vulgar. However, my attitude changed when I realized why I was watching this ad: it’s a signal that advertisers are recognizing that, if they want to reach Democrats in the coveted (because profitable) 25–54 demographic, they must advertise on Tucker.

The commercial is not obscene. As I said, it’s just vulgar. If my kids were still young, I would not be very happy to have the news interrupted by a commercial focused on “pubes” and having singing pubic hairs on the beach.

As a general matter, that commercial represents the decay and coarsening of public culture. Once upon a time, whenever people were out in public, they wore nice clothes, hats, and gloves. The idea of wearing pajamas and slippers in public or going out with one’s pants falling down or a barely-there top was inconceivable.

Actually, as tawdry and repulsively-TMI as this dumpster fire of a commercial is, there’s a cultural aspect that I find at least mildly interesting, which Widberg’s next two ‘graphs bring to mind without overtly mentioning.

Nevertheless, when looked at the correct way, those dancing pubic hairs tell us something very good. For decades, nightly news shows have tended to have commercials that cater to old people: tactfully phrased ads for hemorrhoid relief, will-writing software, and digestive aids. The shows were not geared toward or reaching a younger audience.

This ad, though, is defiantly directed to young people, and not stodgy young people, either. So why would Gillette (which ran into trouble with conservatives over its embrace of so-called transgenderism and “toxic masculinity”) buy ad time to cater to edgy young women and, I guess, young men? The answer is, they’re buying ads because you go where the customers are.

And WOOT, there it is…almost.

Over recent years, as at least some of you out there must surely be aware, it’s become fashionable among a certain demographic, amongst both men and women, to trim, sculpt, or completely shave their pubes. Ever notice the overnight preponderance in retail outlets from Wal Mart to Walgreens of the suddenly-ubiquitous “personal trimmer” devices? Let me assure you, folks: those handy little appliances are by no means exclusively for purposes of keeping one’s beard, mustache, or sideburns neat and well-groomed.

Actually, in my not-trivial experience, I have to say that the majority of those “personal trimmers” will spend much more of their time being run over, across, and around various, shall we say, intimate regions than they will faces, armpits, and/or necks.

Call it part and parcel of life on the rock and roll road, but it in truth became not only vanishingly rare but also an unwelcome occurrence to run across a full, gnarly, unkempt bush on the ready, willing, and able babes one might end up with after a show. TMI again, perhaps, but, well, there it is.

A friend of mine even went so far as to pay the extra fee for a street-legal “personalized” NC license plate on his car which read “SMOOTHIES.” Yes, it meant exactly what you think it did. He told me he was pretty danged surprised that the state agreed without demur to allow such a thing, whereupon I responded that the morbidly obese, ill-tempered black lady at the tag bureau who filled out the DMV forms probably hadn’t the vaguest clue what was meant by it. We had ourselves many a good, long laugh over that one.

Emblematic of the steady coarsening of American culture? Indubitably so. Making a public display of something that society would be better off keeping a strictly private matter? Hey, no argument from here. An indication of the general de-evolutionary climb-down from long-accepted standards of mannerliness, good taste, and personal modesty? Yup. Nonetheless, I do find this broad shift in attitudes, and especially the way in which technology quietly adapted to accommodate and commercialize said shift, to be a fairly interesting phenomenon.

I long ago lost my capacity for dismay or distaste in reaction to finding myself taking a roll in the proverbial hay with a girl sporting a cute little “landing strip” on or about her nethers, if I ever had any such to begin with; I ain’t no prude, never have been and never will be. All the same, I’d just as soon not have to put up with TV commercials discussing that sort of thing, thanksveddymuch. I do get why Gillette would want to capitalize on what they perceive as a booming and underserved market niche, really I do. But shouldn’t there be at least some things that we can all agree are out of bounds, and not fodder for pub(l)ic discussion?

Three guesses, first two don’t etc

Posted on August 3, 2022August 3, 2022 by Mike

VDH asks the silliest of silly questions.

Are the New Progressive Rules Reciprocal?

Gee, I dunno, Victor, have they EVER been? Even just once? It’s why I’ve always found the empty threats from Our Guys warning shitlibs about how deeply, deeply unhappy they’re going to be when Repugnicants turn the tables and start flinging their own shit back in their faces so annoying—it just never, ever seems to happen, for some strange reason.

Have leftists ever read Thucydides on the stasis at Corcyra and his warning that zealots who destroy laws, customs, and traditions for short-term gain, soon rue the day they began making such changes when, in vain, they seek refuge in the very sanctuaries of behavior that they have destroyed?

Only one small problem with that proposition: they’ll never rue a friggin’ thing unless and until they’re given cause to rue something. Absent that, we’re all just having a wank here, nothing more.

How about the new protocols regarding the Supreme Court?

Should conservatives mass at the home of Justice Sonia Sotomayor, decrying her radical nihilist abortionist ideology? Is that an understandable cri de coeur? Would such intimidation in the future moderate her extremism? Is that now an acceptable strategy?

It damned well ought to be, yes.

Should Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) now lead a throng of screaming, right-wing protestors to the very doors of the Supreme Court? Should he egg them on by calling out by name Justices Ketanji Brown Jackson and Sotomayor, warning that they have sown the “wind” and will soon reap the “whirlwind,” as they will have no idea what “hit” them?

Is that moral courage?

Who the hell cares? What it is, is effective. Or it has been for them, at any rate. In the end, that’s all that really matters. “Moral courage” doesn’t amount to a hill of beans when your foe is consistently kicking your ass up between your shoulder blades.

Will the next FBI director preposterously open an investigation during the 2024 election, on rumors that the activities of the Biden family, of General Mark Milley, of Anthony Fauci, of key senators with Chinese financial interests all constitute a sort-of-kind-of “collusion” conspiracy with China, aimed at advancing a self-enriching and mutual left-wing agenda in the presidential election?

Will the FBI director claim 245 times under oath before Congress he has no memory of what he has ordered? Will it be a slap-on-the-wrist, reduced-sentence tacit approval that an FBI lawyer altered a court document to ensure we get to the bottom of “Chinese collusion”? Is it alright if we learn that a Republican presidential candidate hired a foreign ex-spy, and hid his pay behind three walls, to find dirt on his opponents?

Will Congress bring in some old right-wing FBI retired bulldog to compile a “dream team” of Federalist Society legal zealots to hunt for “Chinese collusion” among Democratic grandees?

Wrong question. The RIGHT question: Is there any conceivable reason we shouldn’t do exactly that?

In sum, are today’s norms tomorrow’s norms?

Or were they simply transitory and necessary in the age of the dreaded Trump—as one-time leftist means to achieve noble ends, and thus should never be institutionalized much less boomeranged?

If so, will they reappear whenever the Left returns to power?

Or should they be applied equally to the Left right now to ensure that outrage and disgust with such immoral and illegal machinations prohibit their use in the future?

Depends, I suppose, on whether or not Team Liberty has lost so much they’ve gotten tired of all the losing, to turn a Trumpian phrase, and wishes to try winning for a refreshing change of pace. Myself, I heartily approve of and endorse commenter cxt’s suggestion:

We should be doing everything possible to force Democrats’ to live in the world they are working so hard to create.

Shipping illegals to Democrat strongholds for example–forcing them to live with the consequences of their policies is a good start.

We need to turn the vise everywhere we can.

That we most certainly do. Judging from the agonies of weeping and wailing emanating from NYC and Mordor On The Potomac over finding themselves on the receiving end for once, finally taking steps to see to it that what goes around does in fact come around appears to be a quite useful strategy.

Great one gone

Posted on August 3, 2022August 3, 2022 by Mike

The greatest sports announcer in history has finally left the stadium.

Legendary sports announcer, and voice of the Dodgers for a record-setting 67 years, Vincent Edward “Vin” Scully, 94, peacefully at his home in suburban Los Angeles.

I grew up listening to Vin. Summer hasn’t been the same since that awful day when he hung it up in 2016 and left the broadcast booth. I’ve heard a lot of sports announcers over the years. Blessed to have come of age with Dick Enberg doing L.A. football, Chick Hearn doing the Lakers, and Vin for the Dodgers. Now, all gone.

Scully wasn’t just the best of those three legends, he was the best of all time, and I do not say so lightly, nor merely out of home team pride. He did everything for everyone, and did it well, but it was baseball he loved above all, and baseball he made richer for calling the play-by-play. Not just for the Dodgers, but for every player and team he ever watched.

You couldn’t watch a home game at Dodger stadium for most of my lifetime without hearing him on 40,000 radios from home plate to the bleachers. He was that good. If you went to a game, you took a radio to listen to Vin, because he was going to tell you more about what you were looking at firsthand than any five other guys, if you gave them a week to rehearse.

Any late spring to late summer night, after sunset and before dusk, the summer heat fading away, and his voice was the soundtrack to life, a lullaby while lounging in a backyard hammock as the night sky deepened from indigo to starlit black, and an under-appreciated feast for the ears, anywhere from the pre-game show to the post-game wrap-up.

He called Sandy Koufax’s perfect game. He called Hank Aaron’s 715th homer. And he called this golden baseball moment, one for the ages. Listen to it, and watch, as I did as it happened, and imagine hearing this for up to 162 games for 67 years.

Well said. And what a moment it was, too; I’ve run this one here myself, and was watching on the TeeWee when it happened just as Aesop was. The whole Game 1 saga was a pluperfect example of what made baseball worth following, over and above all other sports—precisely the kind of magic that only baseball could produce, magic which Vin Scully understood and appreciated better than anybody before or since.

It was late here on the East Coast when it all went down; when Gibson took his winning swing, it was one of those instances where absolutely every true baseball man watching immediately knew in his gut that that ball was departing Dodger Stadium for sure and certain. Despite having been a lifelong Braves fan myself and therefore having nothing invested in who would come out on top in that year’s Fall Classic, I nonetheless leapt out of my easy chair with a lung-scarring shout of purest joy that brought my slumbering girlfriend rushing out into the living room, frightened witless that something terrible, something awful, had just happened.

To the contrary, something extraordinary, something truly wonderful, just had. It was well after midnight here; I had to be at work at 5 the next AM, and cared not a whit that I’d be paying all day for the lateness of the hour. Kirk Gibson had just provided all the world with one of those exhilarating, unforgettable baseball moments that every baseball fan lives for, but somehow never really expects. Gibson’s Miracle Shot discombobulated and demoralized Tony LaRussa’s heavily-favored Oakland A’s so badly that Tom LaSorda’s underdog Dodgers ended up taking the Series in just five games, against all odds and expectations.

And who but the incomparable Vin Scully could possibly have done a better job of calling it for us? A blow-by-blow summation of the whole incredible thing:

Unknown to the fans and the media at the time, Kirk Gibson was watching the game on television while undergoing physical therapy in the Dodgers’ clubhouse. At some point during the game, television cameras scanned the Dodgers dugout and commentator Vin Scully, working for NBC for the 1988 postseason, observed that Gibson was “nowhere to be found”. This spurred Gibson to call for Mitch Poole, the team ball boy, to set up the tee for him to take some warm up swings. After a series of warm up swings, Gibson told Poole to go get Lasorda for an evaluation. After a brief stint to get Tommy’s attention, Pool informed Lasorda that Gibson was taking practice swings in the clubhouse, where Lasorda went back for the evaluation. Shortly there after, Gibson was seen in the dugout wearing his batting helmet Along the way, NBC’s Bob Costas could hear Gibson’s agonized-sounding grunts after every hit.

A’s closer Dennis Eckersley came on to pitch the ninth to close it out for (A’s ace hurler Dave “Smoke”) Stewart. After retiring the first two batters (Mike Scioscia and Jeff Hamilton), Eckersley’s former A’s teammate Mike Davis, batting for Alfredo Griffin, walked on five pitches. During Davis’ at-bat, Dave Anderson initially entered the on-deck circle to hit for Alejandro Peña. Eckersley pitched carefully to Davis because the A’s remembered all of the home runs he hit for the A’s a year earlier, not because the light-hitting Anderson was on deck, as popularly believed. After Davis walked, Lasorda called back Anderson and sent up a hobbled Kirk Gibson to the plate, amidst cheers from the Dodger Stadium crowd. Gibson bravely fouled off Eckersley’s best offerings, demonstrating how badly he was hurting. On one foul, Gibson hobbled towards first and prompted Scully to quip, “And it had to be an effort to run THAT far.” After Gibson fouled off several pitches, Davis stole second on ball three. On the next pitch, the 8th of the at-bat, Gibson, slammed a backdoor slider into the right field bleachers to win the game. The footage of Gibson hobbling around the bases on both hurt legs and pumping his fist as he rounded second became an iconic baseball film highlight.

Gibson would never bat again in the Series, and his walk-off homer in Game 1 marked the first time that a World Series game ended with a come-from-behind home run. In a somewhat forgotten detail of this game highlighting the teamwork that was this Dodgers team’s trademark all season, Gibson’s heroics still would not have been possible without the earlier home run by the man replacing Gibson in the line-up, Mickey Hatcher.

Gibson became the second player ever to record a walk-off hit with two outs and his team trailing in the bottom of the ninth inning of a World Series game, following Cookie Lavagetto in the 1947 World Series. Only one other player, Brett Phillips in the 2020 World Series, has since accomplished this feat.

A bona fide miracle indeed, one that will shine forever in the pantheon of America’s Pastime. And how profoundly grateful I am that the great Vin Scully was on hand to do the play-by-play in his own inimitable style. Aesop’s note-perfect finale really says it all.

Imagine being so good you could shut up for over a minute on live TV after one of the greatest moments in sports history, and just let the microphone tell the story. You don’t have to imagine it. Vin just did it.

Annnnnd bingo. Full props to color man Joe Garagiola as well, Scully’s partner in the booth that night and a damned fine announcer in his own right, for being astute enough himself to just keep quiet and let this most beautiful of baseball moments speak for itself.

Rest thee well, Vin Scully, and thanks so very much for all you gave us. You shan’t ever be forgotten.

Golden opportunity: missed

Posted on August 3, 2022August 3, 2022 by Mike

“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.'”

Pelosi Lands in Taiwan Amid Chinese Threats and Chinese Warplanes Patrolling the Skies
House Speaker Nancy Pelosi arrived in Taiwan aboard a U.S. military aircraft late on Tuesday, amid threats of Chinese retaliation, and with Chinese warplanes flying along the Taiwan Strait ahead of her arrival, Reuters reported.

Since Monday, several Chinese warships have also sailed near the unofficial dividing line and remained there, a source told Reuters.

The Chinese aircraft repeatedly conducted tactical moves of briefly “touching” the median line and circling back to the other side of the strait while Taiwanese aircraft were on standby nearby, the person said.

Neither side’s aircraft normally cross the median line.

Four U.S. warships, including the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan, were positioned in waters east of Taiwan on what the U.S. Navy called routine deployments. The carrier had transited the South China Sea and was now in the Philippines Sea, east of Taiwan and the Philippines and south of Japan, a U.S. Navy official told Reuters.

It was operating with the guided missile cruiser USS Antietam and destroyer USS Higgins, with the amphibious assault ship USS Tripoli also in the area.

Since last week, China’s People’s Liberation Army has conducted various exercises, including live-fire drills, in the South China Sea, Yellow Sea and Bohai Sea, in a show of Chinese military might.

Pelosi and her delegation were greeted by Taiwan’s foreign minister, Joseph Wu and Sandra Oudkirk, a U.S. diplomat serving as Director of the American Institute in Taiwan.

On Tuesday, Chinese Foreign Minister Wang Yi said that U.S. politicians who “play with fire” on the Taiwan issue will “come to no good end.”

Yeh, yeh, yeh, you just keep them yaps a-flapping, ya punk-ass dinks. You coulda done us all a real favor, but after all that big talk, you decided the better part of valor was to fold up like a cheap accordion. Hopefully you goddamned zipperheads will have grown yourselves a pair by the next time the Gin Hag is over in your bailiwick, and you’ll redeem your cheapened manhood accordingly. I dare ya to. Hell, I’ll even go so far as to breach all known etiquette and TRIPLE DOG dare ya, if that’ll help spur you pussies on.

And don’t anybody start in to smarmily lecturing me on the worn-out old “politics stops at the water’s edge” saw, either. That horsepuckey has been non compos mentis at least since the Demonrats put paid to it back during Operation Desert Storm/Shield, if not Vietnam. That being so, the fucking gooks can splash all the shitlib ProPols they like and it’ll be just jakesy-jukesy with me.

The Daily Donnybrook

Posted on August 2, 2022August 16, 2022 by Mike

Welcome to Ye Olde Colde Furye Blogge’s shiny new open-comments thread, where y’all can have at it as you wish, on any topic you like. Do note that the official CF comments policy remains in effect here, as enumerated in the left sidebar. All new posts will appear below this one. There will be blood…

Dream come true

Posted on August 1, 2022August 1, 2022 by Mike

I wanted one of these so bad when I was a teenager I could taste it.

I wanted a blue one back in the day, but I could’ve forced myself to accept a black one if someone twisted my arm hard enough. This next is the part that will kill ya.

LOT S132.1 HARRISBURG 2022 JULY 27-30
1977 PONTIAC TRANS AM SE

HIGHLIGHTS
Odometer reads 14 miles

Which would certainly help to explain the totally pristine, museum-quality condition of this sweet little creampuff, no?

Uhura has beamed up

Posted on August 1, 2022August 1, 2022 by Mike

Hat tip to my friend Jen.

It is at that, Mr Scott.

“Resist, Wake Up, Stop Obeying”

Posted on August 1, 2022 by Mike

A haunting voice of warning from humanity’s dark but never-distant past.

Vera Sharav was only 3 years old when her world collapsed.

She and her family were chased out of Romania and herded into a concentration camp in Ukraine during World War II, where they were left to wait, and starve.

“The cloud of death was always there,” Sharav told The Epoch Times.

After three years at the camp, she was rescued in 1944, she said.

“My mother got wind that a few orphans would be transported out of the camp, so she lied and said I was an orphan to save my life, and that’s how I wound up leaving,” Sharav said.

While on a train to the Port of Constanta, Romania, where there were three boats awaiting to take groups of people to Palestine, she befriended a family. However, upon arrival, she found herself assigned a boat with other orphan children that would separate her from the family with whom she felt she could trust. So she rebelled.

“No matter what, I could not be convinced to get on that boat,” she said. “Miraculously, in the end, they gave in to me.”

Seasick, she fell asleep that night, only to wake up to find that the boat with the orphans had been torpedoed by who she said she found out decades later to have been the Russians.

Though she carried guilt for having survived, she was grateful she resisted because that resistance kept her alive, she said.

“I do not obey authority, and it saved my life.”

DAMN, but I love that quote.

These memories returned in 2020 during the web of COVID-19 restrictions that spun out of control with the help of media propaganda, she said.

“So now, when people are obeying authority mindlessly, giving up their rights to make decisions about their own lives and what goes into their own bodies, I think back to that time,” she said.

Under the Nazi regime, Sharav said, medicine was weaponized, as it has been today.

Though the Jews were the primary target, she said, the first medically murdered victims were disabled German infants and children under the age of 3.

Waitwaitwaitait, you mean to tell me the Nazis were fans of Margaret Sanger and her evil eugenics plot? Why, I’m shocked—SHOCKED! Next, you’ll be telling me that there’s gambling going on here or something.

Genocide isn’t new to the United States, Sharav said, as it was Associate Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court Oliver Wendell Holmes who voted in favor of the 8-1 majority opinion in the 1921 case Buck v. Bell, which upheld the Virginia Sterilization Act of 1924 and the forced sterilization of Carrie Buck, who was alleged to be mentally defective.

Holmes said it would be better to prevent the mentally disabled from being born than to allow them to “sap the strength of the state” or “let them starve for their imbecility.”

“The principle that sustains compulsory vaccinations is broad enough to cover cutting Fallopian tubes,” the justice wrote in his opinion. “Three generations of imbeciles are enough.”

Carrie Buck, however, was never actually mentally disabled, Sharav said.

“Arguments for eugenics are always built on a lie,” Sharav said. “But it’s an ideology that continues to poison public health policies.” And he blames this type of thinking for the medical decisions that ultimately contributed to Grace’s (daughter of Sharav’s business partner Scott Schara—M) death.

“Look at what Big Pharma is doing now to children, aggressively pursuing them to be jabbed when they aren’t at risk at all from COVID-19,” she said.

It’s a slippery slope that—with the help of advanced technology—society is sliding down rapidly compared to the snail’s pace that it took for Hitler to implement his “Final Solution,” Schara said.

“We’re headed there exceptionally fast,” Schara said. “Today, the ‘Final Solution’ is the reduction of the entire human population under the ‘Sustainable Agenda’ of Agenda 2030.”

It’s hard for many to fathom that an elite few would conspire to cause widespread harm, Sharav said.

“People will say, ‘They made a mistake; it was an accident.’ But no, the elite, just like the Nazis, have this arrogance in which they believe they are superior and therefore entitled to rule the rest of us because they think we are inferior,” Sharav said.

Which makes it not just urgent, but absolutely, positively imperative that said “elite” be given a lesson in the necessity of maintaining a healthy fear of us which they will never, ever forget, without further ado or procrastination.

Hot blue-on-blue action!

Posted on August 1, 2022August 1, 2022 by Mike

SO. This Federale gun-grabber was going door-to-door and didn’t…ahh, hell, I’ll just let BCE run down the backstory for y’all.

Back on July 21st, my Brohiem and Fellow Deplorable Art Sido poasted about an ATF bunch of fucking ragbag neo-Gestapo/STASI motherfuckers who showed up at some poor shlubs house asking to see his weapons…Apparently, the shit be going down across the board so as that ALL of us purchasing -any- firepower right now?

So, that being said, seems that being emboldened by their apparent success, unlike dude that Arthur poasted about HERE, THIS particular FedFucker Pole-Smoker didn’t bother to notify the local county-mounties. And as such?

Well, I’ll let the vidya speak for itself:

And I’ll do likewise.

How to deal with the ATF. pic.twitter.com/3dmhLJwGSA

— Aaron Nye (@anogy) July 30, 2022

Big Country says it’s one of the funniest videos ever, and I can’t gainsay him on that. This one truly has it all, most especially when the proned-out Fed starts bleating about having a “medical condition,” immediately sequeing into panicky whimpers of “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” as the local 5-0 are jumping around on his back, grinding his mug into steaming asphalt as they ignore his piteous pleas and get on with roughly rasslin’ the shiny bracelets onto his wrists. Hats off to this jackbooted Federale thug for a note-perfect aping of Eric Garner’s classic original performance.

Trump under fire

Posted on July 31, 2022August 1, 2022 by Mike

To stand Sherman’s famous quote on its head: If nominated, he won’t be allowed to run. If he runs, he won’t be allowed to win. If he wins, he won’t be allowed to serve. If he serves, he won’t be allowed to survive the experience. As I’ve said before, Trump’s smartest move at this point would be to buy himself an isolated Caribbean island, establish a secure perimeter, install some crew-served weapons, post well-armed guards under shoot-to-kill-on-sight orders, and hie himself thither with a quickness. He did what he could for the betterment of his nation and his people, an abominable crime for which the vicious, foaming-at-the-mouth Leftard rabble will never, ever forgive him. The recent godawful J6 farce is but a foretaste, a mere sample of what they have in mind for the poor man. No reasonable person could blame him if he just washed his hands of the whole sorry mess and dedicated his remaining years to seeing to the needs, happiness, and physical security of himself and his family from here on out.

The people who really run the United States of America have made it clear that they can’t, and won’t, if they can help it, allow Donald Trump to be president again. In fact, they made this clear in 2020, in a series of public statements. Simply for quoting their words in an essay for The American Mind, I was mercilessly mocked and attacked. But they were quite clear. Trump won’t be president at noon, Jan. 20, 2021, even if we have to use the military to drag him out of there.

If the regime felt that strongly back then, imagine how they feel now. But you don’t have to imagine. They tell you every day. Liz Cheney, Trump’s personal Javert, has said that the 45th president is literally the greatest threat facing America today—greater than China, than our crashing economy, than our unraveling civil society.

That’s rhetoric, of course, but it isn’t merely that. It’s safer, and generally more accurate, to assume that your adversaries mean what they say. If you doubt this, ask yourself: When was the last time they acted more moderately than they talk?

And just what is so terrible about Trump anyway? I get many of his critics’ points, I really do. I hear them all the time from my mother. But even if we were to stipulate them all, do Trump’s faults really warrant tearing the country apart by shutting out half of it from the political process?

Love him or hate him, during Trump’s presidency, the economy was strong, markets were up, inflation was under control, gas prices were low, illegal border crossings were down, crime was lower, trade deals were renegotiated, ISIS was defeated, NATO allies were stepping up, and China was stepping back (a little). Deny all that if you want to. The point here is that something like 100 million Americans believe it, strongly, and are bewildered and angered by elite hatred for the man they think delivered it.

Nor was Trump’s record all that radical—much less so than that of Joe Biden, who is using school-lunch funding to push gender ideology on poor kids, to cite but one example. Trump’s core agenda—border protection, trade balance, foreign restraint—was quite moderate, both intrinsically and in comparison to past Republican and Democratic precedent. And that’s before we even get to the fact that Trump neglected much of his own agenda in favor of the old Chamber of Commerce, fusionist, Reaganite, Conservatism, Inc., agenda. Corporate tax cuts, deregulation, and bombing Syria: These are all things Trump’s base doesn’t want, but the oligarchs desperately do, which Trump gave them. And still they try to destroy him.

Again, why? I think it’s because, while Trump’s core MAGA agenda is decidedly not outside the historic bipartisan mainstream, it is well outside the present regime’s core interests. Our rulers’ wealth and power rise with open borders, trade giveaways, and endless war. Trump, at least in principle, and often in practice, threatens all three. The old America—the one in which Republicans cared about the heartland and weren’t solely valets to corporate power, Democrats were pro-worker and anti-war, and Bill Clinton and The New York Times could advocate border security—is in the process of being replaced, if it hasn’t already been, by one in which there is only one acceptable opinion on not just these, but all other issues.

Anti-Trump hysteria is in the final analysis not about Trump. The regime can’t allow Trump to be president not because of who he is (although that grates), but because of who his followers are. That class—Angelo Codevilla’s “country class”—must not be allowed representation by candidates who might implement their preferences, which also, and above all, must not be allowed. The rubes have no legitimate standing to affect the outcome of any political process, because of who they are, but mostly because of what they want.

Complaints about the nature of Trump are just proxies for objections to the nature of his base. It doesn’t help stabilize our already twitchy situation that those who bleat the loudest about democracy are also audibly and visibly determined to deny a real choice to half the country. “No matter how you vote, you will not get X”—whether X is a candidate or a policy—is guaranteed to increase discontent with the present regime.

People I have known for 30 years, many of whom still claim the label “conservative,” will no longer speak to me—because I supported Trump, yes, but also because I disagree on trade, war, and the border. They call not just my positions, but me personally, unadulterated evil. I am not an isolated case. There are, as they say, “many such cases.” How are we supposed to have “democracy” when the policies and candidates my side wants and votes for are anathema and can’t be allowed? How are we supposed to live together with the constant demonization from one side against the other blaring 24/7 from the ruling class’s every propaganda organ? Why would we want to?

More to the point: How are we supposed to get through the next two and a half years?

Depends entirely on how we answer a couple of simple questions: Do we intend to prevail? Or will we continue to settle for merely slip-sliding along, scuttling about with our heads carefully ducked down and eyes averted, quietly yielding the battered remnants of our liberty and our self-respect, hoping to escape the notice of the loathsome, brutish Power that seeks only our subjugation and, ultimately, our demise? Do we carry on as cooperative junior partners in our own degradation and abuse, or will we at long last rise up on our hind legs like men and say Enough!

Speaking strictly for myself and absolutely no one else, I see but one feasible way of getting through the next phase of this rapidly escalating conflict more or less intact. Our survival depends on a strategy that might best be expressed in the idiom of attitude and comportment: Boastfully. Aggressively. Obnoxiously, obstreperously, and ruthlessly.

The only way we get through the next two and a half years is NOT to draw in our fangs as we always have, but to bare them as menacingly as we can possibly manage. It should be made abundantly clear to our adversaries that, far from feeling either reluctance or dread at the prospect, our most burning desire has become to sink those fangs deeply into their flesh and sinew—to rend, tear, and gnash at them until we are bathed head to toe in their very life’s blood.

Figuratively speaking, of course. No need to close bodily with the filthy swine when we have such a wealth of projectile weapons at our disposal, right?

Henceforth, no more mincing about on tiptoe; from now on, we swagger. Speak softly? Whatever the hell for, when there are so many big sticks for us to swing at their empty skulls just lying around? Be it hereby resolved: As of today, we no longer ASK, nicely or any other wise. We TELL, in no uncertain terms.

Anton asks “why would we want to” live cheek by jowl with our tormentors? Frankly, we don’t. Nor should we. That’s no more than right, meet, and just. They don’t like us, they don’t respect us, they don’t “get” us. Fine and well, so stipulated, whatevs. Now understand me, and understand me well: we are under no obligation to care whether they do or do not. At this time, in this place, our sole obligation, our sole allegiance, is to ourselves and our posterity. Respect us, like us? Pish tosh. Let them fear us. T’is enough, t’will serve.

The excerpt above is from another most excellent Michael Anton piece, of which you will surely want to read the all.

The Silent Service

Posted on July 31, 2022 by Mike

Can’t remember where I ran across this one, but it’s truly fascinating stuff.

Nukes, Nubs And Coners: The Unique Social Hierarchy Aboard A Nuclear Submarine
Getting assigned to your first sub doesn’t make you a submariner and once you become one you’ll find yourself in a social structure unlike any other.

Living in a machine with over 100 sailors requires a person to be flexible socially and sometimes physically. I spent two decades on United States Navy submarines performing sonar duties among eccentric personalities in incredibly stressful situations. When sailors report to their first submarine, they are joining a work culture unlike any other. Surrounded by crew members busily moving about tight spaces and narrow walkways, announcements over the circuit boxes, roving watchstanders, equipment humming to 400hz fans, it can be anxiety-inducing to any sailor.

That is why every new crewmember starts as a NUB. But, if they work hard and learn the systems, they will earn their dolphins and become a member of another entirely unique subculture within the grander social hierarchy that exists within the confines of the submerged tube they call home for months on end.

Here’s is what is expected of a new crew member and a bit about the various ‘unique’ groups of people aboard the submarine, one of which the NUB will find themselves an integral part of once they get minted a submariner.

The NUB
A new crewmember is a Non-Useful Body, or NUB. He or she uses our limited supply of space, water, food, and oxygen. They are not welcome, but BUPERS (Bureau of Personnel) keeps sending them. The NUB is easily identifiable as he will be the only crewman wearing a command ball cap with the ship’s name and no Dolphins symbol on the front. They have their qualification card in their rear pocket at all times and had better have a small notebook in their hand for studying. They do not have movie privileges unless they are a “Hot Runner.” Hot Runner refers to a torpedo self-starting despite the fact it hasn’t been launched yet. Very dangerous, but Submariners like that kind of initiative in the NUB.

Everyone, officer or enlisted, is a NUB when they report to their first submarine. They are treated with contempt. In the case of the officer, it’s respectful contempt, sir. The NUB is expected to qualify in submarines within 12 months. This can be extended a few months if there are outside circumstances that delay qualification opportunities.

Qualification on a U.S. submarine is a formal process completed in phases. The first phase introduces all the major systems around the boat. This orientation phase is purposefully designed to ease the NUB through the culture shock of living inside a machine the Navy sends to submerge in the ocean for weeks on end. This introduces the NUB to their fellow crewman, one watch station at a time. This first impression will affect how difficult their qualification path is because the crew decides if you are to become a submariner or not. They must earn their confidence. They must prove that they can perform emergency actions without direction and with confidence during a ‘casualty,’ when something goes wrong.

Phase two of submarine qualification is the most difficult. It requires detailed knowledge of every system on the boat, from the nuclear powerplant, to ventilation, to electrical and hydraulic systems, to simple atmosphere scrubbing and gravity drains. The Non-Useful Body must memorize every system, be able to draw it from memory on command, and know the initial actions they must perform if a causality occurs to that system. Even if it’s not their assigned equipment, they must know how to prevent a failure from cascading into a major casualty that could be catastrophic for the boat.

Phase three of submarine qualification is the most physically demanding. This is the walkthrough phase. The NUB will walk through every level of every compartment one at a time with a qualified crewman. During this tour, they may be dressed in full protective gear like a Fire Fighting Equipment (FFE) asbestos bodysuit and wearing breathing protection. This physical discomfort compounded with an oral interview answering detailed system-specific operational questions simulates a small, but important amount of stress compared to what they would endure during a real casualty situation.

I’ve known a handful of submariners over the years, including a good friend who served on the USS Houston on her maiden cruise. Even those who serve on them all agree that it takes a VERY special kind of man to deal with the unique pressures of life on a submarine without going bugfuck nuts, an assertion with which I shall not quibble.

For anybody interested in reading further on the subject, I can’t recommend David Black’s Harry Gilmour series of novels highly enough. Of all the military fiction (and nonfiction, for that matter) I’ve read and reread over lo, these many years, the Gilmour books stand at the very top of the heap. Set on a British sub during WW2, all of them are meticulously researched and masterfully written: the characters are realistic, the relationships and conflicts between them all eminently believable; the action sequences are gripping and suspenseful; the plots and subplots are intricate and artfully developed. In fact, the only complaint I’ve ever had with the Gilmour novels is that there are only six of the danged things, which is nowhere near enough if you ask me.

SOS

Posted on July 31, 2022August 1, 2022 by Mike

Big news? Big yawn.

Exclusive-Former Republicans and Democrats Form New Third U.S. Political Party
LOS ANGELES (Reuters) -Dozens of former Republican and Democratic officials announced on Wednesday a new national political third party to appeal to millions of voters they say are dismayed with what they see as America’s dysfunctional two-party system.

The new party, called Forward and whose creation was first reported by Reuters, will initially be co-chaired by former Democratic presidential candidate Andrew Yang and Christine Todd Whitman, the former Republican governor of New Jersey. They hope the party will become a viable alternative to the Republican and Democratic parties that dominate U.S. politics, founding members told Reuters.

The new party is being formed by a merger of three political groups that have emerged in recent years as a reaction to America’s increasingly polarized and gridlocked political system. The leaders cited a Gallup poll last year showing a record two-thirds of Americans believe a third party is needed.

I agree wholeheartedly, an alternative to the tatterdemalion Uniparty charade IS needed, and quite badly. Alas, this ain’t it.

The merger involves the Renew America Movement, formed in 2021 by dozens of former officials in the Republican administrations of Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, George W. Bush and Donald Trump; the Forward Party, founded by Yang, who left the Democratic Party in 2021 and became an independent; and the Serve America Movement, a group of Democrats, Republicans and independents whose executive director is former Republican congressman David Jolly.

See what I mean? The same old hacks pulling the same old strings; the same old influencers, gladhanders, logrollers, and backstabbers, running the same old scams and shams—not much inspiring, encouraging, or new here, not as far as these eyes can see. My God, even the names are the same.

As I’ve so often said of Biden: if these career political operators really DO know how to fix what needs fixing, and really DO want to see it fixed, then why on earth haven’t they jumped in and done so at any point over the many decades they’ve been content to soak up the graft, peddle the influence, and loll lazily about in the reassuringly tepid waters of the DC swamp? What the bleedin’ hell have they been waiting for all this time, anyway?

But hey, I’m willing to be fair about this. Let’s give them the benefit of assuming they really are sincere about what they’re saying and do them the courtesy of having a look at their program before we just dismiss them out of hand as peddlers of the same old shinola, shall we?

Two pillars of the new party’s platform are to “reinvigorate a fair, flourishing economy” and to “give Americans more choices in elections, more confidence in a government that works, and more say in our future.”

The party, which is centrist, has no specific policies yet. It will say at its Thursday launch: “How will we solve the big issues facing America? Not Left. Not Right. Forward.”

Well, hey, that’s certainly a bold, innovative agenda you fellas have come up with, I must say! Nothing vague, evasive, or slippery about any of that, nosiree BOB! In fact, with the right dressing on top, that there might actually be the crispest, most flavorful word-salad ever plated up. Get ready to CHOW DOWN, American voterpersonages!!!

“Centrist,” he says. “FORWARD,” no less. Le sigh.

Another person involved in the creation of Forward, Miles Taylor – a former Homeland Security official in the Trump administration – said the idea was to give voters “a viable, credible national third party.”

Taylor acknowledged that third parties had failed in the past, but said: “The fundamentals have changed. When other third party movements have emerged in the past it’s largely been inside a system where the American people aren’t asking for an alternative. The difference here is we are seeing an historic number of Americans saying they want one.”

Oh, trust me, we do, we do. Problem is, it’s an alternative to YOU FUCKING PEOPLE that we’re all in search of here, not just the same old shit on a fancy new shingle you’re putting out.

Another somewhat amusing aspect to this shit-a-palooza: if you Duck Duck Go-search on the article’s title entire, you might notice that pretty much EVERY news outlet extant includes that screaming “Exclusive” claim, from Yahoo to MSN to Reuters to…well, all of ’em. Apparently, words no longer mean anydamnedthing at all these days. EXCLUSIVE PRO TIP: when everybody and his sister’s cat’s grandmother runs the exact same article, it is definitionally incorrect to boast that what you have is in any meaningful sense “exclusive.”

One would hope that people who make a living as purveyors of the written word might know better. One would be doomed to disappointment.

Neat neat neat!

Posted on July 31, 2022August 1, 2022 by Mike

So a good friend put me onto this teewee channel I didn’t know about before, not having even turned the danged thing on in about three years or so: Tubi, which has a damned near miraculous cornucopia of documentaries chronicling the rise of the first-wave punk rock bands of the late 70s. Now, I’m finding it impossible to turn the dang thing off.

For those not previously into this sort of thing, that’s one of my all-time faves, a Brit punk outfit yclept the Damned, slashing ‘n’ burning their way through one of their classic tunes*, “New Rose.” Their Tubi doc is called The Damned—Don’t You Wish That We Were Dead, and it is filled to brimming with some mighty toothsome stuff.

There’s a crap-ton of these things available on the Tubi channel, featuring bands from the Ramones to the Dead Boys to Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers to…well, you name it, they got it, pretty much. Here’s a latter-day version of “Neat Neat Neat” from 2009. See if that bassist doesn’t look a mite familiar to ya’s.

Yeppers, that there would indeed be the god-like Lemmy Kilmister, who stepped in to tour and record with the Damned for a spell after OG (Original Guitarist) Brian James had left the band and Captain Sensible had moved over from bass to guitar. As much as I’ve always loved the Damned, from back in 77 up until right this very minute, I never knew that Lemmy had filled in with ’em as bassist, a tidbit I gleaned from the documentary.

An additional nugget of fascinating Damned lore: the original-original guitarist (well, kinda-sorta) was Chrissie Hynde, who would go on to great fame with a little combo called the Pretenders. According to Ms Hynde herself, she had three rehearsals with the embryonic punk icons, after which “they never got back in touch with me, I don’t know why.” Ahh, but I do: not to put TOO fine a point on it, but Chrissie never was anything much to brag about as a lead guitarist; after the band had gotten James into the slot—who IS a good lead git-fiddlist, and very much so—the lads had no real use for Miss Hynde anymore.

A pretty comprehensive record of the Damned’s long and storied career is perusable here; it reads like a who’s-who of OG punk rockers from the UK, and encompasses pretty much the whole history of first-wave punkdom across the Pond.

Another Tubi documentary I’m very much looking forward to viewing covers one Stiv Bators and his band, the forever-notorious Dead Boys. These guys are another of my perennial faves; they actually played the old Milestone Club in Charlotte in, oh, 79 or thereabouts, maybe? To my undying regret, I missed that show thanks to what felt to me at the time as if it might turn out to be a fatal case of the Green Apple Strut, dammit.

I later heard that Bators had indeed performed one of his signature stage moves that night: he would wind his way-long mic cable around his neck three or four times, toss the rest up over a beam or rafter or whatever else was handy and looked to be sturdy enough to bear his weight (which couldn’t have been much more than a buck-twenty or so, the skinny little git), then pull up the slack until he was literally hanging himself by the neck from the ceiling several feet off the stage. Which, with the creaky, decrepit old Milestone, was an act of profoundest faith, believe you me.

Tragically, Bators died in 1990 after being clobbered by an errant taxicab in the streets of Paris. Somewhere around here I should still have a photo I clipped from Creem or Circus or some other one of several 70s rock and roll mags I devoured as sustenance for the soul back in my wayward youth, featuring Bators with his pre-Dead Boys band: a Mark 1-Mod 0 Longhair, Boots, ‘n’ Spandex agglomeration hailing from Stiv’s own home-base of Cleveland, calling themselves Frankenstein. As a preview of what was coming, that pic was about as off as off can possibly get. My own sudden artistic swerve from the comparatively sedate metal/hard-rock byway and into the punk fast-lane was every bit as aggressive and extreme as Stiv’s was.

Here’s a blast of some typical Dead Boys mayhem, from 1977 at the hallowed CBGBs.

Those were the days, my friends.

* NOTE: I originally had an early live clip of “Neat Neat Neat” in this space, but decided to swap it out for “New Rose” since I definitely wanted to include the “Neat Neat Neat” with Lemmy in it, and didn’t see the point of having two versions of the same dang song up there.

This land ain’t your land, this land ain’t my land

Posted on July 28, 2022July 28, 2022 by Mike

This town state region country just ain’t big enough for the both of us.

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

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

Even at the dive bar it’s purple hair and tattoos. Baseball on the TVs. The only cowboy hats ironic. Not even a biker left. Alexander Skaarsgaard in another third wave coffeeshop talking loudly in Swedish. A girl in Yeezies and a Prada purse window shops Twig and Whistle, her tall, impossible-jawline panama-hat boyfriend crinkles his tan crows-feet and attempts a Reaganite howdy.

Before, all this could be excused as the seasonal cycle of a ski town. The point is skiing, not culture, so who cares if the localism is real or the mask at the end of a proboscis tube feeding back to international banks. But that’s the old cycle, the old class, the old morality. Now, ski towns are town towns. People stay in Big Sky year round. The occupational class flees the city. I mean why not, honey? We can ski in the winter and just, like, chill in the Summer. It’s getting bad around here. We love hiking…why not just live in nature all the time?

So now in July the one lane road from Bozeman to Big Sky looks like Los Feliz Boulevard at 3pm on a Friday. Plus pebble torpedoes.

26 minutes away, Three Forks, Montana. Sick with a different disease. If Bozeman has parasites, Three Forks has dysentery. 2,000 impoverished white people play host to stragglers who’ve fallen like expensive pebbles over the edge from Bozeman. A beaten down main street, a few residential blocks and an electron cloud of mobile homes and trailers with kids playing out back and parents drinking out front.

You’ve seen the amount of Trump flags that supporters put on boats and cars; these aren’t the mild mannered conservatives of yore. Their propaganda yells, shrieks something that the other side refuses to hear. In Three Forks, every vehicle is a pickup truck and in every truck bed a hostile dog and on every bumper a hostile statement. “My Carbon Footprint is Bigger than Yours” “Proud to be Everything a Liberal Hates.” “Welcome to Montana, Now Go Home.” “We the People.”

But this is a new thing. Montana has always been the site of land battles—but these warring factions are brand new. The Washington Post presents the risk as one-sided—that angry Trumpists are going to soon resort to violence because, well, that’s what they do when the modern world comes knocking. The media doesn’t notice that Trump flags are being raised in reaction to the rainbow ones, not in spite of them. The anger bubbling up from Three Forks isn’t happening because Montanans, left alone for decades, somehow developed into anachronistic bigots unready for the modern world. It’s happening because Montanans got their sh*t taken. They were intentionally shoved out, left behind. Their music, their signs, their cars, their language—they’re all born from a fresh wound.

Private equity fears nativism because nativism equals economic protectionism—no free access to markets, no distant ownership of local assets, no importation of cheap labor. Blood is thicker than water, and private equity is terrified of relationships it can’t buy. This is why it posts Live Local! on its LoMo buildings and serves frozen versions of authentic Montana cuisine. It needs to placate people just long enough to take over the land, hollow out the existing culture, and replace it with a replica that siphons the locals’ milkshake back to itself.

Private equity knows that the bourgeoisie is reliably distracted by rainbows. To them, the rainbow represents tolerance, and tolerance (of everyone besides 100 million Trump supporters) must be exported everywhere. So, hand in hand, the bourgeoisie and private equity raise the rainbow flag over Montana. The new underclass shouts back. Buys another pickup. Tacks on another Trump flag. Digs in. The bourgeoisie gets more triggered, hunkers down, more rainbows, more Washington Post articles. Back and forth until it feels like we’re one mistake away from all those pickup trucks becoming the war machines of an American Taliban.

The media doesn’t warn us about a civil war in San Francisco or Seattle, even though downtown Seattle was occupied for two months by insurrectionists not two years ago. That’s because the bourgeoisie/private equity tag team is secure in its ownership of the cities—the new underclass isn’t a threat. No, they warn of civil war in places where there’s still land to win. And there’s no better land than Montana’s.

Plus, they figure they won the war in SF and Seattle a long, long time ago. Sadly for the rest of us, their victory all too soon began to taste of ashes in their mouths, no longer sweet but sour and bitter both at once. In addition, those former prospective Utopias they conquered and rearranged to their own liking inexplicably turned into squalid shitholes no longer fit for human habitation. So the marauding shitlib hordes have decided that those benighted lands wherein the primitive, uncouth Deplorables choose to dwell might benefit greatly from a few lessons from their more highly-evolved selves in how a diversity-centric, obedient, sustainable lifestyle is properly conducted.

They’re deadly serious about this ongoing project of theirs, and fully intend to get it done. Don’t even try to kid yourself they won’t, or can’t; the list of once-pleasant American hometowns that they’ve infested, warped, and ruined is extremely long, with more place-names being added every day. As in so many other contexts, our own complacency and/or reluctance to face facts honestly is the chink in American armor—a weakness they’ve become quite adept at exploiting to the fullest, having accumulated a great body of experience in it how to do it.

(Via WRSA)

Manatees need abortions too!

Posted on July 27, 2022July 27, 2022 by Mike

It’s always amused me no end how the most overwrought fanatics screaming themselves purple in support of “a woman’s right to choose” to murder her unborn (well, usually) child always seem to look like what you’d end up with if you shaved a morbidly obese goat’s ass and taught it to walk backwards. Same with the lumbering Wide Loads who are forever threatening to “go on strike” sexually until they get whatever the hell it is they’re demanding—OR ELSE!!!—this week.

I’m pleased to report that I am by no means the only one to notice that those most pissed off about the Roe misfeasance being corrected are the same blubberskites who couldn’t get laid in a Tijuana whorehouse on a Saturday night if they were handing out free candy, cervezas, and hundred-dollar bills as incentives, and therefore have absolutely NO chance of getting preggers by any method that doesn’t involve test tubes, lab techs, and an anonymous sperm donor wanking into a little cup.

PENSACOLA, Fla. — Northwest Florida Congressman Matt Gaetz on Monday stood by controversial comments he made this past weekend regarding female abortion rights protesters.

On Saturday, Gaetz spoke to college students at the Turning Point USA Student Action Summit in Tampa, saying women protesting abortion access are less likely to get pregnant because they aren’t attractive.

“Why is it that the women with the least likelihood of getting pregnant are the ones most worried about having abortions?” Gaetz said. “Nobody wants to impregnate you if you look like a thumb.”

“These people are odious on the inside and out,” Gaetz said Saturday at the summit. “They’re like 5’2, 350 pounds and they’re like, ‘Give me my abortions or I’ll get up and march and protest.’ And I’m thinking, ‘March? You look like you got ankles weaker than the legal reasoning behind Roe vs Wade.’ A few of them need to get up and march. They need to get up and march for like an hour a day, swing those arms, get the blood pumping, maybe mix in a salad.”

A local teewee news crew tried to trip Gaetz up over his refreshingly candid way of putting into words something plenty of us were thinking already, to no avail whatsoever.

He gave this explanation when asked about Saturday’s comments:

I’m very pro-life and I make no apology for it. I’m grateful that Roe has been overturned and that Dobbs is now the jurisprudence on abortion. I find these people that go out in these pro-abortion, pro-murder rallies odious — and just, like, ugly on the inside and out. I make no apology for it. I don’t believe that every person who disagrees with my perspective on life is an ugly person. But the ones that are out there protesting and marching on Justice [Brett] Kavanaugh’s home, trying to threaten the court, trying to impose a ‘night of rage’ on our nation’s Capitol — which us what they advertised — that’s just pure ugliness. I see that ugliness on the inside, I see it on the outside. Even in the horrible circumstance where an abortion may happen, it is nothing to celebrate and it is nothing to cheer.

Channel 3 then asked Gaetz two follow-up questions:

Channel 3: Is it safe to say that, based off your comments, you’re suggesting that these women at these abortion rallies are ugly and overweight?

Gaetz: “Yes”

Channel 3: What do you say to people who think those comments are offensive?

Gaetz: “Be offended.”

DeSantis, his spokesbadass Christina Pushaw, and now this? I’m beginning to think it’s something in the water down there, maybe. Oh, and speaking of Ms Pushaw.

Florida Republicans fired a shot across the bow at corporate media Saturday by limiting access to an event and when the so-called journalists who were barred entry demonstrated what it means to be a snowflake, Gov. Ron DeSantis’ (R-FL) spokeswoman Christina Pushaw channeled her best Jen Psaki in response.

The Sunshine Summit took place Saturday at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Hollywood, Fla., where, in addition to hearing from conservative voices like James Golden, Josh Hammer and Clay Travis, attendees observed congressional debates moderated by Mark Levin. In a surprise move, DeSantis joined Levin in moderating, but the biggest surprise was handed to reporters when they discovered America’s governor had made the event invite only.

“It has come to my attention that some liberal media activists are mad because they aren’t allowed into #SunshineSummit this weekend,” Pushaw wrote. “My message to them is to try crying about it. Then go to kickboxing and have a margarita. And write the same hit piece you were gonna write anyway.”

The jab was a callback to a remark from then-White House press secretary Jen Psaki who had offered up her advice to Democrats unhappy that their agenda wasn’t advancing through Congress while appearing on “The View.” “My advice to everyone out there who is frustrated, sad, angry, p*ssed off, feel those emotions, go to a kickboxing class, have a margarita, do whatever you need to do this weekend, and then wake up on Monday morning, we’ve got to keep fighting.”

DeSantis had previously mocked the White House over this with a message of his own saying, “Having a margarita is well and good, but it is not a cure for Bidenflation.”

As you’d expect, State Media “journalists” immediately started rolling around on the floor kicking and screaming, waving their chubby little fists around, and threatening to hold their breath until they turned blue over having their unalienable “right” to excrete another pantload of propaganda shorted out by the wily and ever-astute DeSantis, who as always wasn’t having any of their usual shite. Comely Christina (and she is, actually, which only makes matters worse for the H8rz™), for her part, just kept on dumping more buckets of Florida sea-salt into the indignant shitlib scribblers’ wounds.

In fact, Pushaw delighted in the tantrums as she took to Twitter again later on Saturday to point out how one “journalist” had “created a nine-tweet thread to explain how mad he is.”

“They’re still going…Liberal media in Florida doomed itself to irrelevance because these ‘journalists’ make every story about themselves & their delusions of persecution,” she wrote. “People don’t want to read your hand-wringing. It’s not news. Nor is the 500th hit piece on Gov. DeSantis.”

Nope, t’ain’t. I still do hope and pray he doesn’t do it, but if Ron the Great does run for Prexy in ’24, he oughta name Pushaw as his Veep. Hell, I’d almost consider turning out to vote for THAT ticket myself, which is really saying something.

CF Search

Login, RSS, &c

CF Archives

Categories

2A/Mostly Guns

Alt-American

Big Dogs

Essayists

Mil

Nuttin’ But News

Odds Bodkins

Overseas/Non-US

Portals

Pure Bloggery

REAL Journalism

Substack Scalawags

The Funny Pages

Comments policy

CF Glossary

Subscribe to CF!

Shameless begging

Correspondence

Allied territory

Notable Quotes

RSS feed

.