Back in the wee days my mother was wont to drop my brother and meself off at the theater downtown to watch a movie of a Saturday, while she and my sisters did whatever people without penises do. Spend someone else's money on clothes, I would suspect. That's okay. It was a compact then. It was alright.
At any rate, there were three theaters in a one block area, so when we were dropped off to see, say, The Sound of Music, we would skedaddle around the block and watch the Three Stooges in The Outlaws is Coming. Far more suitable fare, of course. But you can't tell a mom that.
Once, she dropped us off to see yet another insipid film, Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, I believe (which in retrospect ain't a bad film, and an Ian Fleming tale to boot, but I've always had issues with Dyke Van Dick) and we snuck around the corner yet again to see The Traveling Executioner. A black comedy it was, about a man (Stacy Keach?) who traveled the south in the early 20th century with a portable electric chair. Because everyone wanted to execute people. They just didn't want a hangman living in their midst. Nor he they. And so he would show up at a prison on execution day and commit his deed, and take his hundred dollar compensation.
I must confess I was young, far too young for the Rated-M level of that film to appreciate it. Although that same year I had seen 1933: The Moonshine Wars with my sister, and it had real titties in it. Pink titties. The guy in the movie even called them that. So I was expecting something similar, I suppose. You must remember I'd be viewing my dad's Playboys since I was six, so I felt case-hardened for a bit of the old mamelle cineme.
The point is, the real point is, Hollywood keeps proffering up horrid old plot lines. Old television shows. Comic books. Hey, ladies: you know that guy you're with? The one with two closets of comic books? I grew up on Playboy. Not to brag, but I knew Emmanuelle was going to take it in the keister before she did.
So, why doesn't Hollywood redo The Traveling Executioner? Like all remakes, it would pretend to be a completely new idea. A reboot. We're just stealing the header here, goys.
Even better, I might remake this film myself. The year 1970 sadly thought it had black humor down. Why, Bud Cort's even in that film. Me? I can make it better. Stronger. Like Lee Majors.They never tapped the strength of that traveling executioner story line at all. Nor did they have any pink titties. I'll fix that. I'll fix all of it.
Fancy yourself an investor? There are only a few slots remaining. After that you'll be on the outside, looking in. Like that doggie in the window. Only he was inside, looking out. And hopefully hain't never seen a pink titty. Don't make me
threaten beg you.
Somewhere in America there is a 90-year woman on a farm with a 1968 Dodge Super Bee with the 7.0 liter Hemi engine on blocks in her barn. In mint condition because her late husband cautioned her 35 years ago to assiduously polish it with rooster jism once a month to keep the sheen up. A promise she has kept faithfully. And she is embarrassed to demand $500 from me to take it off her hands, but that nursing home is going to be expensive. Did I mention it was in GY3 Citron Yella?
And in an alternate, but more realistic universe, there is a 90-year-old woman with fifty dollars of egg and butter money in her apron that she obviously doesn't need, but would thoroughly invigorate my day. And, as our president said, "I do think at a certain point you've made enough money." Granny.
Surber announces his retirement.
Actually, I shall miss him greatly.
Two great fictional astronaut names I have always been enamored of: Garrett Breedlove from Terms of Endearment and Maurice Minnifield from Northern Exposure. And while they are at different ends of the cool spectrum, both names are entirely evocative of the fighter jocks that slouched into NASA in 1958, convinced of their huge balls, invulnerability, and general fucking awesomeness.
Likewise, Nicholson's Breedlove exemplifies the hot dog nature of the astronaut, while Corbin's Minnifield testifies to the mad dog slide rule engineering skills most of those fellows simultaneously possessed.
The perfect moniker is tough to find. It's part of what makes fiction writing so difficult. If you can't peg that character with the right name from the outset, the entire narrative is in danger of veering out of control. I am always in awe of a well-crafted name.
Having said that, I've created a character in the new book named Pupgullion. Although what I will do to him, or he to you, remains to be seen. I also see no need for a first name. Like Madonna, I think the nasty will ooze just fine with the one name.
August will see the 32nd anniversary of the creation of the Solidarity trade union in Poland. I doubt the press will ruminate much upon that fact. But that fact is: a humble shipyard electrician in Gdansk, Poland created an anti-communist movement that had 9.5 million members within a year, led to Poland being the first Warsaw Pact puppet regime to declare its independence, and by any measure was the first crippling blow in the fall of the mighty Soviet Integral.
There is an entire generation of Americans who probably have no idea who Lech Walesa is. They certainly don't sing his praises in secondary school, and you are far more likely to run across a Che Guevara tee on some hopheaded hipster than a Solidarność shirt. Now that would be truly revolutionary.
I'm not sure even I told my own children about Lech. They were born just before and after the Implosion, so it must not have been a pressing matter.
Even so, I had a Solidarity tee shirt in 1981, and you can still purchase them. Perhaps that is what the Tea Party needs to morph into. Not a trade union, heaven forfend, but an unyielding barrier of Nyet! to the tyrants controlling our lives. Sort of an NRA, but with pipe wrenches, and tattoos of Polish porn stars or something. Standing outside of state capitols with Taxed Enough Already signs is cool and all, but I'd rather see something a bit more, ah, formidable.
I just might bust my piggy bank open and travel to Gdansk for August 31. Get my picture taken with Walesa. I'm sure they'll be celebrating, even as we do not.
I don't believe any sentient creature denies the concept of natural selection. I would reckon albino grizzlies would thrive in the polar regions, and possibly blossom, just as the wood thrush fell prey to the wonderfully camouflaged red cardinal. It is likewise demonstrable that the pink flamingo flourishes in his native habitat of swampland, no doubt protected by his swell supply of amyl nitrate capsules, and a certain little black bookut I do get fuzzy on the part where giraffes become hippoptamuses. Or the reverse. Please remind me of the direction of that particular evolution.
I would like to invite evolution cultists to a party. I shall supply the fossils of a pig, and a swan. You can then supply the abundant fossil records describing the transition from pig, to swan.
Or I can ease your burden. Just bring the fossil records showing the transition from tiger to cheetah.
What, ho? No bones, then?
I have no idea how the origins of species came about. And neither do any of you. That's why you cannot show me the bones of a flying kitten. I do think the laws of probablilities suggest the random deformation of one species into several million over a billion years is specious math, indeed. God? Natural selection? Intelligent design? We are ants, striving to grasp how the pyramids were made. We don't even know why some turds float, and others sink like stoned witches.
We don't know what we don't know. To presume otherwise is to be, well, a tenured professor, with riches galore. I wish I had thunk of the punctuated equilibrium theory. Man. Genius. There is no fossil record because it always happens at once, man! Like one minute your stash is there, and then it's gone, man!
What I like to refer to as the Hobgoblin Approach to scientific reasoning. If that square peg don't fit in that round hole, just invent a fucking hobgoblin, like punctuated equilibrium.
I really missed out, not basking in academe. The young tits alone. Why, I probably could species-change on demand. Yesterday: Old Goat. Today: Obama Holler Boy, and you girls are making me blush. I'll bet that 92-year-old Pete Seeger gets more ass than me. Day in, day out.
And a righteous God would smite him. Although I may be wrong, and a righteous God will smite me. Or at least turn me into swine, in punctuated fashion.
Huh! Good God, ya'll. What is it good for? Well, humiliating men with large egos, for one.
Of course, I'm told Hitler looked approximately 14 on his wedding day, and, like a Dorian Gray set piece, the more Obama fucks around in Afghanistan and Iraq, the grayer George Bush gets.
I am again missing important things that the United States Postal Service has managed to lose. And for the second month in a row, one of them is my heart medications. Other important documents fail to arrive as well. My bills? Steady like an atomic clock.
It's not easy calling your cardiologist and explaining that the dog that bit the mailman ate your meds. And then the President ate that dog. May I have a gimme round of beta blockers, sir? The last time, a kindly stranger contacted me, and brung my meds around. This time, who knows? Probably tossed in the shitbin by the Section 8 housers down the road.
The last time I accosted my carrier about the failure of the mighty USPS to deliver a simple damned envelope to a known address I was informed that no less than five carriers share this route on a part time basis. How is that possible? How in all that is unholy is that possible? I am sure the official explanation, when I present myself to the Epps Bridge Post Office tomorrow in high dudgeon, is that they are so short-handed they must parcel out certain routes to Ensure Efficient Delivery. The closer truths are either 1) they are paying five rumjacks to cover one route, or 2) 4 out of 5 postal workers call in sick every day, delirious with illicit narcotic aethers.
Would that I were still unemployed. I would erect a small sun-tent of leisure beside my mailbox, there to berate the kleptomaniacs, sharps, drunkards, and opium fiends that populate our national postal carriage system. On a daily basis I would do this. Hell, I might quit my job and go back on unemployment just to make this happen. At least that way I would be giving something back to the community. Something of value, as opposed to the meagre shillings extracted of late from my meagre allottance.
Is allottance a word? No? Fuck it. It is now. I have performed the Stations of the Cross around it, and evected my holy spittle upon it.
Is evected a word? No? Never mind. Spit spit.
Here's the thing: being a postal carrier used to be an honorable profession. Men raised families as an honorable postman. Hell, half my siblings and neighborhood pals called our mailman Daddy. But radicalized union grievance-mongering, and an insane minority entitlement culture, will make a beast of a man. Or woman. As in, men don't usually go chicken-head on you when you call their entitlement bluff. They merely, thankfully, shoot you.
I shall extract my pound of flesh tomorrow at the Epps Bridge post office. My drugs are no doubt lost to the ages, but here's the thing: my new medical plan hasn't kicked in yet, which means that to replace these drugs I will have to establish personal and pecuniary relationships with a new general practitioner and a new cardiologist a month ahead of schedule, out of pocket, and pay for these drugs at the retail rate. Neither are generic. So these little pills are worth at least 1500 dollars, American (or 0 dollars, Canadien) to me.
That $1500 will be realized by me when I calmly explain to these laudanum addicts that Mitt Romney and a Republican Congress are going to fire the lot of them, pillage their pensions, sodomize their pets, and privatize their fiefdom. They'll believe it, too. Hell, they believe Obama's a Lightworker. They'll also believe it when I explain that the new postal carriers will not be UPS or FedEx employees, but 19-year-old white methamphetamine junkies from the Dark Corner region of Oconee County. Then it will be their turn to pop their eyeballs like a D.W. Griffith extra, and spit spit.
Then I shall return to my work desk, eat my turkey sandwich, and pray I have not escalated my next myocardial infarction.
Update, and with caveats: I had no idea when I wrote this thing there was a meme going round about an EPA official laughing about crucifying EPA violators to send a message to others. Just as the Romans did to those flea-bitten Turkmen. I was not playing off that. Crucifixion is a personal thang with me. And, of course, my crucifixee.
And, uh, I want to crucify people for real sins. So there's that.
And, also, for the sake of my progeny, I wish to go on the record as disassociating myself from the advertisement for chickle-based products that proclaims "There's a party in my mouth." I can see that, son. Just don't brag about it in Alabama.
Would Saddam Hussein have allowed Iran to get the Bomb? I think not, especially after Israel had taken out the Iraqis' nuke capabilities at Osirak. Coda: why did Saddam drop SCUDs on Israel in 1991? Peer pressure, mostly, and desperation. But mostly Osirak.
Anyway, it sure would be nice to have a strong-armed bastard in Iraq willing to expend his own country's man meat yet again against the Persians, should they persist. Instead of what we've got now. Which is a fucking mess we are delicately extricating ourselves from.
I know, I know. I am the lone buffalo in the prairie, isolated by his herd. Because I personally feel Saddam Hussein was a fucking awesome, wicked tool of destruction who, if properly motivated, could have given us the Iranian oil fields in 1995. Oil a plenty, no crazed mullahs, no threats to destroy Israel. Fitty cent gas.
Maslow said if the only tool you have is a hammer, to treat everything as if it were a nail. Well, if the only tool I have is a bloodthirsty, whiskey-drinking, secular, Kurd-killing, Persian-hating son of a bitch with two retarded sons with rape issues, I might use that guy. After defenestrating the boys, and striking a deal for the Kurds. Because no one has ever struck a deal for the Kurds.
We worry about the Persian Bomb. And yet we had our Bane, our most craziest son of a bitch right there. And we hanged him. Eh. Fuck it. That's my pitch. And I ain't crying over Saddam. But he would have been a crazy geopolitical chess piece. It just takes someone man enough to play that piece. Unfortunately, at the moment, that is only Putin.
I always liked Don Surber, but this is the most idiotic thing I've heard anyone say in quite a while:
I know. I am Mister Insensitivity but into each life a little rain must come. That is why an Associated Press story on the difficulties of recent college graduates facing joblessness or underemployment warmed the cockles of my heart. What a life lesson these 20-somethings are learning. The law of supply and demand trumps a sheepskin. Always has. Always will. I am 58 years old and no one has ever asked what my GPA is. People come to this blog and they don’t know whether I have a PhD or an eighth-grade education. They judge me on what I have to say and how I say it.
Underemployment rocks because it knocks out that sense of entitlement. People also learn what real work is.
Many people much smarter than I (but not nearly as sexy, in a Lance Hendriksen kind of way) seem to believe the arrest affidavit in the Zimmerman case (and it is the Zimmerman case, not the Little Trayvon case) is so thin as to constitute possible perjury on the part of the state attorney's office. The thought process being a series of mistrials will result in an eventual hung jury, and the Riots Shall Commence.
Barack Obama and Eric Holder, among others, have done nothing whatsoever to assuage the situation, and much within their power to aggravate it. When the only card you hold is the race card, well, folding ain't an option.
This outcome may be true. My thought that the jurors and judge will bend over backwards to assure a murder conviction on Zimmerman may not be the slam dunk I assumed. We shall see. Already we see black pundits insisting justice will only be reached by a plea bargain by Zimmerman, regardless of the evidence, lest his black brethren start killing you.
Here's another thought, perhaps equally erroneous, but we shall see. Blacks comprise 13% of the population, but control 100% of the supposed conversation. I see this influence waning. Perhaps, if Zimmerman is acquitted, or walks on a hung jury, parts of Detroit and Los Angeles will predictably burn. But this scenario will not play out across the nation.
Concealed carry permits are up astronomically under the Obama Administration, in part due to the Department of Justice's unmistakable motions that show race will be the only obtaining factor in any dispute or disagreement. People are starting to feel the fear. There are now nearly one million concealed-carry holders in Florida alone. Ammunition and firearms continue to fly off the shelves.
There are a lot of permitted soccer moms out there, well-meaning folks, who in a climate of fear will shoot first, and beg indulgences later, should the unspeakable occur. People with no skin in the racial-grievance game have played along for years out of a sense of displaced guilt. Now that they understand their government will not only refuse to protect them but will actively advocate violence against them, their survival instincts will kick in.
Don't believe me? Go give a toddler an unsolicited pinch on the cheek at the mall. If you are lucky you will only be beaten with a handbag with 2 pounds of .357 in it.
Tolerance is unfortunately the rotting corpse of a prior age's civic sensibility. Even the benign among the populace smell war in the air, and the generals on the enemy's side aren't too hard to find. LA and Detroit may burn, but in Atlanta and Cincinnati and Phoenix you are going to see a lot of gullible young people, fed a toxic broth of hatred for decades, shot in the face by people afeared for their lives. Not by me, of course. I know how to avoid tense areas, and conflict. But many people will find themselves in a bad moment, and instead of kicking themselves in the ass for lack of situational awareness will opt instead to shoot that aggressor.
Perhaps Obama should just keep his mouth shut for the remaining months of his tenure. Here's an idea: PETA kills 90% of the animals it rescues. Because to have an animal adopted would be to condemn it to servitude, and death is, of course, preferable to that. I'd rather they donated the animals to the master chefs at the White House, so that Obama could crack their poor bones, and suck their benighted marrow, and otherwise keep himself occupied while the rest of us grab blankets and attempt to beat down the flames engulfing our community home without his help.
Most local governments have councilmen, or assemblywomen. Some such nomenclature. In California they have "supervisors." That alone should chill your blood. Since when does a civil servant who feeds themself from your wallet deign call themself a supervisor?
I personally don't need any supervisors. After my parents successfully toilet-trained me by the age of six or so they cast me to the winds, insofar as supervision goes. I sure and hell don't need some teatsuckler to supervise me.
Although I thought that Latino strumpet was charging $47, when in fact the true cost for tickling my taint is $800. So perhaps I do need a bit of supervision. But only for abacus training, my toilet training continuing to proceed apace all on its own.
...funny queer. Anyway, this is the famous new picture of the courtesan who brought down that Secret Service team:
Hot. Not hot-hot. But definitely hot. The disputed tariff? 47 dollars. Here's a fact: I have 60 dollars, liquid, disposable, and very much fungible the last time I smelled it, in my hand right now. This should make me (hold on a moment why I whip out my abacus) at the front of the line for carnal favors from this comely tart.
The only obstacle to the proper denouement of that sexual congress is, of course, distance. To travel to Cartegena would be unseemly on my part. One mustn't appear the eager beaver in these circumstances, must one, Farguhar? Nay. She must come to me.
As a gentleman I should suggest she take the overland route over the mountainous Spine of the Americas, in order to preserve her Colombian pesos. Although haste is in order. She is likely to get 8 American dollars for a peso now, but that 60 dollars might be worth only 2 pesos in two weeks, iffen Obama goes through the cur jones again, and disperses a billion dollar stimulus check to Pets.chomp. Also, one must travel through Guatemala on the overland route, and free-roaming Guats with an itch for El Norte will stick to the underside of a vehicle like those hitchhikers on your britches if you aren't careful. Just terrible for gasoline mileage, and customs interrogations.
So not hot-hot, but definitely hot. And let me tell you a little secret: I ain't so hot-hot myself anymore. I know, I know. To you I'm hot-hot. But that nasty beast known as empirical evidence suggests otherwise. You are merely enthralled at the moment. The scales will eventually drop from your eyes, and ye shall see the Emperor has no clothes.
Just a big, swinging, hairy sense of humor.
Much has been made of Romney's carriage of his dog in a cage strapped to his car roof. Much more has been made of Obama's confession in one or the other of his ghost-written roman à clefs that he had partaken of dog meat as a youngster. And the latter has been far more amusing than the former.
This is a singular problem with Obama and his crew. As craven thugs, they don't even bother to perform the most elemental of diligences before shooting gangsta-sideways at the passing vehicle we know as the Republican candidacy. Back in the day the fat, besodden liberal drunkards of Ye Olde Presse loved to call Nixon's administration The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight. Well, at least they weren't shooting themselves in the foot every other day. Twice a day, now that it's a leap year.
Obama's posse, and the molls of the press that linger in the back seat, always rimjobbable, are so freaking stupid they cannot see the ricochets. Romney abuses dogs? Obama EATS THEM! Really, has no one on the President's campaign committeee even read his beloved reminescences?
Everything about this administration has been an abject failure. Especially the failure of the Undead Media to hold this peckerwood's feet to the fire. They don't get it: a few trips to the woodshed would have given this fellow something to think about. They might of had a contenda. Instead of a failure. Which is what he is, and will forever be. They didn't discipline their boy, thus he misbehaves. I'm not the first person to opine that the press has done this self-absorbed prick no favor by covering for him.
To the pupgullion. Longest time readers will recall that many, many years ago I worked with a fellow who was a three-tour veteran of Vietnam. Apparently it was cheaper for the Army to continue to send him back to Vietnam, rather than incarcerating him in Leavenworth, his misdeeds being both prolific and profane.
This fellow swore to me the indigenous peoples hanged pregnant dogs by the neck, and beat them like piñatas until the foetii and placenta dribbled out into a bucket. This excreta was known as pupgullion, a delicacy. I can see that being served in the White House now, with the wagyu beef.
I can't vouch for any of this pupgullion stuff. Unlike the National Enquirer, I can't produce a source, paid or otherwise. Which makes me more akin to NBC, or CBS.
Lookit: I know what I know. I also know what I don't know. I also know I don't know what I don't know.
To wit: I know I'm not the sharpest banana in the bunch, but I'm razor sharp with the metaphors, so bear with me. I'm also handy with similes. I'm like a steel-type blade. I'm honed. Like a harp string. Like that girl that can make tones swirling her slippery finger around a champagne glass. Like that chimpanzee that continually sticks his finger up his ass and keeps smelling it. Sharp like that.
I really should start a newsletter. I only need four or five serious believers to make a go of this, this thing.
According to this news source, Michigan Department of Natural Resources agents are forcing farmers to shoot their piglets due to a new ruling labeling the pigs an invasive species. Found it on Drudge, but I can't vouch for NaturalNews. Never heard of them. Of course, I'd never heard of Barack Obama until 2007, either.
Farmer forced to shoot his own baby piglets in cold blood, screams the headline, in Hearstian manner.
If true, this reminds me of FDR's Hog Reduction Program of 1933, one of his first "accomplishments." Two billion pounds of pork, mostly piglets and sows, were slaughtered to artificially prop up prices, even as many folk went hungry. Who did this help? Big Pig. Who did this hurt? Your grandparents.
These are the things statists do. I shall not mention 5 year plans or the Ukranian famine. But the Party of the Common Man has been riddled with bloodless technocrats for a hundred years. People with no real life experience, who don the green eyeshade, sip their absinthe, and decide your fate. As someone recently said, they sure broke a lot of eggs. Where are the fucking omelettes?
Why do Democrats so love to kill things? After they weren't allowed to lynch black people anymore they turned to foetuses. Now a piglet slaughter redux. There's always something, or someone they want to kill. And I'm not saying the chairman of the Michigan DNR is a Democrat. I'm just saying he's been in the ironworkers union for decades, and was an AFL-CIO lobbyist in Washington for years. And Jennifer Granholm appointed him. Coincidence, probably.
I'm beginning to understand why liberals like high-speed rail so much. Now if they can just get that damned stubborn green energy to decently fire some ovens, why, they'd have something once they got us to wherever those trains are going. When you see a map that shows a trillion dollar boondoggle high-speed rail going to nowhere, don't believe it. There will be something there, all right. How many windmills does it take to incinerate a 180 pound man anyway, do you reckon?
I'm told the ultimate Green boondoogle, Solyndra, was originally called Soylent. But I can't verify that. Nor can I verify that NaturalNews article. Perhaps I shall call one Dave Tuxberry, unwilling killer of his own pigs, and smoke this out. Smoke it out like a Virginia ham.
So not only is an entire contingent of Secret Service agents sent packing from Colombia back to the states for whoremongering, apparently there are military personnel involved as well.
This is the United States Secret Service. The supposedly incorruptible. And they were not only whoremongering, they were busted for shortchanging the whores. There is your war on women, my leftist friends.
This isn't a Barack Obama problem per se, although he will wear the humiliation. But that's why you wear the Big Boy Pants, you little fucker. Suck it up.
At an even greater level, however, this is a huge civil service problem. Moreso, it is a socialist state model problem. Once the civil servants began earning more than their private industry counterparts they ceased to become our servants, and became our bureaucratic taskmasters. Especially given their immunity from consequences, and the ability to embezzle and otherwise convert huge sums of monies. If you steal a million dollars from your company you will be caught. If you steal it from a nonsensical federal government agency you will eventually be caught by an agent of another nonsensical federal government agency, who will split the profits with you.
Citizens by and large have forgotten that a civil servant is nothing more than a fucking retard we have obliged with a wage-earning status so as not to have to support them on the dole. Once they achieve a status greater than driving a metro bus they should be foisted back upon the real world, there to fend for themselves. Or given jobs in the penal system, where they can provide a public service and teach inmates nonviolent criminal activities.
If the Secret Service is this corrupted our federal government as a whole is naught but a cyst upon the body politic in need of a lancing. Which we knew anyway. Hell, the vaunted Secret Service turns out to be about the same type of screwhead loser you find in the BATF and the Forest Service.
At least you can identify a Forest Service agent by the queerly well-groomed beard, the wire-rimmed glasses, the effete mannerisms, and the bear tattoo on his buttock. By the way, it's Smokey Bear, not Smokey The Bear, you fucking idiot. Fix the tat, stat. And you don't have to shower with every camper, you know.
If you know a civil servant, be so kind as to remind them what a lucky little fuck they are to suckle upon our collective teat. And try to elicit some shame from them.
I was going to say with this latest bout of corruption the only decent civil servants left are the Diplomatic Security Service. Then I remembered they are pretty much all ex-Secret Service. So there you go. I was going to say wheels within wheels, but even the shittiest wheel rolls forward, unlike out Sisyphean Wheelbarrow of State.
Any right-minded individual agrees with me that The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly is the greatest cinematic feat of all time. To disagree is to simply expose one's vacuity. Dissent will not be tolerated.
And yet: every ten years or so I will treat myself to Papillon.
We're really something, aren't we? The only animals on earth that shove something up their ass for survival.
In my case, fortunately, that's only 14 rounds of .45 ACP.
Haiti, the Guillotine, the Terror, and Devil's Island. France's gifts to the world.
Oh: and Her.
...found on a beach near Puerto Vallarta.
It is my studied opinion that George Zimmerman make immediate inquiries into the initiation rites of Mara Salvatrucha, aka MS-13. A cohort of bloodthirsty Central Americans, they are perhaps the most dangerous gang in American prisons today.
As much as the media preferred calling Zimmerman white, I don't believe the Aryan Brotherhood sees it that way. So they won't be protecting George from the Crips or the Nation of Islam in the joint. With his Peruvian blood MS-13 is also a much better fit for Zimmerman than those chickenshit Latin Kings and Mexican Mafia.
If you want to cast a Latin King in a film you hose down John Leguizamo with pork and bean slurry until he tips the scales at 89 pounds. If you want to cast a Mara Salvatrucha in a film you inject Danny Trejo with steroids like a fucking beef steer for six months while ritually scarring him with a bolo machete on a periodic basis.
I believe Eric Holder's beloved conversation on race is finally going to occur. Most likely on the steel-netted basketball courts of the Union Correctional Institution in Raiford, Florida. In fact, by the time the conversation is over, perhaps all of the Latino gangs will have coalesced into one huge hirsute ball of single-minded, murderous brotherhood.
It will be like Journey to Ixtlan, only with mutilated black and white corpses instead of a flying Mexican wizard.
To quote Gracie Allen: Goodnight, George.
That would be George Zimmerman, of course. He has now been indicted for second degree murder. The highest charge that could be applied. Is he guilty? Possibly. Of something, perhaps. Murder? Voluntary manslaughter? Involuntary manslaughter? No one yet knows. But it doesn't matter now. If that mugging state attorney had not brought a murder charge, there would be rioting, and possibly murder, in the streets.
More importantly, if the trial results in a verdict of anything less than murder, say, voluntary manslaughter, there will be rioting, and possibly murder, in the streets. The criminal justice system does not control George Zimmerman's fate any more: the Mob does.
Zimmerman may be guilty of murder. He may be clean as the driven snow, to use an unfortunate simile from my admittedly racialist pallette. It doesn't matter now. Regardless of venue, and regardless of the evidence, he will be convicted of murder. Because no state attorney, no judge, and especially no juror will place their lives in danger in an effort to administer justice in a dispassionate, colorblind way. The Truth at this point is irrelevant.
The Mob wants meat. Sharpton and Jackson want meat. Obama wants meat. The New Black Panther Party most certainly wants meat, and will pay you handsomely to deliver it. And they shall have it. Jurisprudence be damned. It's bigger than that now. Hell, Zimmerman's own attorneys will sell him up the river. They need clients tomorrow too, you know. Prediction: they will eschew any plea agreement, not that any will be offered, and take it to trial so that Zimmerman gets the murder verdict, and it can be business as usual for them the following day. They just want the publicity. That misbegotten beaner ain't paying them shit.
By the way, that insipid state attorney promised new evidence would be revealed at that press conference that would explain her decision to indict. None was forthcoming. She chided the press, and told them the evidence would be revealed at trial. Oh. She certainly milked that unnecessary presser for all the face time she could get, however. By God, she was giddy with the attention. A taste of things to come.
National Review reacted with predictable swiftness in canning John Derbyshire for the crime of writing an article for Taki Theodoracopulos' e-zine that could charitably be described as racially intolerant. I never considered Rich Lowry to be much of a principled guy in the first place, more of a slick-eared fund-raising type. Still, the thing was dismaying.
Was Derbyshire's article "racist?" I don't know. I don't even know what that word means. I believe it essentially exists in the first place as a verbal cudgel to silence unpopular or inconvenient speech the wielder finds uncomfortable. The article was certainly racially charged in that it did speak to some inconvenient facts, and allowed Derb to place his scrotum in the wringer.
The real question is: why is Derb not allowed to speak his mind without being vilified and ostracized and fired? Once upon a time if you disagreed with someone's position, why, you debated them. You attempted to refute them. You didn't call them names and seek to silence them. Well, the Communists did. And the Nazis did. Our nation was founded on more liberal principles. Two articles I like about this affair, and I will sample.
First, Mark Steyn:
The Left is pretty clear about its objectives on everything from climate change to immigration to gay marriage: Rather than win the debate, they’d just as soon shut it down. They’ve had great success in shrinking the bounds of public discourse, and rendering whole areas of public policy all but undiscussable. In such a climate, my default position is that I’d rather put up with whatever racist/sexist/homophobic/Islamophobic/whateverphobic excess everybody’s got the vapors about this week than accept ever tighter constraints on “acceptable” opinion. The latter kills everything, not least the writing skills of the ideologically conformist...
I find the aroma of unreality that hovers, miasma-like, around this whole non-debate dismaying but also puzzling. Our attorney general said he wanted to have a frank national conversation about race. What that seems to have meant is national sermonizing about race. Is it the case that certain questions about race are simply unmentionable? You might point to what happened to John Derbyshire and say: “You dope, of course they are. Look what happened to him!”
A good old boy named Bubba, who played golf a mile up the street at the University of Georgia, came from behind to beat the African in a playoff. Sudden death! I decry the whole construct.
Of course the African was white, too. As are all the Africans owning a green jacket. Gary Player? African. Tiger? Not African. Jim Nance? Gay, I figure.
Here's to Bubba. May he escape Augusta without having a private moment with Nance.
Frankly, there are far worse ways to spend Easter than alone, watching the final round of the Masters, with some red wine to wash down the bread. Without meaning to sound blasphemous, we all find our holy niches, and commune in our own ways.
Watching Jim Nantz's remembrance of the '87 Masters reminded me of a great golfer who doesn't get much due these days: Raymond Floyd. Old Ray won his first first PGA Tour event in 1963 at 20 years of age, and his last in 1992 at 49. He also turned 50 that year and won on the Seniors Tour as well. Four decades of wins. Four majors. Only the British Open eluded him. He would still be a popular icon if he didn't look like Tim Russert on an ibogaine bender. He had to compete against a lot of blond pretty boys in his day. I likes Ray Floyd.
By the way, Larry Mize is a year younger than me and looks like an ancient old man. I suppose I do, too. I just don't see in the mirror what everyone else sees. None of us does, do we?
Here's an Easter conundrum for you: Easter has fallen on my birthday 4 times in my lifetime. But it won't happen again until 2066. How is that possible? Sure, it's a moveable feast, but a lunar cycle is a lunar cycle, right?
I blame those filthy Mayans. And, um...
They're pretty much all the same thing. Tell someone you don't eat Arby's and they will invariably respond with "Why the fuck you wanna eat Arby's?" I dasn't mention several of my bug-out-bag meals contain smoked oysters. High protein, that, and you can use the oil for butt sex, I figure. Og's probably the only person I know who would like the smoked oysters, because he could make an oil pan for a riding lawnmower from the can with his now greasy fingers.
Opinions and assholes. Here's one: say you want a hunting rifle. Nothing fancy, because you really don't hunt. But if you wanted to, you'd be prepared. Or say your prey is human, an addlepated addict. What if you just occasionally have to shoot some man meat? Again, you'd be prepared. Just don't bother looking for reviews on an entry level rifle, because you will be inundated with illiterate screeds from wife-beating Ramboids explaining to you in spit-flecked split infinitives why you are the moron. They go something like this:
I tried this here three hundred dollar Sabbitch rifle out. I could straight away tell it was a piece um shit. Why don't you save a couple of dollers and buy a $1500 Bushwhacker SUX 7000??? I have a hundred sixty seven thousand rounds through mine, and its only failed three times. That was when I accidently loaded Li'l Smokies instead of bullets. Anyway, it looked cheap, it felt cheap, thier was no mount for a sidereal-motored scope, the swivel rings was plastic, they etched their fucking name on the bolt, it was horrible. Made in the USA, too, by unionized drunkards. My Bushwhacker SUX 7000, I want to damn tell ya, is made in the Philippines by God-fearing Roman Catholics.
As cheap as this gun is, I can't believe I was sub MOA from 300 yards, shooting over my shoulder with a mirror in my hand. Standing on my head. Must have been my God-given skills , and my Bushwhacker ammo. Thing still don't have a sidereal scope mount. How you goan shoot the left eye out of the man in the moon without a sidereal scope?? Can't sporterize it, either. Where the hell's my thumb gonna go without a thumb hole??
Bottom line: tack driver. But I wouldn't buy the piece of shit. My advice is save a couple of dollars and buy the Bushwhacker SUX 7000. You'll be glad you did 40 years from now.
The Arby's in Athens has what must be one of the few remaining enormous, incandescent-bulb-lit ten gallon hat signs. It looks just like this:
I can appreciate a bit of nostalgia as well as the next person, and although I generally eschew fast-food these days, I've been know to pop in twice a year or so for a filthy, disgusting, savory Beef 'n Cheddar slathered in Horsey Sauce.
No more. Arby's is one of the corporations that has caved to astroturf indignation and quit advertising on Limbaugh's show. Idiots. I haven't listened to Limbaugh in years, but I respect what he did bringing conservatives out of the closet, and I respect his work ethic, his success, and his choice of painkillers.
I normally don't believe in boycotts. They are usually ineffective Look At Me! remonstrances that accomplish little other than the self-congratulations an activist feels when he/she looks in the mirror. And is reminded they haven't bathed for a week.
The upside of a boycott is one knows one is doing one's little best to deprive an entity gone out of control that small measure of profits one's patronage provides. It's a personal, not a collective thing. Now, unfortunately, Coca-Cola is alos on my hit list, having capitulated to the advocacy group Color of Change and ending its relationship with the American Legislative Exchange Council, a benign organization that believes, among other things, that a person must show up with a fucking identification card before engaging in one of the most precious interactions on the planet, the excercise of the American voting franchise.
For a Georgia native to boycott Coke is tantamount to treason, sure, but I haven't really partaken of soft drinks at all since I gave up Cuba Libres, anyway. And this boycott will not take effect until I've returned from Publix later today with some sweet Passover kosher Coke. In case I get the urge for a Libre.
I will also be boycotting Men's Wearhouse for supporting the Occupy movement. Not that I ever bought any Malaysian rags from there. I get my Malaysian rags at Jos. A. Bank.
I won't detail a litany of advertisers boycotting Limbaugh, because most of them are companies that Media Matters lied about advertising there in the first place. And this is all personal choice stuff.
The big conundrum for me will be Netflix. Hate giving that up for Hulu Plus alone. Perhaps I can still use Netflix, and just scar every DVD with a fingernail file before returning it. Or write Free Limbaugh! on the sleeve.
In the olden days it used to be easy to detect a girl, a potential mate, who was a psychotraumatic head case, and needed to be given wide berth. She had a Physician's Desk Reference on her bookshelf, separating her copies of Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Rod McKuen's Listen To The Warm. That was the Very flare that told you to Snagglepuss your ass out of there, stage left.
Women love to self-diagnose, of course. Herself, the kids, the neighbor's kids, the dog, the strange man masturbating by the dumpster at Trader Joe's. Usually not a problem: you saw the PDR, you had sex, and you hopefully disappeared off the face of the earth.
Now we have more pervasive diagnostic tools for the Woman Who Has Everything Except Her Sanity, alternatively known as the Woman Who Cannot Leave Anything the Fuck Alone. The sites are legion, but WebMD stands in as an excellent representation of the ilk.
Men are by nature procrastinators, we know that. By the time a guy visits the doctor that irritating bump on his back is a metastatic melanoma the size of a lemon. Women are by nature creators of doom from whole cloth. In the old days a person would visit the doctor, show them something, and say "What the hell is that?" And the doctor would say "Poison ivy." The Modern Woman explains to the physician the 27 telltale symptoms of her life-threatening ailment, then triumphantly shows him her age spot, spider vein, or cellulitic ass.
Woe be unto the doctor who does not humor this self-diagnosis. And woe unto the physician when 2 of the 27 symptoms might be presenting, and he must unknowledge her of the other 25.
Women also love to diagnose you. Ever had one of those moments where you are happily enjoying a Netflix film, snuggling on the couch, and just as Jason Statham is about to smack the pus out of some Pakistani hoodlum she pauses the film, looks at you, and says "I was looking at WebMD today, and you display the classic symptoms of Asperger Syndrome. They can treat that, you know. I made an appointment for us with the doctor Thursday"?
To quote the immortal Joe Wilson, You Lie!
Other ailments you have, but were unaware of: bipolar syndrome, erectile dysfunction, premature ejaculation, Munchausen-by-proxy, and pyoderma, which she will patiently explain is the medical term for Fat People Smell.
These phantom diagnoses are the physician's bane, and benefit. They drive the healthy into the doctor's office, they drive the doctor's billables up, they drive the insurance companies insane, and they drive the Democrats to vote for Obamacare.
I'd let you go, but I noticed that
freckle mole on your neck looks a little funny. We should have that checked out. I'll make an appointment.
My daughter visited the Lightner Museum in St. Augustine the other day, the first time she'd been there since I took her when she was 5 or 6. It's a strange place, full of odd, often bizarre sets with no rhyme or pattern. Here, someone's collection of old clothes buttons. There, someone else's collection of shrunken heads.
As we talked about it on the phone the other night she reminded me of the only two things she remembered from her first trip. Thingumybobs that had given her nightmares. First, a small mummy. Nothing especial about it to me, as I recall, but as a child it had terrified her. The other thing was an oil painting of, as she describes it to this day, an old homeless guy sucking a girl's tit:
Well, that struck a chord of remembrance in me, and the pic she forwarded confirmed it. I'd completely forgotten about the old homeless guy sucking the girl's tit. How? I have no idea. That's the sort of thing that sticks with a person.
The other thing I'd forgotten was to explain it to her lo those 13 years ago. I'd done a bit of research at the time, and it seems this is a very iconic image. Something I should have known, I suppose, but my brain ain't a fucking seine net. Every once in a while a minnow will slip through.
It's know as Roman Charity, and, to quothe Wikipedophile, it's the exemplary story of a daughter, Pero, who secretly breastfeeds her father, Cimon, after he is incarcerated and sentenced to death by starvation. She is found out by a jailer, but her act of selflessness impresses officials and wins her father's release.
It was also apparently quite the popular theme in art. There are dozens of versions of this tale by any number of artists. Here is one of Peter Paul Rubens' renditions:
So: I should have known this, and been able to explain it to my child. As I was ignorant at the time I should have followed up later. But I didn't, and she was scarred, apparently. Of course she finds it hilarious now.
Most iterations of this scene are the same, regardless of artist. Personally, I'd like to bring it up to date. It needs something. Perhaps a cardboard sign around the old man's neck that says Veteran. Please help. God Bless.
They say the Romans were quite proud of this tale as an exemplar of selflessness. And I suppose it is. It's also singularly creepy. Okay, she's selfless. I get it. But where's his dignity? If I'm that guy I'm starving to death. Buy me a fucking memorial bench for the park, kid, and feed the squirrels. I was an old man anyway. And I had to have done something bad to be in prison in the first place. Possibly, I don't know, perhaps sucking girls' tits.
My daughter didn't send a picture of the mummy. I hope that thing's not sucking a girl's tit, too.
Obama reverted to form yesterday, cautioning the Supreme Court not to overturn Obamacare, the signature legislation he spent a year fiddle-farting around with while the economy continued to implode. We all know Obama has his enthusiasms: golf, which he sucks at, and threatening his perceived enemies, which he likewise sucks at.
Actually, Obama was only addressing Anthony Kennedy, the Court's token political morphodite. His is - as usual - the only vote that counts. It was classic Chicagoland shtick, at once phrased in purposeful prose lamenting the negative social outcomes, while carrying a subliminal message of retaliation.
Alito, Scalia, and Thomas could care less. If anything their positions just hardened like Cheyenne Mountain. Roberts, as chief, has to set a more decorous tone, but when the shit gets real he's a rock. Obama knows this. His problem is
Victor/Victoria Kennedy. The conservatives don't have to worry about their legacies. Their opinions do that for them. You seldom see Kennedy writing for the majority, however, because as the hermaphrodite swing vote on the court, he is by nature a concurring little twist. Finger in wind, he follows the cool crowd for that particular opinion.
Kennedy, therefore, is quite open to societal blackmail, as a bootstrapper. His bland, equivocal nature, his desire to be liked by everyone, is his legacy. Just think if word got around (for it always gets around, that's why God and Alexander Hamilton created law clerks) that a few verbal hitmen like Jeffery Toobin and Bobbie Woodward and Joe Klein were to write scathing biographies of Kennedy. Just think if Kennedy envisioned his legacy to be three hardbound volumes excoriating his failures, both fact and fantasy. Hell, Woodward would accuse him of giving Long Dave Souter reach-arounds in the chamber bath stalls, if there was a nickel to be made.
Obama has the size of Kennedy. He knows a weak horse. Hell, he looks at one in the mirror every monring, and he knows what would make him squirm. Plus,
Frank Nitti David Axelrod no doubt reminds Obama on a daily basis what a weak sister he really is.
Here's where I foresee this thing backfiring. All Things Obama eventually blow up in his face. Because he's a rube, and shoots from the ideological hip. He might just piss off the liberals on the bench. Do you know what a Supreme Court justice thinks every morning when arising from bed? No one on earth can tell me what to do. Not the President of Russia, not my chief-of-staff, not Oprah, not even my spouse. I am a fucking god! Well, that's what I'd think, and I'd be right. Justices-for-life are shielded from the political, the partisan, the banal, and the venal for a damned good reason. So that they don't have to put up with threats from an effete pantywaist like Barack Obama.
Even a blowhard like Stephen Breyer has some measure of pride at the end of the day. And the last time I pissed off a Latina, wise or otherwise, I feared for my teabag. Speaking of which, Kagan is in the bag, of course. She worked for the guy. She's the Harriet Myers in this thing. And Ginsburg? Write her off, too. She fancies herself the William O. Douglas of the court, the higher ethical being. She does share the dementia, and likely the bladder control issues, with Douglas. But she will forever be known merely as the justice with the insane fucking eyeglasses.
Anyway, the bad news is Obama feels compelled to be divisive and threatening yet again, too much the trench cadet to stand above the fray. The good news is the conventional wisdom is Obamacare lost the Friday straw poll among the justices, and those law clerks had a busy, busy weekend in the DC swamp.
We shall see where the Cornpone Capone's enthusiasms lead him this time.
I was disgusted and disheartened to see that Grand Vizier Obama is disabling credit card verification for contributions for the second presidential campaign in a row. So that all that sweet, illegal foreign cash may pour in again. Not to mention the sweet, illegal domestic cash. Zombie Media pushback? Nyet. After all, extremism in defense of voter fraud is no vice.
I often wonder what Reagan would have thought of Obama. He was a class act, however. Would no doubt have merely dismissed Obama as a callow little opportunist. Not the thieving, lying, Marxist, corrupt little fucker I believe he is. But vocabularies differ.
The problem with leftists in general, and the Democrat party in particular, is that they must, must lie, cheat, and steal. It is in their DNA. The end always justify the means, to brutalize a shopworn canard of theirs. When they are losing, they cheat and steal to win. When they are winning, they cheat and steal to hedge their bets. From Tammany Hall to Dick Tuck to Daley's Chicago Machine to the current administration it is all they know. Fraud is the behavior that releases the cocaine pellet, and allows them to scurry about the maze of our lives, there to wreak a bit of the Old Havoc. When your ideas have failed for five generations, and your god has died, you'd better act like a Mayan and pull someone's figurative heart out of their thorax so that the idiots at the bottom of the ziggurat will still believe you control the eclipses.
The sad fact is their constituencies, the grifters, mountebanks, and indolent, the corrupt, addicted, and profane, in other words those who depend upon the theft of the opposition's personalty and goodwill to exist, applaud these tactics. Fuck, they enshrine them. It's Reparations, it's Paying One's Fair Share, it's Doing The Right Thing. Whatever. It's what the greengrocer pays the thuggee to keep his knees intact.
The left will tell you, if they are forced upon occasion to address the issue, that illegal campaign contributions, the voting of the dead, the paying of monies and tobaccoes to ride the fetid bus to pull the correct lever, the armed intimidation at voting precints, the indignant and rabid refusal to produce identification at the polling booth are the mere result of excitability in their constituency. They're merely pumped up, you see, and err on the side of overly zealous civic pride. It's their turn.
Well, the Tea Partiers are a pretty excited crowd, too, but at least they know law from fraud, propriety from bellicosity, and good old Hammurabian right from wrong. At least they pick up their fucking Zagnut wrappers after they leave an assembly, and police the grounds for cigarette butts. Unlike the leftists, who only leave unreported rapes, feces, assaults, errant sperm shots, and ruined restrooms in their wake. Excitable activity, that.
The Democratic Party is not an alien species to me. My father was a Democrat politician. He had to be. And he was forced to serve in the Georgia General Assembly alongside a host of frauds, half of whom played the race card to garner white votes, and half of whom played the race card to garner black votes. Principles? Fuck that nonsense. I will say this: although my father voted for the Republican Bo Callaway for governor in '66, it did not affect his relationship with Lester Maddox, who was, until his last breathe, actually quite the gentleman, and one of the first southern governors to integrate his staff, and his state patrol, and the rest of his civil service. The biggest prick? Jimmy Carter. A sanctimonious little fucker since the day he was breeched. Not unlike Barack Obama.
And so: excitable, they, those Democrats. That's all. As children are oft exculpated, they know not what they do. Nor should we remonstrate. At the end of the day, I believe old Zevon was onto something.