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Mirror Mirror

Those damn Chinese commies are at it again! We all know that the omnipresent tag on goods “Made in China” means cheaper, shoddier, and at times dangerous to small animals, children, morons and democrats. But since cheaper trumps shoddy and risky, we swipe the debit card and take them away regardless of what may be their hidden Fu Manchu intent, which is to undermine the American way of life. Nowhere is this more apparent than in that most insidious product now coming out of the slave cloning pens of Peking and roboticized neuro-protein vats of the Matrix caverns beneath the Gobi desert. I speak of the leading item in their arsenal of anti-American moral disintegrators,  the dreaded Chinese mirror.

It seems that when I wasn’t looking secret Chinese agents replaced my trusted and faithful American bathroom mirrors with a mirror “Made in China.” It is a hideous substitution and one that would go unnoticed except for the fact that from time to time I look in my mirror for this or that grooming ritual. When I do I know that the mirror has become a Chinese mirror because the effect is immediately and consistently horrifying. Briefly put, the person in the mirror is someone that does not resemble me at all. I don’t know how he got in my mirror but he’s got to go.

Like all of us, I have a perfectly good idea of what I look like in my mind’s eye. It is, indeed, so perfect an image that I haven’t had   to renovate it for over thirty years. Unlike the Chinese mirrors in my house, my mind’s eye knows that I have a well-cut chin, assertive full-face and sharp in profile. It does not add the two or three secondary chins that the Chinese mirror, through some Fu Manchu optical oriental magic, slaps on.

In my mind, I am quite safe in the knowledge that my brow is unfurrowed and that the lines around my eyes are only there for a brief moment during laughter. The Chinese mirror seems, especially in the morning, to be able to carve in the brow lines with a dull chain saw and make the lines around the eyes resemble the cracks seen in ill-maintained Dutch portraits from the age of Rembrandt. How the Chinese manage timed optics in ordinary cheap mirrors is beyond me, but they probably stole it from an American inventor and professional sadist.

Another power of the cheap Chinese mirror is the ability to actually amplify gravity. I know to a certainty that my face is as it was 30 years ago (the last time I really checked) is well structured and taut as a snare drum in a high school marching band. The Chinese mirror in my bathroom seems to emit some sort of force field that actually makes it appear that my face has fallen towards the center of the earth. If a Chinese mirror can do that to my face I hate to think of what the similar technology could do to the fighters and bombers of the USAF. Not only that but the mirror can also puff one’s face outward while dropping it at the same time. Sheer twisted genius!

Finally, the Chinese mirror, through some sort of uncanny symbiosis between its fun-house surface and advanced nanomicrochips grown in the organ banks of Chinese prisons, actually has the power to project brown age spots onto my skin and have them follow me around in the mirror no matter how I twist and turn my face. Very spooky and very persistent since no matter how much I scrub my face and the mirror the spots seem to stay exactly where the mirror places them on first glance in the morning.

I’ve considered scrapping the Chinese mirror and spending the monumental sums that a high-quality French mirror would cost so that I could see myself again as I know I am, but I am a cheap bastard and have decided not to give the French the money or the Chinese the satisfaction. I’ve looked around for an American mirror but I’ve discovered there are only two areas of the country that manufacture them any more; five blocks in the West Village near “The Ramrod,” and the Castro District in San Francisco. Made by the Rainbow Glass Blowers and known as The Dorian Gray in New York and The Oscar Wilde in the Castro, the mirrors are more affordable but do no reflect you as you are but only as you would be if you were more fabulous.

Since I’m now about as fabulous as I get I’m sticking with the lying, cheating Chinese mirror.

But I do have some standards.

I recently crossed a picket line of impossibly rich progressive busybodies at Walmart and bought a full length Chinese mirror. I did so because of complaints of female origin that it was impossible in my house to see if what one was wearing matched one’s accessories. Why seeing yourself full-length before going out is important I don’t really understand. I’ve always thought that if you have your shirt, shoes, boxers and pants on you’re pretty much good to go. (Socks optional.) Nevertheless I am reliably informed by GynoAmericans of all persuasions that a full-length mirror is something no home should be without.

So, I broke down and got the full-length Chinese mirror from the Walmart toxic waste dump department, carried it home and installed it in my closet where it seemed it would do the most good.

It did not occur to me that this mirror, being four times the size of the bathroom Chinese mirror, would have four times the power. Indeed, it seems to have the power of teleportation. I say this because the very next morning when I opened the closet to dress I discovered that the mirror had somehow brought into my home a strange man who seemed, in the midsection at least, to be six months pregnant.

That mirror and the stranger it held is now in the recycling bin marked “Hazardous Waste.” Me? I’m writing to some contacts at Disney to see if I can get one of those Mirror Mirror On the Wall items from Snow White. After all, if it worked for the Queen….

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How To Be More Productive

“To really become a top hand the thing that must always be on your mind is how can I work smarter and smarter and harder and harder in order to get as much work done as I possibly can by the time the sun goes down.”

That’s Scott Wadsworth, a carpenter, contractor, and blacksmith in Oregon. Wadsworth is one of my “Everyday Heroes,” a man who is thoughtful, skilled, straight-talking, no BS, and deep down decent man. He is the quintessential man’s man; an American archetype. His YouTube channel is filled with fascinating, no nonsense, videos on tools, blacksmithing, and construction. His current major project is the building of a home in Oregon from the ground up that begins with the purchase of the ground itself.

I’ve never built anything bigger than a bookcase and that was a cob job from start to finish. My single toolbox is full of this kind of screwdriver and that kind of Visegrip along with my go-to tool for every household repair task, duct tape. That doesn’t matter where Scott Wadsworth is concerned. He still fascinates and instructs with tips on how to split wood or why you must always in life “strike while the iron is hot.”

Wadsworth’s resume is one of an American life well lived and still growing and unfolding:

Scott started working in 1974. His career as a craftsman has encompassed logging, saw milling, guiding elk hunters, production framing, commercial concrete, steel fabrication, blacksmithing and every aspect of residential carpentry and contracting. Scott has been married to his high school sweetheart Kelly Comerford for 39 years. They have four children and nine grandchildren (with 2 more on the way).  Who We Are — Essential Craftsman

But just as the map is not the territory, the man is not the resume. Like other decent and good men in history, Scott is a carpenter who has become a teacher. There’s more to be learned from him than just how to build a house. He shows you why and how to make sure your house is built on solid ground.

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Let’s Review 60: More Diversity! Edition

The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.

And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.

— Four Preludes on Playthings of the Wind Sandburg

Here comes more diversity! Germany news: Duisburg state of emergency as 60 fight in street with MACHETES

Great nations write their autobiography in three manuscripts: the book of their deeds, the book of their words and the book of their art. Not one of these books can be understood unless we read the two others, but of the three the only trustworthy one is the last. — Ruskin

The First U.S. Census Asked Just Four Questions The number of free white males aged: under 16 years and of 16 years and upward. Number of free white females. Number of other free persons. Number of slaves

One shudders in horror to realize that it has come to this, that it is our fate to live in such a time, when the enemy of Civilization is not only within the gates, but occupying all the leading academic chairs and in control of all the leading museums, cultural institutions, and even the book reviews. Never Yet Melted

You’re Offended? Go Fuck Yourself. The modern American “liberal” is a statist cocksucker who cannot tolerate even the existence of dissent. They claim to be “tolerant,” but a quick discussion will lead to them admitting they don’t have to tolerate those hatey haters who hate, which is anyone they disagree with, even if the facts conclusively support the other party. They are a cancer on society and, as in several past societies, at some point they will have to be exterminated.

Dear Gun Grabbers – Let’s be honest. You are a fail. You’ve been a fail for years. Gun control is a losing issue, especially in election years, and no amount of hysterical kiddies, propped up by statist liars at billionaire-funded gun control organizations, will make it a winning issue at the polls. Controlling Behavior: Ain’t Gonna Happen – Victory Girls Blog
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Climb Out On Easter Sunday

      “If I take the wings of the morning,
      and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea….”
— Psalm 139


We rise in a banking curve of morning’s pure velocity
over fallow fields and grids of neighborhoods,
over ponds painted with slick scum oozing
— from the oil pans of countless sunken cars,
— from punctured sacks of toxic trash,
— from fleshless graves of abandoned murders,
of missing persons filed in muck.


We rise embraced by first-class armchairs,
pondering the crisply printed histories
of yesterday’s most meaningless events.
We rise up above our lives and lies,
above, alone, away, alas, good-bye
to families and to friends, to all terrestrial ties.
Our very cellulars, by strict law silenced
so that our murmurs not disturb
the delicate electronics on which so much
at this tremulous moment depends
that we dare not think on it, and so select
music of our choice from mid-heaven’s jukebox.


We rise in the faltering dark
into the pale flicker of a cosseted sun
slatted in flashes through fingers of cloud,
up into the white blood of the sinewed sky,
and so our day and world slips by.


We rise up to where all breath is snow,
so far that all above becomes below,
up until the sky is seen as vapor,
smeared white on blue construction paper
and framed by dark remorseless space.
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A Cut-Rate Resurrection

“Why seek ye the living among the dead?”Luke 24

Beginning on October 13th of 2011 I spent eleven days among the dead and then was returned to life. Why and for what I still cannot say. What I can say is that, in some brief and infinitesimal way, I have had a small shimmer of resurrection shine upon my dead shadow and raise me back into the light. It was a tiny touch and yet it would seem that was all it took. This time. Next time I have no doubt it will require divine intervention. Perhaps it did this time. I have no way of knowing.

Nor can I say that I know what it “was like” to be dead because of my death I have neither shred of memory nor the slightest sense of a blank space between one moment of life and the next moment of life. My mind holds only two moments; the one melded against the other like some trick of Japanese joinery.

In the first moment I am standing on the front porch of my house looking across the road at the playground sometime on the afternoon of October 13, 2011. There is the impression of small children running about in bright clothing. The sky is clear and there is sunlight from overhead. Shadows are small pools moving beneath the children. It is in the high 50s neither warm nor cold.

In the second moment I am cold. I am lying in a bed covered with only a sheet. I am looking past my feet in a room ringed with drapes hanging on rails from a ceiling. At the foot of the bed a man in a blue tunic is sitting in a pose similar to Rodin’s “The Thinker.” His arm is bare to the shoulder and he has a Maori tattoo on it. I think, for a moment, that someone is speaking to me from the side, something about being in a coma. Then I am gone again.

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“A thing strange is happening — there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh and he has raised up all who have slept ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh and hell trembles with fear.

“He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, he who is both God and the son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the cross, the weapon that had won him the victory. At the sight of him Adam, the first man he had created, struck his breast in terror and cried out to everyone: ‘My Lord be with you all.’ Christ answered him: ‘And with your spirit.’ He took him by the hand and raised him up, saying: ‘Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.’

“I am your God, who for your sake have become your son. Out of love for you and for your descendants I now by my own authority command all who are held in bondage to come forth, all who are in darkness to be enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell.

“Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who were created in my image. Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in me and I am in you; together we form only one person and we cannot be separated. For your sake I, your God, became your son; I, the Lord, took the form of a slave; I, whose home is above the heavens, descended to the earth and beneath the earth. For your sake, for the sake of man, I became like a man without help, free among the dead. For the sake of you, who left a garden, I was betrayed to the Jews in a garden, and I was crucified in a garden.” Holy Saturday and the Harrowing of Hell

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“Ecce Homo”



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“We do not die period. We die comma.” — Rev. Donald Sensing

In all of God’s created universe, in all of God’s given time, one, just one, rose among the thorns we became and which we shall remain until….

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Judas: A Saint for Our Season

If we betray the people who love us, what’s to stop us from betraying the country that makes us possible?

Did you ever break a promise?
Did you ever break a vow?
Have you traded love for money,
And are you happy now?

Did you kiss him in the garden,
And then abandon him to fate?
Are the first and final sins  forgiven,
Or is it far too late?

When it comes to discovering new ways to cheapen the human soul, the “professional intellectuals” of our society have cornered the market. So it was in 2006 when, timed carefully to cash in on the Easter holiday, the “serious” editors of National Geographic chose to release their gleanings from a sheaf of rags and call them “The Gospel of Judas.”

Having risen through the echo chamber of “higher” education and survived the ruthless but quiet vetting process of their “profession,” these editors knew full well that what they were putting out into the world was not a “gospel.” They also knew that calling it a “gospel” would ensure greater attention and greater sales. Beyond that, the editors, secular cultists all, also got a quiet little tingle by having, in their minds, “stuck it” to the Christian church once again. As usual, such secularists love to stick it to Christianity. Addicts of auto-erotic spiritual asphyxiation, their onanistic pleasure in these deeds is only enhanced if they can be performed during the most holy days of the Christian calendar. Only then can maximum profit and pleasure be assured.

This dark thrill of denigration has the immediate benefit of pleasingly confirming them in their own Church of Zero, and the secondary benefit of being much, much safer than, say, sticking it to Islam, a faith that enforces its demands for respect with bombs and beheadings, and whose central message to all cowards is “Don’t mess with Muhammad.” The sad fact of our modern era is that if you denigrate Islam, you often have to bag up body parts and hose down the sidewalk, but when you denigrate Christianity the most you need to clean up after yourself is a warm washcloth.

Your gedankenexperiment for today is to ask yourself, regardless of your religious beliefs, if the editors of National Geographic, being given an ancient manuscript that “proved” the Koran was nothing more than the blatherings of some ergot-besotted Bedouin who had munched one too many hallucinogenic plants while hanging out in a cave near Mecca, would have published the same “proof” as loudly and as broadly? Would they have done so, or would they have issued a Press Release citing concerns for the “provenance” of the manuscript and their employees’ safety? Regardless of your religious beliefs, you know the shameful answer.

But beyond these considerations, the publication of the “Gospel” of Judas has another, deeper and more lasting benefit to our neophytes of nihilism. It puts one of the final elements of their anti-morality play at center stage. It seeks to sanctify treason.

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 As long as we have Opening Day every Spring and the World Series every Autumn, I will continue to believe to the adamantine rock bottom of my soul that God blesses America and has an exceptional plan for this nation.

Look at the moment above captured in Game 1 of the 2009 World Series. It could be hung in the Norman Rockwell Museum and not be a tittle of a jot out of place. In every face (except Swisher’s) is an expression of pure joy as they all realize that on its way to them, at that very moment, is every baseball fan’s most cherished dream from childhood: The chance in the stands to catch a fly ball in a World Series game.

In another few instants only one fan will come up with it, but in this moment all have a chance at it and all are transported at the opportunity to transcend themselves and enter into something bigger, brighter, and finer than their lives would otherwise be. In this instant, preserved now forever, they are all in The Show.

And that’s the way it is in America. That’s why we see many footprints leading in and few coming out. For with all our quarrels, our disagreements, our struggles, and our incessant bickering, this remains a land where you can always get another turn at bat, where you can always, right up until six months after death, get another chance to swing for the bleachers. And where, even if you aren’t a player in “The Show,” you can buy a seat out on the right field line and wait there for the crack of the bat, the rise of the ball against the sky, and… it’s coming, it’s coming…. and whap, you got it. You’re in “The Show.”

And in that moment life, the universe, and everything else comes down to one great roar of joy from yourself and the rest of the crowd.

Baseball, from a hot grounder on Opening Day to a high fly ball in an Autumn sky is the arc of the essential America. Nothing like us ever was.

“I got it!”

“No, I got it!”

“No, WE got it!”

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Let’s Review 59: Hard Day on the Planet

It appears that the out-of-control-crashing-Chinese-satellite, Tiangong-1, is going to make reentry on Easter and there is nowhere I can go to escape it.

The map below shows the relative probabilities of debris landing within a given region. Yellow indicates locations that have a higher probability while green indicates areas of lower probability. Blue areas have zero probability of debris reentry since Tiangong-1 does not fly over these areas (north of 42.7° N latitude or south of 42.7° S latitude). These zero probability areas constitute about a third of the total Earth’s surface area.  — MOTUS A.D.: #OpenWhineWednesday

The Horrors of Anglerfish Mating    When ceratioid males go looking for love, they follow a species-specific pheromone to a female, who will often aid their search further by flashing her bioluminescent lure. Once the male finds a suitable mate, he bites into her belly and latches on until his body fuses with hers. Their skin joins together, and so do their blood vessels, which allows the male to take all the nutrients he needs from his host/mate’s blood. The two fish essentially become one. With his body attached to hers like this, the male doesn’t have to trouble himself with things like seeing or swimming or eating like a normal fish. The body parts he doesn’t need anymore—eyes, fins, and some internal organs—atrophy, degenerate and wither away, until he’s little more than a lump of flesh hanging from the female, taking food from her and providing sperm whenever she’s ready to spawn. 

Carbon Dioxide (CO2) is MOSTLY OXYGEN!   Politically correct but deceptive language is dangerous because it dumbs down important science debates and inappropriately influences millions of people, and ultimately, government policy. People educated in the sciences must complain loudly whenever they hear such mistakes.

 David Hogg, Crisis Actor, forgets his lines The full transcript has Hogg claiming to have been at the school, going home, then going back again in order to film and perform for the cameras. Of course, we have not actually been presented with any evidence of his actually having been there earlier. And more importantly, if Hogg went home and got his camera AFTER the shooting, then how did he have it in the closet DURING the shooting. As I always point out after these staged TV dramas, the one thing we absolutely know did not happen is whatever the media’s current Official Story is. If you’re dubious about this, if you actually take their reports at face value, allow me to direct your attention to the recent news that the father of the Pulse shooter was an FBI informant for 11 years. Are you noticing the pattern yet?

Day Walkers    Just as the vampires in the novel carried the day by adapting to the daytime and using that to subvert the advantages of the human, the alt-right needs to become day walkers. If instead of a Spencer strolling on campus to get killed, imagine an alt-right guy getting an IT job at the NYTimes. Imagine if Pax Dickinson was still operating as a CTO at a major media company, while helping the alt-right. It’s the reason the Left is obsessed with doxxing people. They lie awake at night thinking about day walkers getting inside the wire. [click to continue…]

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[FILE UNDER: “It’s Probably Nothing:”Odd ‘cloud’ seen over the skies of AZ, CA, Mexico ]

“The humans have a bifurcated social structure that divides them into two major groups. The first group, the majority of the population, appears to do most of the productive work in their economy. With respect to the second, much smaller group, a tiny fraction owns almost all of the wealth and occupies most positions of economic and political authority at the highest, directorial levels; the rest occupy bureaucratic positions in the lower operational levels of their State, or positions in the judiciary and above all, the apparatuses of public education and communication.

“A striking feature of daily life among the humans is that the second group subjects the first to a campaign of concerted, continuous, and incessant humiliation and psychological terror. Day and night, carefully-crafted propaganda blares out from every apparatus of public instruction, and all of their many and ubiquitous types of communications media, derogating the first group (in Earth jargon, “straight White males”, or alternately, “the Right”) and collectively impugning it for a vast and seemingly infinite litany of crimes and outrages (many of which accusations appear to be transparently fabricated and wholly imaginary). A standing feature of this propaganda is that it ridicules, insults, and blasphemes the religion of the Rightists and desecrates the memory of their ancestors, for example in ritual public vandalism and destruction of monuments the White males built to honour those ancestors.

“In the face of this hectoring and abuse, which every citizen regardless of age or social standing is allowed and encouraged to commit, the White males are exhorted to “check your privilege and be quiet”. (“Privilege” refers to universal legal rights that, according to the official State doctrine, all humans enjoy by virtue of their species-being, but at the same time scandalously unjust when claimed or exercised by one of the White males) A strict public decorum requires them to not only acquiesce without any contest or objection to the accusations made against them, no matter how seemingly improbable, but to be deferential and apologize profusely and abjectly. Any objection they may raise, or defense they may make, is considered a crime of violence- and, notwithstanding the otherwise jealously guarded monopoly on the administration of justice accorded to the State at law, anybody may take it upon himself to avenge the outrage personally and physically or otherwise punish the offender with impunity. The offender is imprisoned if he resists, and in any case altogether dishabilitated and banned from social, economic, or political participation without any sort of legal procedure or possibility of appeal, notwithstanding the State cult of the “rule of law”.

“Perhaps most striking of all is that, notwithstanding a sentimental exaltation of marriage and family life at the level of popular culture, that the family is a central instrument of State policy, and that population growth has long been regarded as an especially urgent interest of the State, seemingly no effort is spared to undermine the White family, above all the authority of the father; the latter is “patriarchy” and deemed an especially heinous form of barbarism to be eradicated. The White father is exhaustively stripped of all of authority over his wife and children in a way that seems calculated to add insult to injury. The wife of a White male is not only allowed, but exhorted as a sort of duty of citizenship to divorce her husband, whereupon she is customarily awarded custody over their children and most of his present assets and future earnings, to be spent at her discretion.

“Whatever his marital status, his children are exhorted in the course of their education, and once again as highly commendable civic behaviour, to serial sexual delinquency if female, and to homosexuality and, more recently, self-castration and public repudiation of his sex if male. (The latter practice is incentivized in that it is attributed with a certain expiatory-redemptive efficacy by the State religion; it is deemed sufficient atonement for the congenital infamy of “Whiteness”, and entitles the youth who undergoes it to rights, opportunities, and status that would otherwise be denied him). Not only can any female elect to have her yet-unborn child murdered in the womb with impunity and without any consent from its father, much less hers, the State is required to subsidize the procedure, and the abortionist uniquely exempted from any regulatory scrutiny under the police power of the State, which is otherwise omnipotent and omniscient.

“Last but not least, a campaign is underway to strip the Rightists of their right to own small arms for sport and personal defense- even though juridically this right is considered “Constitutional”, viz. inviolate. To underscore the avowed intention of humiliating and emasculating the Rightist family men, the orchestrators of the campaign have opted to use minor children as the public face of the campaign.

“The second group are colloquially known as “Leftists”. The Leftists appear to occupy a status similar to the twice-born castes of the Hindus, the elect of the Calvinists, and strata that claim to regenerate status and are socially recognized as such, in other religions that exist on Earth. The Leftists claim to possess, by a type of special grace, a special gnosis that elevates them to a singularly rarefied form of moral and ethical consciousness, a holy state known as being “woke”. The “woke” individual has a privileged ability to discern right from wrong and justice from injustice, and on the basis of this charisma “speaks truth to power” on behalf of “oppressed” peoples that the woke have determined to have suffered injustice, above all at the hands of the Rightists and White men. Since membership in the ranks of the woke is based in charisma, in a claim to special grace, there are no fixed criteria of entry into its ranks, although all White men who have not undergone the aforementioned expiatory castration are disqualified, as is any White woman or non-white man who is of Christian religion or otherwise accused of harboring Rightist thoughts.”

RTWDamnedT @ The Will to Power and Contemporary Politics: A Martian Perspective
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Of Tory Hunting, Colonels, and Ears

In which we learn that history as it happens is not always as pretty as its myth told later.

During the Revolutionary War, many loyalists were treated brutally –€” like the tarred and feathered man in this print. When the war wrapped up, loyalists often found they had to fend for themselves, or flee.

“But, General,” I hear you say, “RWDS exacting vigilante justice against officials implementing intolerable policies and their supporters, just isn’t who we are as a country. American principles don’t allow for these methods to defend liberty.”

“Let’s talk about “Tory Hunting.”

“In the lead up to the Revolution, during the war, and in the decades that followed, gross attrocities occured (by today’s standards,) long sanitized in most history books.
In several instances, British tax collectors, agents of the crown, and loyalist sympathizers were tared and feathered. Many “ridden off on a rail.” Some just disappeared or were found hanged, sending a message.

“Persecution of Tories became official after the Declaration of Independence, when the Continental Congress and the newly declared free states passed confiscation and banishment acts, seizing property, and PHYSICALLY REMOVED anti-colonialists from their midsts.” —Thoughts of the illustrious @GenAugustoP


The Colonel by Carolyn Forche

“What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English.

“Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man’s legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid.

“The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table.

“My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this.

“He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. ‘I am tired of fooling around,’ he said. ‘As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves.’

“He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. ‘Something for your poetry, no?’  he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.”

Carolyn Forché : The Poetry Foundation

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Let’s Review 58: Blind Item Veto Edition


Abduction – Woodsen County, Kansas, 1897    Alex Hamilton of Woodsen County, Kansas, was awakened at 10:30 one night by the sound of a disturbance in the cow pasture on his farm. Peering into the night, he observed a huge airship, some 300-feet long, hovering just 30-feet over the frightened herd of cattle. A brightly-lighted control compartment under the craft was occupied by six strange beings clearly visible through transparent panels in the walls of their vehicle. Hearing Hamilton and others approaching, the weird creatures revved-up a big 30-foot rotor under the aircraft which lifted it 300 feet up into the air. Air the same time, a spotlight from the hovering vessel played on Hamilton and company, who had succeeded in getting within fifty yards of the craft. As the startling airship moved off to the northwest, it carried off a two-year old heifer dangling at the end of a cable dropped about the struggling animal’s neck. The hide, legs, and head of the unlucky cow were discovered four miles away the next day.

The Slopper      Many versions exist, but all approximate a cheeseburger smothered in green chile sauce and more cheese, with french fries on the side. One eatery stacks the burger patty on top of a grilled cheese sandwich. Another adds raw onions and oyster crackers upon request, akin to the toppings found on another decadent American classic, Cincinnati chili.

More! More Mexicans! Come On In! MOAR!!   Remains of 240 people buried by ‘The Soup Maker’ found in Mexico  have been discovered in Mexico as authorities say he could have killed 650
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THIS JUST IN: I Refuse to Lose My Mind Over the Omnibus Fiasco, and So Should You – Kurt Schlichter (Excerpt:)

What was the alternative?

Step One: Veto the Bill

Step Two: ?

Step Three: Congress Passes Conservative Spending Bill We All Love

If anyone can explain Step Two to me, I’d sure appreciate it.
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The Bitch

They didn’t want to turn her on but they did. I never want to turn her on but I do. After they had turned her on for awhile they grew tired of listening to her. After listening to her for even ten seconds I’m enraged by her. Somewhere along the long road to their duck hunting camp they named her “The Bitch” and turned her off. At random points on any road I drive I want to throw “The Bitch” out the window and run over her until she’s nothing but a flat black splotch on the asphalt.

“The Bitch” has her uses. She’s helped me find my way to unknown destinations and out of places where I’m hopelessly lost. It doesn’t matter. I hate the very thought of her. She’s the worst nag since Eve made Adam slap on the fig leaf and remarked on how small it was. She’s Lilith and Delilah and the “Whatever Girl.” She’s the most passive-aggressive talker since the last speech by Barack Obama. She’s “The Bitch.”

It’s not what “The Bitch” does and doesn’t do but the voice of “The Bitch” that instantly sets my teeth on fire. It’s so pale and distantly grating that it draws me into a conversation even though I’ve got nothing to say to “The Bitch” and she isn’t listening.

“In sixth tenths of a mile, turn right on Mac Graw Av-en-you.”

“Got it.”

“In two tenths of a mile turn right on Mac Graw Av-en-you.”

“I said I’ve got it.”

“Turn right on Mac Graw Av-en-you.”

“Shut up. Just SHUT UP! I GOT IT. I GOT IT! Here, just to show you I’ll turn LEFT on ‘Mac Graw Av-en-you,’ bitch.”

And I turn left just to spite her and get about ten yards up the street when I hear her say the one thing that makes me want to strangle her with her charging cord:

“Re-cal-que-lating….”

Recalculating? Shit. Here it comes….

“In two tenths of a mile turn left on Harper and then turn left to Queen Anne Av-en-you… In sixth tenths of a mile, turn right on Mac Graw Av-en-you….”

Nag, nag, nag…. Short of pulling the plug nothing, but nothing, will shut “The Bitch” up. I don’t know what sort of market research came up with the voice of “The Bitch” as the optimum voice for a GPS unit, but I suspect knew what they were doing all along. They were looking for the optimum voice that would drive men out of their minds. And they succeeded. Sadists.

For added insanity, try handing the bitch to a woman who’s driving with you and have her tell you what “The Bitch” is saying at the same time “The Bitch” is saying it. No jury of 12 men would convict.

And don’t tell me to reset “The Bitch” to that English Accent choice. She’s just bitchier with the bright tang of British smarm smeared on top. She’s “The Brit Bitch.”

I hate “The Bitch.” I hate her every time I hear her say “Re-cal-que-lating….” I’ve been known to set her destination to “Home,” and then get on the freeway and drive fifty miles in the other direction… just to hear her ever more passive-aggressive and faintly irritated plaint of “Re-cal-que-lating….” every time I pass an off-ramp.

She’s “The Bitch” now and forever. No other female voice can even hope to come close to her voice. It is seared, SEARED, into my memory.

One of these days I’m going to take a very long drive into the heart of Death Valley and dump her. I’d do it today if I didn’t need her so much.

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