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If Haiti Weren’t A ‘Shithole,’ Its Citizens Wouldn’t Need Refugee Status In The U.S.

It was sex all the time at this 1800s commune, with anyone you wanted and none of the guilt

Woman Documents Fixing the Wing of a Live Monarch Butterfly Using Household Items

Woman fires shots at husband who was sitting on the toilet, ‘To make him listen to me.’

Grandad’s testicle ‘exploded’ after contracting African salmonella on dream holiday to Tunisia “After the holiday, my testicle had swollen to the size of a grapefruit and it was so heavy it was like it was made of glass.

Japanese invention lets you share your baby’s bowel movements online with the push of a button

“Poverty Is Sexist” said the $300 shirt – Because nothing says, “stop sexually assaulting us” like wearing see-through gowns.

Science has established that marijuana is a gateway drug that inevitably leads to reggae – a musical genre whose listeners are too high to even notice that there is actually only one reggae song and that the musicians simply give it different titles to fool the fans.

In my experience, vast swathes of college students — I’€™m increasingly coming to believe it’€™s the actual numerical majority of college students — can’€™t write a coherent sentence, can’€™t tell you the century in which the Civil War was fought, can’€™t find Great Britain on a map, can’€™t read a text more complex than a tweet.   

YouTube is a collection of mirrors that clap.

You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.   Japan’s new ‘Coke Plus’ contains a laxative ingredient

If you want to imagine the future of socialism, picture trading sugar for beans on social media.

Madagascar’s Ancient ‘Pelican Spiders’ Are As Striking As They Are Strange

Dubai€“ And the Return of the City State | The seats of empire — large and small — these days protect only their elites who dwell in relative luxury, citizens of Elysium. Radiating out from these nuclei are the places where people live as the inverse of epicenter, one which preserves the center but exudes destruction in incremental waves of neglect farther afield; heralding a new instability. These new city-states mirror the ancient nations they could not safeguard. Karachi and Lagos and Mexico City; Kinshasa and Abidjan and Dhaka — chaotic and violent and ungoverned, ceding control as they have successively to the hinterlands as they desperately seek to stem the tide of anarchy in their ever-spreading fringes. Abandoning the interior — and what about the people? Because they are still there — though they are rarely considered anymore. People who roam the borderless worlds, to traffic in illicit goods or join one of the myriad jihadi or gang operations to safeguard their lives and give themselves a future – such as it will be. “…loose molecules in a very unstable social fluid, a fluid that was clearly on the verge of igniting. And who wants to be around when it goes? That combustible compound saturating the ungoverned spaces in between, somehow distending them; volatility moving as osmosis infecting once stable lands; making them explosive.


Your Saturday Movie Matinee: DEMageddon

“How big is it? It’s what we call a global killer. The end of manking. It doesn’t matter where it hits, nothing will survive.”

The epic tale of the 2016 presidential race. How Trump saved the world from complete and utter devastation. With cameos from Paul Joseph Watson, Sean Hannity, Scott Adams, Jack Posebiec, Rush Limbaugh, Mike Pence, Stefan Molyneaux, Steve Bannon, Alex Jones, Sheriff David Clark, Hillary Clinton, and OF COURSE Donald J Trump!

Why this was not nominated for an Oscar as “Best Documentary of 2017” is beyond me.



The Hive and the Town

During my years in the cities, returning to New York by air at night mezmerized me during the long approach. Sliding down over the Alleghenies from the west, curving in over the Atlantic from the South, or throttling back and easing off the Great Circle Route from Europe, the emergence of the vast sprawl of lights that defined the Hive always enraptured me. On moonless nights, after the humming hours held in that aluminum cylinder hoisted into mid-heaven, you saw the long continents of dark water or land dissolve into shimmering white-gold strands connecting to clusters of earth-anchored constellations that merged to expanding galaxies of towns, suburbs, and cities until all below was a shimmering web of man-made stars.

As you swept down still lower, these massive meadows of stars resolved to highways and streets, boroughs and neighborhoods, houses and buildings and the yellow prongs of headlights darting under the streetlights. Then you were over the boundary, the runway blurring just beneath your seat. A bump and a bounce, engines reversing, weight shifting forward then back, and you were down and rolling towards the gate. If you were coming in from the Caribbean there was grateful applause for the pilot for the miracle of a safe landing.

You deplaned, grabbed your bags, hailed a cab and soon lurched along the Long Island Expressway, part of those headlights hazed beneath streetlights you’d looked down on only minutes before. The meter clicked past $50.00, the skyline of Manhattan rose behind the gravestones of the vast cemetery, a bridge and a toll and you were back in the Hive.

I loved the Hive across all the long years I lived within it. It was at once exciting and exasperating, densely communal and achingly lonely, empowering and eviscerating, inspiring and degrading. It never stopped coming at you and, on those days when your mental defenses were weak and your emotional shields wavered, it could splatter your soul. The same random evening stroll through downtown that would show you six people ambling along dressed as gigantic baked potatoes (complete with a pat of butter, gob of sour cream and chives), would also show you a wizened bum so diminished that he would drop his trousers, squat, and defecate in the middle of the sidewalk as bond traders in bespoke suits and handmade English shoes stepped carefully around the spectacle seeing nothing, nothing at all.

An old friend with little use for it describes the Hive as, “Hell… with good restaurants.”

But Hell has its charms no less than Heaven; more it would seem than mere Heaven for how else does Hell hold so many in thrall for so long? Did not Milton, who being blind saw so deeply, declare, “Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven?” In the Hive as in Hell, there’s always someone lower beneath you on the totem pole, until, of course, you become the defecating bum or another one of the soul-gutted homeless set out randomly on the streets as both warnings and talismans of what can happen should you fail to toe the line, talk the talk, and walk the walk that the Hive demands in exchange for your small but continuing prosperity.

These small skills of toeing, talking and walking I mastered early during my time in the Hive. I continued to deploy them with some modest success. I say modest since, just as there was always no shortage of those beneath you in the Hive, so too did the heap of souls piled there rise far above you. Exactly how far their relative altitude was above yours was always measured only by the cold metric of gold. And if the Hive is long on anything, it is gold. Except of course that no matter how gold much you acquire, you only have a little of all that there is to be had, a fact that keeps people in the Hive long after there’s any real human need for being there. In the Hive there’s always more gold to be had. The only thing asked for in exchange is time, of which the Hive never has enough since to be in the Hive is to squander your time at a greater rate than you realize until you turn around, three decades are gone, and at last you know you’re running low.
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CNN Loses It’s Sh!thole

At this point the only thing that can possibly improve CNN would be between ten and 15 targeted assassinations.

Shithole countries…. you know… like these shithole countries.

President Trump Asks a Good Question About Immigration | Why do we have an immigration system that favors countries on fire vs countries not on fire?


Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.


High Plains Drifting: “There’s a storm coming.”

“I know.”

Meanwhile, out on the vast land sea of America’s interior….

Breathe is made up solely of storm clips from 2017…either from the spring across the central plains or from the monsoon here in the southwest.


Brave New 1984 World Looks Like This

Today Project Veritas started releasing a series of videos about the inner workings of Twitter, a company of unelected and anti-American insects that seeks to control what you say, see, and think online…. and sees nothing wrong about this at all. Here are some stills from two videos.

“Shadowbanning”? Yes, shadowbanning. I’ve been shadowbanned by Twitter for well over a year as nearly as I can figure it.

Gentlemen, start your lying eyes. And remember, if they have the power to do this to the President of the United States….

Taken from these two videos. More on this nightmare soon.
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For nearly three years, Piper the border collie was the furry face of Michigan’s Cherry Capital Airport K-9 Team, chasing birds away from the runways and keeping the Traverse City airport safer for planes and passengers. He passed away on January 3, 2018.

Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, cooler than a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce, it’s Piper the Aviation Bird Dog, ready for duty. Alongside his handler Brian Edwards, the dynamic duo protects the planes at Cherry Capital Airport from bird strikes. Birds can pose a huge threat to flight safety, but when they see Piper on his way, geese, ducks and gulls flee the runways. It’s an important job, but not one without its share of fun.


The New Weekly Reader is now available at the Woodpile Report

Painters of the Victorian Era targeted the wealthy, those with mansions requiring large, epic art. Such patrons were inclined to dramatically lit grand vistas and heroic moments from history, or classical themes with the maximum nudity good taste would bear. There was a lucrative secondary market, however. Their wives. This is such a painting.

On the 3rd of January, Delta flew the last 747 in US passenger service to the boneyard in Arizona. First one entered service a half-century ago. Not my favorite airplane. I was conditioned to what was “normal” in the early DC-9 and Boeing 727 and 737 era.

The 747’s takeoff roll differed substantially from normal, as if they had decided to drive to the destination. “Cut it out, cantcha?! What are you trying to do, wrinkle it?” On the one occasion I measured it, it came to fifty-nine seconds. Rotation was sedate, like a DC-6, then it was gain altitude-level out-climb at leisure.

Boeing hedged its bets by configuring the 747 for an easy makeover to freight service. It looked the part. But there’s a limit to where size is reassuring. It seemed too big for anything but smiling skies. On one trip, as we made landfall over Newfoundland in winter, we hit some memorable turbulence. The flexing end-to-end was plainly visible, not a simple bending, it came in long ripples. Not for nothing are “travail” and “travel” etymological kin……

Every Tuesday Ol’ Remus puts out a new stack from the venerable Woodpile Report. the rest of which is here and more than worth your time.


China has turned the northwestern region of Xinjiang into a vast experiment in domestic surveillance. WSJ investigated what life is like in a place where one’s every move can be monitored with cutting-edge technology.

But it can’t happen here. Right? Right.


In her 95th year 99th year, ….. 103rd year this happenstance kitchen collage of my mother’s life is growing both richer and deeper. The image above is of what once was a bulletin board. It is kept in my mother’s kitchen in her apartment to the rear of an unassuming but decent apartment complex in the small city of Chico, California.

It’s too bad the image of it is so small here on the page. But no matter how much I might enlarge the image of it, it could never be as big as what it represents. Although small in scale it is larger than the lives it chronicles. It is the sum of all love.

You’d miss that. If I could show it to you in real time and at its actual size, you’d still miss it. It would remain much as you see it here — just a jumble of clips, slogans, photos, handicrafts and images. Aside from its complexity, it wouldn’t mean all that much to you. These icons of other people’s private lives never do.

And yet, if you have anything that even resembles a functioning family, there’s a bulletin board like this somewhere in the various dwellings of your family. If you’re lucky, there’s more than one. You don’t know what this one means, but you know what yours means. You know it all — for better and for worse.

Still, to know the worst of the stories that lie behind these images you not only need to know the lives these commonplace icons chronicle, you have to be looking hard for the worse and, in the end, dragging it out of your own memory. If you work at finding the worst in people, you can always locate it.

But if those who keep these family altars are like my own mother in their dedication to them, you won’t see them displayed. There will be no shadows there that you do not supply yourself.

My mother only adds the things of love to this board, never the things of disappointment, failure, heartbreak or betrayal. To do so would be a betrayal of the trust that keeping this board brings with it, and, to my mother at least, a waste of life.

My mother does not waste life.

In my mother’s home not a scrap of love — however faint or distant now — is ever discarded. Everything that does not meet her measure is tossed away without pause or regret. If something comes her way that she deems special — be it an out-of-focus photograph, a clipping from a far-away newspaper, a small note of thanks, or a pipe-cleaner figure made by one of the second graders she acts as a teacher’s aide for — it gets promoted to the bulletin board. Once there, as you can see, it stays. If something comes to her that’s a downer, out it goes.

That’s why my mother has two piles of scrap in the kitchen: one for recycling and one for the shredder. She gets a warm feeling by recycling, but she gets a real kick out of running things through the shredder.

At 103, she’s tiny but sharp. Quick to empathize and quicker still to laugh. Playing tennis several times a week kept her on her game — until 95.5 when her knees quit — in more ways than one. So plays bridge, attends church, manages her life, and has more social engagements in a month than her three sons combined. She’s wise that way but without pretense. If you ever told her she was wise, she’d shrug and ask you if you’d like another German pancake, this time with lemon juice and powdered sugar. She hasn’t missed breakfast for nearly a century, which shows you, if you had any doubt, just how wise she is.

Years ago, after she sold her rooming house for college girls and moved into her apartment, she decided that the kitchen wall was perfect for a bulletin board that she could use to keep track of her busy schedule. Somewhere under everything else on the board we think there are things that pertain to schedules in the late 1980s, but it would take an archeological team to excavate them. Instead, one photo got put up, and then another, and then a clip of this and a note of that and, over time, it became the raucous riot of bits and pieces you can see here.

Babies and friends, present and past wives, can all be found. Girlfriends long let slide still peek out. Birthday parties and christenings, weddings, vacations, and graduations…. all the private triumphs and moments of personal happiness glisten and shine, one fit atop, against, behind, or aside the other as life rushed on and curved away, ebbed and then surged back again, brighter and larger than before.

If you knew all the pieces here as I do, you could review them and see the tokens of a life that begins before the end of the First World War and rolls along right up until today. It’s a very big life to be contained on such a small board in such a small apartment, but my mother’s genius when it comes to this collage is that, no matter how full it gets, she always finds room to add one more moment.

We don’t know how she does it. It’s a gift.

Mom on a bench created and dedicated to her by her friends and installed at the Chico Racquet Club in April, 2010.

[Republished from 2007/2010 because…. well… because I like it.]


Word of the Year (So Far): Empörungsgesellschaft

Empörungsgesellschaft :

“The new E-word assumes the floundering of the Fourth Estate (or “legacy”€ journalism) before the invasive “fifth force”€ of social media. Crazy bloggers, twitterers, facebooklings, and so forth, are able to impinge upon the public consciousness in new and historically unprecedented ways. “Facts”€ are concocted to order, and subsequent “€œfact-checks”€ are concocted, too; opponents thus label each other constantly as liars. Discussion of every topic is politicized, in the lynch-mob spirit of shrieking moral outrage. The old-fashioned newsman’€™s criterion of “relevance”€ is replaced by cross-links to imaginary events and conspiracy theories. Attention is suddenly focused on the most unlikely details. The Internet itself is configured to encourage bizarre confirmation subcultures; users can funnel a round-the-clock supply of whatever “information”€ might please them. This provides them with a Wundpflaster against their aching kognitive Dissonanz. All public policy must be determined not only in live time, but in the full knowledge that at any moment, anyone can become the object of a Scheiße-Sturms (“shit storms”€).”

— David Warren Essays in Idleness


HT:Liberty’s Torch: An Epic Tirade


Pimpin’ her out to the master

Somehow though, I’€™m not 100% comfortable conflating the horror of Hollywood starlets “forced”€ to watch Harvey the Prev pleasure himself in the shower with the story Oprah related  of “a woman named Recy Taylor who was raped at gunpoint in 1944 by six white males as she walked home from church in Alabama.” But I guess that’€™s what Hollywood does: makes everyone else’€™s story all about them. MOTUS A.D.

Hard to say exactly what she can do, but Drudge seems to feel that mouth can carry on one Democratic White House tradition.

Thai men THIRST for at least two more inches of white privilege: Thai penis whitening fad drives social media nuts

In this crazed historical moment, Ambassador Nikki Haley is, as usual, a voice of sanity. She responds to George Stephanopoulos’s faux concerns about the president. Notable quote: “Having been governor, now an ambassador, I’m always amazed at the lengths people will go to to lie for money and for power.” Power Line

Notice something missing recently? “Leaks”…. Most of the direct (“small group”) FBI (CoIntel), DOJ (NatSec Division) and Special Counsel co-conspirators are only able to talk amid themselves. They know by now they are being monitored and they have strong suspicion the size of the surveillance upon them. [Hi guys.] No-one else is willing to put themselves at risk now. Congressional allies now view the small group as carrying a legal ebola virus. Contact is now a risk. The Silence of The Shams… | The Last Refuge

Germans –Doing the content burning others won’t do: One thing is very clear: Content moderators, such as those in Essen and Berlin, will be in increasing demand in the future. Mark Zuckerberg recently announced that Facebook intended to increase the number of content moderators worldwide from 10,000 to 20,000. Companies such as Arvato and CCC could therefore likely soon receive more contracts. A Visit to Facebook’s Recently Opened Center for Deleting Content

When Will the World End? I know with complete certainty when the world will end.  It will end on June 28, 1914. Had Archduke Franz Ferdinand lived, we would almost certainly inhabit a better world.  There would have been no war; he was the leader of the peace party in Vienna.  Without the vast civilizational catastrophe that was World War I, the West would not have lost faith in itself, its culture, and religion.  Instead of cultural Marxism, we could still have Christian, conservative monarchy as the West’€™s leading paradigm.  I doubt the House of Hapsburg, which had twice repelled the Moslem hordes from the gates of Vienna, would have opened those gates to more than a million Islamic migrants. 
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I bought a Harley, of sorts, back in 1974 and I was 19 at the time.

Hanging around a marina waiting for them to finish up welding a lower unit for an Evinrude inboard/outboard engine my dad and I were rebuilding I spotted a cardboard box in a fenced in area in the back lot. Inspection showed it to contain Harley parts and a frame close by. I asked the owner about it and he said $500 and I could take it home. I went to the house and told my dad and he got all wobbly and handed me 5 crisp C-notes from his wallet. Back at the house we found the box, and 3 other boxes that went with it, contained parts from 3 old Harley’s with most of the parts going to a 49 Knucklehead. So that’s what we built. Took about 3 months from boxes to running but still had a ways to go.

With my dad next to me on his 69 Harley and me driving the 49 we headed down Gladiolus Blvd to the state inspection station to get it inspected, registered, and tagged. Going into the first curve just east of Harlem Heights the 49 locked tight at about 60 mph. If it had been the front wheel things would have gotten nasty quick but since it was the rear wheel a skid spontaneously started about the same time 20 mph were knocked off causing me to slide up onto the tank and losing my balance. The sides of the road curved down steeply and that’s where I ended up, at the bottom of the easement with both me and the bike tore up. Leaving the 49 there I rode home with my dad and got patched up then we took the truck back and picked it up and brought it home.

Under close inspection we found the engine had seized. We had spent I don’t know how many hours putting that engine together the right way. A machine shop was commissioned to blueprint the crankshaft, plane the block, barrels and heads, port and relieve the valves, etc. The barrels were bored .30 over and new pistons and wrist pins were installed. It ran really good.

As we tried to determine what went wrong, I discovered that in the bottom of the external oil tank was a small pipe leading to a pipe that fed the engine. In the bottom of that tank was a double edged razor blade that I presumed a previous owner had used to scrape off a gasket and it had fallen it. The slot in the razor blade was where the oil flowed through and in it’s limited quantity it had quickly caused the engine to heat up, swell, and seize. As this happened very quickly and was shut down very quickly the damage was minimal. No galling of the piston skirts or any of that stuff. All gaskets were removed with close attention spent on gasket removing tools and materials, and replaced and several trips around the block after assembly showed everything was alright. We got the thing registered.

After a few days of continuous rain my dad and I set out for a semi-long haul on his 69 and my 49 to see what we could see. Knowing that this thing was a beast of over 100 hp and because of it’s 2 alternating cylinders (thump, thump, thump, thump) and under the advice of a friend I installed “titty grips” that allowed the hands to sort of “hover” over the surface of the grips affording a little bit of comfort.

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“It wasn’t easy. You got the whole media, the whole world, trashing him. And he didn’t just ‘barely’ win, he spanked Hillary. The man actually took a paycut to become president.”

In the next few weeks all working Americans are going to notice that the one number they all know –sum of the money in their paychecks after withholding — will be more than it was at this time last year. And money in the check after taxes is the money that everybody notices. More money equals (Dare I say it?) WINNNNNNNNNNNING!