November 25, 2011

Thanks, Smokey!

Yes, I posted this on Facebook. And yes, this is hilarious.

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November 15, 2011

I've Got a Feeling

The feeling I got is I'd like to get my hands on Lennon's Epiphone Casino for a few moments. Sure, Epiphone makes a replica now, but to touch that bastard, why, that would be rich indeed.

McCartney's Hofner? Don't get me started. My hand is already in my pants.

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Charles Pierce at Grantland, a normally quite awesome sports site at ESPN, waxes eloquent on why the Penn State scandal was profit-motivated, not institutional-protection motivated. He thinks this sort of behavior would have been tolerated in a corporate boardroom, apparently.

Nick Gillespie takes him to the woodshed.

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John Lewis Gaddis has written a new biography of George F. Kennan which I eagerly anticipate from Amazon. Kennan was the rather low-level State Department functionary who, as ambassador to the USSR in 1947, outlined our Cold War strategy of Containment first in the so-called Long Telegraph from Moscow, then in an anomymous missive in Foreign Affairs known as the X Article.

I used to plunder a wonderful old bookstore in Virginia-Highlands when I lived in Atlanta. Around 1980 I ran across the first volume of Kennan's autobiography. I'd never heard of the guy. What a read.

The Long Telegraph was in response to a State Department query along the lines of, "Aren't the Soviets quite happy sharing the world with us?" Kennan's response was, essentially, "Are you fucking crazy?" He posited it was an ideological struggle with religious overtones. They expected world domination, and were quite prepared to achieve it. His remarks were eventually fed back to the Kremlin, and he was asked to leave. The only American ambassador ever to be declared persona non grata by the Soviets.

The X Article was a policy thing. Kennan was quite fearful of nuclear Armageddon, and therefore detailed a policy of "containing" the Soviets whenever and wherever they exhibited expansionist tendencies, up to and including military action, covert and overt.

Truman bought into containment, but Kennan was then appalled when containment morphed into appeasement. He gets a bad rap now for containment, but his idea was to engage in small hot wars where applicable, funding resistance and unrest, that sort of thing. I believe selected assassinations would have passed his muster.

At any rate, I am told Gaddis's book is the definitive Kennan tome, and a wonderful read. As an aside, Kennan died in 2005 at the age of 101. He was railing at that point against the Hispanization of America, and the dire consequences resulting from that failure to assimilate. So that's kind of a cool footnote.

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November 14, 2011

How The One Percent Operates

Here's how it works. My local supermarket is a Kroger, isolated by at least three miles on the nearest side by a competitor supermarket. It is fed by two markets: the ultra-rich at the Landings at Skidaway Island and my island, Burnside, a more middle-class enclave, and our close neighbors, the blacks at Pinpoint and Montgomery (whom we have always gotten along famously with), and the insanely large number of illegal Hispanics in the vast trailer park next to door to the Kroger. It's a diverse community, and Clarence Thomas is from Pinpoint, so there's my threat of beatdown if you piss on my community.

The problem is, I watch Hispanics and Negroes stealing massively from this store. All of the clerks are African-American, so all those thefts go out the front door, around the scanner. All the Hispanic thefts go out the back door, into pickup trucks. Watch it all the time.

The greatest problem is management has decided the producer will pay for this loss. I continually find scans that do not produce the advertised markdown, strange things. Nothing ever breaks in my direction. Now we are used to that systemically, because grocers are greedy with their 3% profit margins, we tell ourselves, but it is to cover the theft, which drives prices up to 5%. The usual grocery graft has almost trebled.

You, we, producers, pay. The rest? Fuck them. Living large off you.

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And So Newt Rises to Godhead

A salamandric godhead, to be sure, and one whose predecessors only enjoyed weeks, if not days, of godheadedness. But I shall award him the godhead award this week.

Few perhaps were as vehement as I have been about Newt in the past. But let's face it: it wasn't personal. At least on my part. It was personal on Newt's part.

Newt's a brilliant guy, levels upon levels above his competition, but he has always found himself grounded upon the treacherous shoals of his own rancid personality. He's just not a likeable guy, really. Like many history professors he is pedantic, a bit scolding, and a bit of a know-it-all. And as Speaker of the House he found himself in situation after situation where the personably brillliant Clinton led him around by his nose with a hot poker, like St. Dunstan scourging the Devil.

But Newt has fought his way back. Into estimation, at any rate. His competition for the most part is not hard to beat intellectually, but they are all better looking than him, and more approachable and telegenic. Hell, for five dollars I'll take Jon Huntsman into the Penn State showers. But only to show him what he missed.

Newt's a Brainiac. But he is also a pissy fellow. Americans generally want someone they can find to be beloved, even if they do not yet feel that. Ask Reagan. Ask Clinton. Better yet, ask Tom Dewey. Newt is the Dewey of the race: we love you on paper, son, but we cain't emotionally grab aholda ya. Also known as the Goldwater Complex.

We shall see. My own predictable course is Romney, who will surprise conservatives and pick a good solid conservative as VP to bolster his credentials, which I can live with. Because the alternative is unspeakable.

And that's the other place Gingrich would falter. He wouldn't need the conservative credential, and so would choose a Curtis LeMay, or James Stockdale, or David Petraeus. Wonderful, honorable men, but burned out generals, unfit for the seamy valleys of politics.

I wish old Newt the best. I personally love him. But this ain't beanbag.

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November 9, 2011

Joe Paterno Fired

An ignominious end to a rather storied career. But JoePa was not Penn State. He was just a convenient winning face for it for years. A fund-raising fool.

We all think we would do the right thing in moments of moral conflict. Sometimes we fail. But I can say one thing: if an employee ever came to me and said he saw an ex-employee I had given carte-blanche to my facilities buggering a 10-year-old boy in my goddamned showers, I would not have dropped that tidbit in my boss's in-basket, then whistled past the graveyard. I would have called the fucking cops.

You ALWAYS call the cops in these instances. Always. Not to cover your ass. To stop it.

In a cruel aside, I suppose this means Bear Bryant is actually the greater coach. As I always knew.

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November 8, 2011

Who Killed Michael Jackson?

Michael Jackson did.

Puddyhead had the best comment in deploring the Conrad Murray verdict: who kills their cash cow? You don't pluck the golden goose for Thanksgiving dinner.

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Smokin' Joe

I was saddened to hear of the death of Joe Frazier. He was something of a local hero in these parts, being from up the road in Beaufort.


Ali can never be forgiven for portraying Frazier as an Uncle Tom, a house nigger, leading up to their bouts. Not after everything Frazier did to help Ali regain his boxing status after his prison term for draft resistance. Joe Frazier was a gentleman, and a legend. And one hard-hitting sumbitch.

As an aside, what Louisville crackers came up with the brilliant idea of drafting Ali in the first place? He wasn't some 18-year-old in the ghetto. He was the 25-year-old heavyweight champion of the world. Most people in that position get a pass on universal conscription. Maybe a gig in the USO.

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November 7, 2011

Herman Cain, Bagged


This is one of the many, many reasons I have never run for public office.

The others involving pampering, drug abuse, and the theft of sacred objects.

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November 5, 2011

Zimbabwean Women Raped Men to Collect Their Semen

I can't make this up.

And I find the idea of someone collecting my precious fluids for ritual experimentation both repulsive, and compelling. They were named Rosemary, Sophie, and Netsai. So that's pretty hot. Channeling my inner Mandingo.

Tied down and jacked off is no way to go through life, boy. Or is it?

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The National Championship

Will be played today. LSU versus Alabama. Any other game to be played in the future is superfluous.

I must confess a bit of love for Bama. When I was in college in New England, they were the only Southern pride I could maintain against the Penn State, Pitt, and Notre Dame fanatics I was forced to share close harbor with. Papist bastards, they. But good people, even if misderived.

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November 4, 2011


I cooked this awesome pot roast in my crack pot, crock pot, whatever. It's like two days old now, I think. Maybe one day old. Still tasty, but at some point I need to throw the remainders out, lest I die from food poisoning.

Been listening to a lot of Pink Floyd lately, which accounts for my inability to date this meat. I think it's only a day old. If it is two days old I will present as an armadillo, tits up. Still tastes pretty sturdy, though. Shine on, you crazy diamond.

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Wild Horses

I hate to give Jagger too much credit for anything, but this is a wonderful song.

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The Big Scam

Corzine and MF Global are mere molecules on the big picture. The Big Scam. Capitalism only works when there is a bond of trust. Do you trust your bank? Do you trust the administrators of your 401(k)?

Main Street no longer trusts Wall Street. And for good reason. Most conservatives, myself included, don't mind a bit of systemic greed. It feeds production. It makes the wheels go round in a natural order.

But when the system changes, when it is no longer about production, creativity, worth, then it becomes a system of creating wealth out of damage. Currency speculation does not accumulate wealth out of the production of services or products. It accumulates out of the damage to another nation's currency. Likewise foisting off underleveraged mortgages onto other entities is short-term gain, but at the expense of one's creditors. You. And me.

This callous abuse of the capitalist system is fodder to the Marxist idiots now prevailing upon us to clean up their literal shit, so that they may play Anarchist once again tomorrow.

The old robber barons learned their lesson. It actually got shoved up their asses via trade unions. The new elite? They don't get it. They all contributed to Obama, who protects them as if they were endangered delta smelt.

The smart rich man shares the wealth, via stock options, extra vacation, whatever. These new pukes do not, and they are reaping the harvest of disgruntled morons, lounging in parks.

People are going to die. Once Europe collapses we will, too. People are going to die. And yet, we continue to spend monies beyond our intake, as if this is a fucking birthday party, and we get to wear our tiara.

One might call me a pessimist.

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November 3, 2011

Fail Safe

When I was about eight years old the Senator gave me his copy of Fail Safe. "Read this, boy," he admonished me. As sentient creatures know, it is the story of a bomber carrying a thermonuclear device which, due to communication breakdown, cannot be recalled as it heads to the Soviet Union to drop its bomb.

Terrifying stuff. Especially at eight years old.

We are unfortunately now at Fail Safe. The Europeans will melt down in the next four weeks, and we shall follow. Do you think the last two years sucked? Wait until you see the next two.

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Here is a nice picture from my daughter's wedding:


Why am I the only person not looking at the camera?

Because I am retarded, folks. A living, mouth-breathing retard. If you have a better answer, please share. But I'm pretty sure 'retard' will be your ultimate answer. The other word you are searching for is 'drunkard.' But I was actually pretty sober here. Two glasses of merlot, tops.

But isn't she a lovely bride? And, actually, isn't that a poor quality shot? Who took that?

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Shinny, and Lord Calvert

Puddyhead and I share remembrances now and again of Shinny. He was a wiry negro who lived in Montgomery when I was in high school. He lived on Burnside Island near Puddyhead.

Shinny would walk the two miles to the Senator's liquor store every day for his pint of Kessler blended. As he approached the store all the other black folk, nursing their own Kessler pints, would scatter like coachroaches, for they feared him.

Shinny looked like a mocha Lee Van Cleef. Stringy, gaunt, muscular, with Chinese eyes. He was the local gravedigger, and no black folk were buried in Montgomery without Shinny digging the grave.

What I did not know until recently was that Shinny worked for Lord Calvert on Burnside Island. Lord Calvert was a mutual friend's father. Puddyhead pulled crab traps for him when he was 14, 15 years old. The Lord had a very nice spread on deep salt water, but spent all his days curled up in the fetal position in his bed, clutching a bottle of Lord Calvert booze.

Lord Calvert's place was large enough to sport a hobby garden of sorts, of about a half acre. At the corner of the property he had built a crude lean-to shed, where Shinny lived. Shinny's job was to maintain the garden, which meant that he would literally harness himself in leather strops, and pull a plow through the garden to till the soil. Like one would do with a mule, only Shinny was the mule. Half an acre. Why he was so wiry. While Lord Calvert slept upstairs on Irish linen, clutching his bottle as the infant clasps the bot-bot, Shinny would plow his acreage. When the laboring was done he would walk to the Senator's liquor store with his greasy four dollars in wages, and buy his Kessler.

I recall Shinny having a girlfriend out of town. Pembroke, or Claxton. He would visit her from time to time when the acreage did not need tending. Oncet, someone in the community died while Shinny was afield visiting his girlfriend, and the folk were beside themselves. The Montgomery people did not believe in embalming. It polluted the corpus. They buried the next day. But no one could find Shinny, nor would anyone dare dig the grave themselves.

Shinny eventually showed up on day three or four, in his ubiquitous overhauls, and dug that grave. The social compact was preserved.

Shinny is most certainly dead by now. I must find his final resting place. That would be a wonderful place to pull out a pint of Kessler, and toast an original. That man was a hoss.

Did I mention Clarence Thomas grew up here? I guarantee he knew Shinny.

Southern Gothic. Where would we be without it?

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November 2, 2011

Lest Ye Think Me a Monster...

Once in a while I share a bits with you. Here is a picture of my elder daughter at her wedding, with her groom, being brought up short by my younger daughter. A roast, if you will:



Now. Never ask me to share again.

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The Human Centipede

How did I miss this flick? Probably because no one in this town would book it.

The plot is simple: a mad doctor kidnaps three people (2 girls and some Asian boy) and surgically fuses their lips to the other's anuses, creating a "human centipede." Then apparently tries to train them to act in unison.



I'll admit I have a rather sick oeuvre, but this is disgusting. I haven't been able to sleep for three days since I saw this photograph, and therefore dammit you will not sleep either. Think of it: what the first one digests, the next one eats.

I'm guessing this Dutch filmmaker fibbed a little bit to the venture capitalists funding this thing.

And you know what? This is some kind of metaphor for the collective utopia of the leftist elites.

It's a crazy world. And full of very bad people.

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November 1, 2011

Bending the Cost Curve

And so it begins. The United States Preventive Services Task Force, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Department of Health and Human Services and the Obama administration, has determined that preventative medical screenings are not what they are cracked up to be. That last 30 years of bellowing that x number of lives could be saved if we could just force doctors and insurance companies to early screen for disease? Posh. That early screening could detect cancer and other diseases in the early stages, affording us the unique ability to save countless more lives? Pish posh.

No, the Obamacare minions now find those expensive tests to be superfluous for the vast majority of citizens. Only useful for those designated to be "at risk." Mammogram before 45? Waste of money. PSA tests before 55? You must be kidding.

You want to keep your doctor? Cool. Just bear in mind he will be legally estopped from performing any early diagnostics that might detect a serious problem if you do not fit a certain profile.

Now, part of this is surely an attempt to make Obamacare solvent by bending that fucking cost curve. Setting up the parameters in advance. So we can get used to that lack of care, that National Health mindset, early.

The other component, of course, is what is at the other end of the rope. If you develop a disease that could have been thwarted by early detection through aggressive medical screening? Why, that is a tragedy, sonny boy. Please meet the new deciders of your fate. Your medical review board. Or, as we like to call them, death panels.

The only real way to bend the cost curve is to hasten death upon the front end, and hasten it upon the rear end. And as a person who would be involuntarily classified as a white cracker, I am not sanguine of my own prospects.

Welcome to the New World, kids.

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