ex luce ad tenebras
From someone on Quora: Did some husbands in the 1950's really get their wives lobotomized?
Yes, they did. Men who were psychiatrists (meaning they are an M.D.) had the authority to have anyone committed to a mental institution against their will, and to be medicated against their will. The treatments in the mental hospital could, and often did, include a lobotomy. Electroshock therapy was also popular.
Once the woman was quiescent (for whatever reason) she would have to institutionalized somewhere, and the institution could be out of state, nor did the name have to be revealed to anyone, including her relatives and children.
The most recent study that I’m aware of took place in the late 1970s. Three psychology doctoral students checked themselves into a mental institution. Upon arrival, they were assured they could leave anytime they wanted to - which was a lie. After a few weeks the experiment was revealed to the staff and the doctors, and the three were diagnosed as being delusional. It was only until they admitted to hearing voices when they checked in, but had been cured and no longer heard any voices that they were released.
Under the right circumstances, this scenario can still happen today. I know of one case where a man was hospitalized and treated for 27 years, until someone finally discovered he didn’t speak any English; I gather his first language was an obscure Slavic dialect. In another case a borderline developmentally challenged woman has hospitalized, and on her first night in the hospital her roommate murdered her. The murder was never investigated, nor was the perpetrator charged.
Mental health workers are only too happy to declare someone to be a danger to themselves (suicidal) or a danger to others. The fact that these statements are all opinion and a pack of lies has nothing to do with what happens next, which is hospitalization on the psyche unit and appropriate medication to keep the person quiet. With HIPAA laws the way they are, it’s as bad today as it ever was. Your spouse, child, or relative may be incarcerated in a mental institution, and no one at that institution will even admit he’s a patient there.
The only real hope anyone has of getting out before permanent damage is done to them is if a judge intervenes, and it should be a Federal judge. Other than that, a person can try an actual escape (as in a jail break), but you’d better have someone to help you once you’re out. Meanwhile, get in line for the shock shop.
I occasionally scan through a social media platform called Next Door, mainly because it costs nothing and every once in a while I get some news about crime, taxation, and how our lunatic fringe lefty local government is giving me the shaft. It always cheers me up to know that I'm not alone.
The other day I stumbled across a message from some well-meaning good Samaritan, and decided to help out a little.
Here's the message from Ms. Samaritan:
Eva's been housebound since early January when she got a kidney transplant. Eva just turned 11, and she is in fifth grade. Doctors do not want her around anyone who might be contagious. I sent her a card and it made her day to get mail. Help bring a smile to her face. Just mail her a card to:
1912 STATE ROUTE 256
REYNOLDSBURG OH 43068-3131
Some well meaning soul included me on his spam list, and as a result I fat-fingered the keyboard and ended up running this video instead of deleting it. I'm kind of glad that I did.
For those of you who have never heard of her, and up until today I hadn't, Lauren Southern is a red hot blonde from Canada who is also a decent journalist. If you believe her website, she reports on the stories that commercial media refuses to cover, or that commercial media lies about.
Like Muslim violence in Australia, for instance.
Keep reading for an option on two outstanding videos and an islamophobic, misanthropic rant by yours truly. Warning: If you're a thin skinned perpetually pissed off little snow flake, better take a pass on this one - you'll be terminally offended.
I think Australia started out as a penal colony where those tea slurping lime juicers sent their undesirables. Eventually there was a revolt of some kind, and the last I knew it was a sort of live and let live place. If you weren't an abo, anyway. The abos had a bad time of it, and someone made a film about it called Rabbit-Proof Fence. If you ever get the chance, rent it and watch it. It's pretty much a true story and a decent film into the bargain.
Getting back to my original rant, Australia used to be thought of as a free country, but that was sometime back. Now it looks like things are getting worse.
The first video was made by Lauren Southern and published on 7/27/2018. It shows the journalist and her camera crew walking close to the Muslim 'no go' zone, a neighborhood called Lakemba, which is in south-western Sydney, in the state of New South Wales, Australia. The border of Lakemba is protected by the official law enforcement officers in Sydney.
Australia is no longer a free country.
This, right here, is how it starts. The carpet kissers moved in, all nods and smiles, and established Little Baghdad. Now they aren't so friendly. In fact, the cops are keeping the Christians out of the area for fear of a disturbance. If you believe the cop, that is.
If this hasn't happened in the United States, it's only because someone like Lauren hasn't found and documented it yet.
I got this story courtesy of my Internet buddy, Old NFO, where he announced that a Texas author was getting hosed over by pirates in Canada, the Canadian government, and the U.S. Government. You can read about it Boosting the Signal as it amuses you to do so. Continue reading my own diatribe at your own risk, knowing that if you're a snowflake and I've somehow failed to offend you, it isn't for lack of trying.
Here's one to make you stop and ask the eternal question - What the Fuck?!
John Van Stry makes his living as an author. I'll assume he's fairly good at his business, as people are buying his work and saying good things about it. The thing is, some no good son-of-a-bitch Canuck (Travis Robert McCrea) and his beaner friend (Francisco Humberto Dias) have decided to steal John's work and sell electronic copies of it on their website. This is commonly called piracy.
Evidence of the violation is blatant. All you have to do is point your browser at ebook bike and you can see for yourself.
What really gets on my very last nerve is that the Federal government of the United States is aware of this - and does nothing. The Canadian government is equally aware, and does nothing. Both governments are giving these scumbags tacit approval to steal and to sell stolen property.
Being no slouch, John is suing these two swine, but it turns out that attorneys won't work for free, or maybe they think this isn't an ambulance worth chasing. So as it turns out, John could use a few extra bucks, hence he's started a go fund me page. You can check it out at Bring ebook.bike to Justice, and you can read the unofficial legal complaint at Travis Mccrea Lawsuit.
Then, kicking a man when he's down, the jack booted thugs that run Amazon just deleted John's last two novels. No warning, no notification, no explanation of any kind. Both books are gone without a trace. One was released this week, and another was released a few weeks back. The thing is, this affects the position of the books on the Amazon bestseller list, which in turn affects royalties, which has a direct impact on John being able to afford food next week. In layman's terms, you ain't gettin' paid this month, and don't count on next month either.
The amount of pond scum sucked up by this situation is truly immense.
If you have a facebook account, you can find John at John Van Stry on facebook. Look him up and leave the man a few words of encouragement, and if you can spare it, a few bucks into his legal fund. Every dollar counts.
What I'm really wondering about are the other authors involved here. More than a few of these people are notable authors, NYT bestseller lists, various awards and contacts - notables. I'm wondering if a class action suit isn't someplace just over the horizon.
Not to be too much of a wet blanket, but if John wins this one (and it seems like a slam-dunk to me) he still has to collect. Now me, I'd sell the debt to a violent group of motorcycle outlaws with a chapter in Vancouver. Then I'd start watching the Canadian news.
Here's a hoist of the late afternoon bourbon to John and his supporters.
Old NFO complains that he's the target of spammers, and that it's taking him the best part of his sober life to get rid of all the spam messages.
Check it out at %&*#%)!!!, and take a look at one spam message he failed to delete. This one:
Unless you missed the bus, everyone within earshot is aware of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, moonbat extraordinaire, and her Green New Deal. If you're bored or in need of amusement at someone else's expense, you can read about the proposed train wreck here: Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez Releases Green New Deal Outline.
What people with any kind of intelligence wonder is why something like this would even be proposed, as it's completely nonsensical. Well, I'll tell you.
Take a look at AOC's early life, courtesy of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez Biography. From the article:
Early Life and Education
Born to a working-class Puerto Rican family in the Bronx, New York, Ocasio-Cortez graduated from Boston University, majoring in economics and international relations, and worked for Senator Ted Kennedy's office where she focused on immigration issues while in college.
After graduation, she returned home and became a community organizer. However, with the recession taking hold, along with the financial issues her family faced after her father's death in 2008 from cancer, Ocasio-Cortez took multiple low-wage restaurant jobs to help keep them afloat.
Well, it's good old April Fool's Day again. In a moment of alcohol induced inspiration, I decided to list a few April Fool's jokes that either took place on April first, or didn't but were good anyway. I also decided to list one or two that equate roughly to two redneck friends with a case of beer and a .22 pistol, who decide it would be fun to shoot cans off each others' heads.
Keep reading for a few politically incorrect and potentially disastrous jokes and stories.
On a contract down in South Carolina, I tied up with a few good old boys who started telling me about a professional lunatic they only referred to as The Contractor. Evidently this guy would do stuff the rest of us wouldn't even dream of, and although the staff liked him, they wanted to pull a prank on him. So...
One genius decided it would be fun to sneak out to the parking lot and affix a bumper sticker or two to The Contractor's pickup truck. What sort? Well, the local gay pride group had an office nearby, and The Contractor hated gay guys, so the natural choice would seem to be a rainbow bumper sticker. Or maybe two or three. This is a fine idea, right up until the time they realized that someone would have to go to the gay pride office and pick up a few things. And what if you got seen coming or going? So they drew straws, with the loser having to go to the Gay Pride office.
I don't remember just who had to go down there, but the man returned with three rainbow bumper stickers including one that said Honk if You're Gay. They also registered him with the official Gay Pride organization, made a small cash contribution in his name, and signed him up with the weekly newsletter.
It was over a week before The Contractor found out why people (guys, mainly) kept honking at him as they passed. Then his wife got the welcome package and the first newsletter.
Meanwhile, back at the old Medusa Trap and Skeet club, a foursome is out breaking a few clays. All these men load their own, and as they walk out to the skeet field another member waits like a retriever in a duck blind. What's up with this, I wonder aloud.
"Just watch. Those four know each other, and Fred swapped out a few of Don's shells."
Sure enough, on station three there's a loud KA-BOOM! and a cloud of smoke. This is closely followed by expressions of dismay, profanity, and groundless accusations. It seems that some unknown has loaded up a few shells with black powder instead of the nice clean smokeless stuff. Getting the residue out of an autoloader is going to require a complete disassembly and a bucket of Hoppe's #9.
Back in the old MS-DOS days a fellow I know was employed, and I won't say where. One complete and total ass hole in particular was always giving this bright, talented young man a hard time, and so one day...
A little squeak noise and a funny scurrying sound was heard. The women who heard it hastily pushed away from their desks and held their skirts out of harm's way, looking for a critter. No luck. This went on for a few months, with good old Victor mouse traps being set, opinions about cruelty to animals being voiced, and one lady swore that something had been at her lunch. Eventually the noise happened when some dumb propeller head was waiting for a drive to format, and being a busy body, he called his boss to voice a few suspicions. The IS Department ding-a-lings perpetrated a search of all hard drives, found the executable on one machine (loads with the autoexec file and at random times runs a command file that produces the noise), then went looking for the alleged perpetrator of this noxious and decidedly unfunny hoax. Guess where the source was found?
The ass in question got a chewing out, and gave my friend dirty looks for several weeks thereafter.
Joe (not his real name) was a funny guy, always pulling tricks on everyone. Frank was a fairly serious sort, was likeable and good company. April first rolls around, and Joe, not able to keep his trap shut, says that he has the perfect joke to play on Frank. He knows that Frank watches the Eleven O'Clock News every night, so he's going to put a mask on and pop up outside the picture window behind the TV. He'll knock on the window to get Frank's attention, and then fire six .38 blanks from his revolver at Frank, thus scaring the living crap out of him. Just for a joke.
Well, Frank got wind of this comic act and got his S and W revolver, which he loaded with blanks. He kept the revolver in his lap, hidden under a newspaper, and turns on the news. Sure enough, Joe knocks on the window, raises his gun, and about died of a heart attack when Frank jumped up and let fly with six shots of his own. Blanks, of course.
Joe didn't think it was a bit funny.
Revenge on the Plain
Old Cowboy, out in South Dakota, came from a medium size family. He had a little brother, about five years his junior, and this being South Dakota and all, he and his friends were a bit hard on the little tyke. Anyway, out west everyone is armed and dangerous one way or another, and Cowboy's little brother was no exception, having a .22 rifle.
One afternoon Cowboy, about 16 years old, had a few friends over, and they were teasing his little brother kind of hard. The kid's only ten, so he can't wind up and take a solid swing at any of them, but they make him just as red-faced angry as anyone can get. He promises to fill all of 'em full of lead, and storms up the stairs. The group is downstairs laughing and generally carrying on, then they see little brother coming down the steps - and he's got his old man's 12 gauge pump, and he's stuffing shells into it.
Holy shit! Cowboy's little brother's flipped his lid, and he's going to shoot! Run!!
The entire group ran for the front door and tried to fit through it. They heard little brother rack the slide just as three spilled through the door, down the steps, and ran like hell for the barn. Shots were fired behind them, and the rest of the group followed hot on their tail.
Turned out that little brother had taken the shot out of the shot shells, and torched off three rounds while watching the teenagers run like hell. In the end they all got a solid talking to by their father, who I guess was trying not to laugh at 'em too much. Mom said it served 'em right.
Back out in South Dakota, the Why Two Kay crises was in full swing, and the state hired a bunch of scum sucking contractors to help out. Just imagine ten or eleven guys in a converted store front downtown, all with not much to do except work.
One guy was from Canada, and in my opinion was a real closet case. He was also kind of dumb, in that retarded sort of way that you get when you've been drinking too much bourbon and now it's after 3:00 in the afternoon and you haven't had lunch yet. Anyway, I wouldn't have trusted him with a broken lug wrench, let alone a loaded shotgun. However...
When hunting season rolled around this Canuk wanted to go out with us in the worst way. Well, we took him, and we've got eight hunters in a line on the prairie, all strung out, with the dog at one end and the Canuk at the other. Guess who's walking next to the Canuk.
We don't see anything, and me being the nervous sort I'm making sure that I'm a bit behind the Canuk. I was watching to see where the dog was when the gun goes off. I hit the deck, and after a suitable length of time I poke my head up. The rest of the guys are a bit worried that I've been shot, but I wasn't. Then I asked the Canuk what he was shooting at.
"Down there! See 'em?"
Across the plain, about ten miles away, a few pheasants are getting up and flying to the next cover. Yeah, I do mean it - ten miles. It's open prairie, and you can see for miles.
Okay... the next week we're talking about Canadian honkers. Pierre, SD is in their migration path, so these honkers stop at Capital Lake, which has the state capital building on one side, and the governor's mansion on the other. The geese are thicker than fleas on a Tennessee hound dog's back, and they're wing to wing in Capital Lake.
Someone, I don't remember just who, started a rumor about the special goose season they have. Once a year the Fish and Game people set up a special shoot where hunters can go clean a few of these geese out, right on Capital Lake. We don't know just when it is, but it's got to be pretty soon. We all want to go. We keep talking about it, until Canuk volunteers to call the Fish and Game office and see when the special goose shoot is being held this year.
One guy had to turn his back, then choked on his coffee.
This was rolling right along until one of the older fellows saw a potential disaster ahead, or maybe he just felt sorry for the Canuk, who was about to dial the phone.
"Now wait a minute. Think. You got the governor's mansion on one side, the capital building on the other side, and a full parking lot at the rear. Do you really, seriously, think that they're going to hold a Canadian goose shoot out there?"
And that killed it. But the story got around, and all the men and women had a good laugh over it. One woman suggested he build a blind.
Back in Detroit, I had my first real contract that actually paid some serious bread and was out of town. It was a real learning and growth experience.
This one little piss-ant thought he was in charge and he could be a real dick at times. He made a big deal of locking his computer up whenever he left his desk, and when he was gone we had to take messages from his wife, and his ex-wife. His ex didn't seem to be all that bad, but then I guess you never know.
There was a little fun program that you could load that would make typing a real interesting experience. At random intervals, it would introduce a typo. The longer you worked, the more often the error would occur. Do it long enough, and you'd type pure gibberish.
Someone, and we don't know who, waited until big important mister supervisor left his desk for a meeting, then pulled the hood and jumped the key lock. The hood was restored, the system started, and the Happy Typist released into the wild.
About a week down the road mister perfection finally noticed that maybe something was wrong. When he held down the 'g' key, the line of gees was periodically interrupted by other characters. That led to an investigation of the autoexec file and a subsequent search for the guilty, followed by persecution of the innocent. Finally, one of the directors had a talk with all of us with super-visor out of the room, and told us to quit picking on him. Then he described how mister supervisor came storming into his office and described what was going on, and said he was being persecuted.
Everyone had a good laugh over that one... except mister SUPER-visor.
And that's it. If you have any good ones, post 'em.
Ever get mail (USPS mail) that says Important!, or Time Sensitive Data Enclosed!, or maybe it's Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner!, or something similar, and you fail to open it because we all know it isn't really important (to you, anyway) and is a complete waste of paper, ink, and your time?
No? Tell me your secret.
I stumbled across one of those must-read posts, which I typically ignore because I'm not interested in life insurance or some weird new drug that's going to give me a lift, so to speak.
I actually had some complete dumb-ass call me up the other day about life insurance. A credit union I belong to offered me $12 large of FREE!!! life insurance, no matter how old and decrepit I was. I'd been drinking, so I accepted and promptly forgot about the whole thing. Then maybe three months later this demented aardvark calls me on the phone and says he'll be in my area later on this week, either Thursday afternoon or Friday morning, and which of these two appointment times would be best for me?
He then explained that there's all kind of FREE!!! services and benefits (more like BENEFITS!!!) that go right along with my life insurance, but he needs to explain them to me. Because I'm so fucking dumb that I wouldn't understand them otherwise.
Okay, he didn't really say that last part.
I pointed out that this was life insurance, and the only way I'll get my twelve large is if I cash in my chips, so what's the point? I'll be dead, won't I?
He volunteered to put me on the do not call list. What an idiot.
Getting right back to my original topic. For reasons that still aren't clear to me, I followed up this oh-so-fucking-important must-read post, and wonder of all wonders, I'm glad I did.
If you want to read a superbly written document upholding the Second Amendment and kicking every single freedom hating Liberal right where it does the most damage, read this one:
Case No.: 3:17cv1017
Here's where it begins:
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF CALIFORNIA
Case No.: 3:17cv1017-BEN (JLB)ORDER GRANTING PLAINTIFFS’ MOTION FOR SUMMARY JUDGMENT, DECLARING CALIFORNIA PENAL CODE § 32310 UNCONSTITUTIONAL and ENJOINING ENFORCEMENT
Individual liberty and freedom are not outmoded concepts.“The judiciary is –and is often the only –protector of individual rights that are at the heart of our democracy.” --Senator Ted Kennedy, Senate Hearing on the Nomination of Robert Bork, 1987.
This decision is a freedom calculus decided long ago by Colonists who cherished individual freedom more than the subservient security of a British ruler. The freedom they fought for was not free of cost then, and it is not free now. IT IS HEREBY ORDERED that:
1. Defendant Attorney General Xavier Becerra, and his officers, agents, servants, employees, and attorneys, and those persons in active concert or participation with him, and those duly sworn state peace officers and federal law enforcement officers who gain knowledge of this injunction order, or know of the existence of this injunction order, are enjoined from enforcing California Penal Code section 32310.2.
Defendant Becerra shall provide, by personal service or otherwise, actual notice of this order to all law enforcement personnel who are responsible for implementing or enforcing the enjoined statute. The government shall file a declaration establishing proof of such notice.
DATED: March 29, 2019
I've managed to make contact with the somewhat elusive JR, owner and SysOp of the now defunct message board Toledo Talk. Many people who were active on Toledo Talk are sad to see that it's down for the final count, but (as JR explained) when the party's over, it's over. He made it clear that he's not interested in selling it or seeing it resurrected. The lights are off, there aren't any cars in the driveway, and nobody's home.
I see his point. As of this writing (3/30/2019), the alternate message board for Toledo, Swamp Bubbles, is also down. Prior to the technical difficulties that closed it, the site showed no signs of being administered by anyone, and only four or five people ever posted anything. The mainstay was a retired school teacher with the initials Dale Pertcheck, who displayed a decided list to port, a reluctance to entertain facts that failed to conform to his opinions, and enough hubris for two rap stars. Needless to say, I didn't agree with him on social or political issues - or any other topics.
As for the abrupt shut down, shutting off the lights without warning precluded all the protests and tearful farewells that would have followed. That, along with offers to buy the site and keep it running, were best left consigned to electronic thombolia.
So here's a final hoist of the morning bourbon glass and a tip of the old fedora to JR - you did it right, old sport.
About a week ago I was reminded by a politely enthusiastic medical technician or clerical assistant that my next appointment with Doctor Drill was in three days. Purpose: Keep Doctor Drill's woman in high heels.
I like Doctor Drill, even if he is some kind of Oriental and therefore inscrutable - I can never tell what he's thinking. While he's good at his work, I always just wonder a little bit about the enjoyment factor going on.
Drill employs a black brother-sister team that works the desk, and English is either a third or fourth language for them. Moreover, wherever they came from, they've been taught not to speak up so that high mileage antique white men can hear them and understand what they're trying to say.
Drill had a nice lady with big tits clean my grill. Then he took a look - at my chops. Tsk-tsk, here's the deal, straight from the hip. Today's fun 'n games are going to set you back a bill and a quarter. You got four cavities that have to be fixed in two weeks at the outside. That's going to set you back five bills.
That's right. Five Benjamins to put me right. Plus, since I'm phobic, I have to get all screwed up on Xanax before I hit the chair, the alternative having Dr. Drill drop me with a tranquilizer rifle on my way across the parking lot, which is what my old dentist used to do. He was a good shot and I think he used to cut my rate because of the fun factor.
Pow! Thud! .... Smack!
"Got him! Nailed him making a break for his car at the far end of the building."
"Oh, well shot sir! Well shot!"
"That's fine, Thedly. Don't lay it on too think. Nurse Bambi? You and Star get the stretcher and get him into the chair. Get the Novocaine into him and the gas mask on him. I'll come out and get started while he's still happy. And hey - hey!. Do not forget to tie the blue ribbon where it belongs."
Yeah, those were the good old days, and last week is now this week. I'm back from Doctor Drill, five bills lighter, and my chops is full of Novocaine, and my head is full of Xanax. I'm having a milk shake for lunch.
Wake me in time for happy hour.
I'm very sad to announce the closing of a local message board. Toledo Talk was hosted by JR, who kept the place free of retards and trolls for years. By following a few links, I discovered this final message from the SysOp:
Notice: Late in the evening on Tuesday, March 12, 2019, Toledo Talk closed its doors to new content. The site began late in the evening on January 17, 2003. 16 years. That's enough. Thanks to the many people who made this place interesting. Adios amigos.I met many interesting, intelligent, and erudite people on Toledo Talk, and while I didn't agree with all of them I can honestly say that I have a good deal of respect for everyone I met - both on line and in a few cases, in person.
Alright, alla you pre-verts, ne'er-do-wells, and bums having better things to do but aren't doing 'em right now, grab your favorite alcoholic beverage and sit back. I'm about to relate an important segment of history concerning the ubiquitous oriental massage parlor and associated regulatory law as we heathens in the 21st century have come to know and revile it.
'Way back in the bad old days, when you could buy a full tank of gas for a fin, a pack of smokes set you back 35 cents, and McVomits was hawking sliders for a quarter a piece, a massage parlor opened in Fostoria, Ohio. It wasn't a big place, but it had all new girls all the time, and was under new management once a month. It got inspected by the health department every so often, and any violations got taken care of. You know? As in, take care of it. Customers never came up missing any small, valuable personal items, such as a watch, a ring, or a money clip full of c-notes. There weren't any fights, no drunk and disorderly calls to the local PD, and no noise about white slavery or sex trafficking. Or anything. The owner paid her bills on time and contributed (anonymously, of course) to the right charities, and life was good.
Until one fine day...
Well, one fine evening, actually.
One night Mister Goodwind Upright (Windy to his friends at church) was running late, driving back home from a convention someplace in Hell's Half Acre to his home in The Gravel Pit, and around 8:00 PM he got a cramp right between his shoulder blades. It was an old badminton injury that had returned to plague him, and the longer he drove the worse it got. He tried adjusting his seat, stretching his arms, but nothing helped. Then he saw the billboard.
For my sins, I live in a condominium. This means dealing with the condo association, which should be pretty easy, you might think. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you'd be wrong. Keep reading if you want to be entertained for a few minutes, have a good laugh at someone else's expense, and maybe offer some advice. You don't even have to be sober.
Before I go into the problem, I'd like to define the place and the players.
The Place: a 50 unit condo development on the Southeast corner of Columbus, Ohio, Doughnut Hole is bordered by Reynoldsburg on one side and Machine-Gun Alley on the other. Features are a private drive which dead ends, no sidewalks, few streetlights, and Private Drive signs at the entrance. Each unit has an attached garage, and the residents are generally quiet. Units are not allowed to be rented, which is mainly enforced with an almost zero-tolerance enforcement. These are all two bedroom units. The owners are older and retired, mainly singles. Crime is literally non-existent in Doughnut Hole, but the locals refer to the main road as Machine Gun Alley, and with good reason.
The Board of Directors, AKA The Players, are:
Madam President. 70+ years old, never married, no children, no man in her life, claims to be a good Christian, possibly an antique Lezbo with her best friend in the whole wide world: board member Tanker. Rules the roost with an iron hand-in-stainless-glove alongside Mister 'A' the property manager.
Barstool. 50-something, married, no children, no job. Generally friendly. His mind no longer functions correctly. Staunch member of AA. Having a conversation with Barstool is like trying to watch a hockey game while a precocious five year old retains control of the TV remote, surfing all 212 channels in the hope of finding something that will hold his attention for more than 10 seconds. Barstool has had trouble with his neighbor, Tyrone, in the form of noise complaints. While the complaints are valid, the board of directors refused to support him, preferring to support Tyrone. I later learned that Madam President had become friends with Tyrone's parents. Barstool is disliked by the other board members, who consider him a pain the ass.
Bible Betty. 60-something, never married, no children, hospital Chaplin, generally friendly, wants to retire, she claims she doesn't like being on the board. Supports Madam President in all things.
Missed Sanity. 60-something, single, athletic. She's intelligent and provides the rare voice of sanity. She's also somewhat standoffish and doesn't actively support anyone during meetings.
Pickles. Late 70s, never married, no children. Introverted, opinionated. Has just been discharged from a local mental institution where she was incarcerated for being nuts. No, I'm not exaggerating, and no, I haven't been drinking.
Tanker. Early 90s, never married, no children. Carries an oxygen tank. Either can't hear what's going on at a board meeting or has taken up residence inside her own head, or maybe both. Wants to paint the entire complex a different color. Will vote on something when nudged by Madam President. Again, I'm serious. I've seen it happen.
Mister 'A', Property Manager. An ex-cop, I suspect he was fired for being an asshole. Is physically partially disabled - Alsheimer's? Works closely with Madam President. I've caught him telling blatant lies on several occasions at board meetings and have called him on it.
Vince Vodka. Insurance Agent. Short, high mileage, over 50. No wife in sight. If this guy isn't a booze hound then I've never seen one before. The one and only time I've met Vince is at the annual Doughnut Hole residents meeting. He had half a load on and two high mileage blonde assistants.
Out of all the players, the only two who will speak freely and honestly to me are Pickles and Barstool. Ironically, these two get along about as well as owls and crows do. The rest of the board maintains a neutral to openly adversarial relationship with me and probably with any other residents who dare to ask about the board's business or want to see a financial statement now and then.
Bible Betty will speak with me, but lies to me.
Mister 'A', the property manager, makes no secret that he hates me and is openly obstructive and uncooperative.
Problem One. I'm told that I'm not eligible to serve on the board of directors. According to the rules and regulations, in order to qualify for a seat on the board of directors a person must A) Be a resident of Doughnut Hole, or B) Own a unit in Doughnut Hole and be a resident. The spirit of the rule is that an investor living in, say, Toledo, is allowed to buy a unit, but is not allowed a seat on the board of directors unless he takes up residence in his unit.
My situation is that my condo is owned by a trust, and I'm not listed as a trustee of that trust. The name of the trust is something on the order of Mad Jack's Mother's Trust fbo Mad Jack (fbo being For Benefit Of). This protects my mother's favorite son from losing his little slice of heaven to the I.R.S. Since I'm not a trustee, Madam President says the situation causes me to be ineligible for the board of directors, and since the resident trustee is my brother Big Mike, but since Big Mike doesn't live in Doughnut Hole, he's not eligible either.
I don't agree with Madam President's decision on this. I think I'm eligible for a seat on the board, but I have no real idea how to fight this.
Problem Two. The board of directors, Madam President, Mister 'A', and Vince Vodka are refusing to provide information to me, and to the rest of the residents.
On Tuesday, January 29th, I requested the following items and information:
I read Knuckledraggin My Life Away by Wirecutter on a fairly regular basis, and between the rants about stupidity and the gifs of naked broads, he actually puts together a good essay every so often. These aren't diamonds in the rough, either. This is stuff that's really worth reading. In between times he publishes quotes (likely without permission, although no one in their right mind would object, and the moonbats are all whiny little things of undecided sexual identification who are horrified by firearms and fisticuffs) and stories from others. This latest is one such, and is worth reading.
I first read this when I was half in the bag, then read it again sober and it still made sense. The titular question, Class Warfare or Are Billionaires Bad? is somewhat banal and doesn't do justice to the essay.
Here's the original, Class Warfare by Kenny Parsons (aka Johnny Silver Bear) and Doug Casey.
The deal is that there are around 2,500 actual billionaires in the world today, and most of them live in the U.S. of A. No surprise, right? A certain segment of the population hates these people because they're rich. I, by the way, do not. I pretty much ignore them, never having met one and not having an overwhelming desire to do so. Not everyone shares this outlook.
Doug Casey predicts a split of the GOP and the Moonbats. He also predicts a few other things, and has good reason to do so. Along the way the man actually knocks one out of the park and fails to notice the grand slam.
From the article:
The problem is that humans are essentially chimpanzees – and I don’t mean the gentle bonobo either. As individuals, they can be quite rational. But they immediately fall to the lowest common denominator if you put them together. It’s easy to get them to hooting and panting, anxious to tear apart some real or imagined enemy.This observation goes a long way toward explaining moonbat behavior.
And a lot of that has to do with envy, a much nastier vice than simple jealousy or covetousness. Jealousy says: “You have it. I want it. I’ll take it from you.” That’s understandable. It’s how the world has worked for at least 500 million years, since animal life arose. Envy, however, says “You have it. I want it. I’ll not only take it from you, but I’ll hurt you for having it. And if I can’t have it, I’ll destroy it, so you can’t have it either.” One chimpanzee has a bunch of fat appetizing grubs, and the other chimpanzees – well represented by all the Democrats running for president – are chock-full of envy. I’m afraid that’s just the way things are on Planet Earth today. Not just with chimps, but even more so with humans.
Jealousy:I've seen this kind of behavior in people I encounter on a fairly regular basis. Some of these are otherwise fairly bright and well-educated people, but they have a good deal of envy in their heart. We, the haves, refuse to relinquish what is rightfully ours, what we've worked hard for. They, the have-nots, want what we have to the point of envy. They won't work for it themselves, but they will try and take it from us. Being unable to take it, they'll do their best to destroy it.
The quality of being jealous.
†1.1 Zeal or vehemence of feeling against some person or thing; anger, wrath, indignation. Obs.
†2.2 Zeal or vehemence of feeling in favour of a person or thing; devotion, eagerness, anxiety to serve. Obs.
3.3 Solicitude or anxiety for the preservation or well-being of something; vigilance in guarding a possession from loss or damage.
4.4 The state of mind arising from the suspicion, apprehension, or knowledge of rivalry: a.4.a in love, etc.: Fear of being supplanted in the affection, or distrust of the fidelity, of a beloved person, esp. a wife, husband, or lover.
b.4.b in respect of success or advantage: Fear of losing some good through the rivalry of another; resentment or ill-will towards another on account of advantage or superiority, possible or actual, on his part; envy, grudge.
†1.1 Strong or inordinate desire (of). Obs.
2.2 Inordinate and culpable desire of possessing that which belongs to another or to which one has no right.
†1.1 Malignant or hostile feeling; ill-will, malice, enmity. Obs.
†b.1.b Unwillingness, reluctance. Obs. rare.
†c.1.c Odium, unpopularity, opprobrium; used to translate L. invidia. Obs.
†2.2 Active evil, harm, mischief. Obs.
|Adult Recreation Room|
I found this someplace on the web this morning. I was about to let it slide, but the longer I thought about it, the more irate I became.
It seems some snowflake in Moss Point, Mississippi, normally teaches math, but in honor of Black History Month (designated as February here in the good old U.S. of A. - okay, the shortest month of the year if you're using the Gregorian calendar, and what surprises me is that some group of ill-intentioned society shit-stirrers haven't discovered this and whipped the Loony-Tune-Left into a frenzy), Black History month decided to teach a little history along with math. Not surprisingly, she really screwed the pooch on this one.
Teacher's powerful slavery lesson for Black History Month goes viral
From the article:
Math teacher Jovan Bradshaw of Magnolia Middle School in Moss Point, Miss., covered her classroom door with bright yellow paper and a message (which she attributed to poet and author the Rev. Nadine Drayton-Keen): “Dear Students, they didn’t steal slaves. They stole scientists, doctors, architects, teachers, entrepreneurs, astronomers, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, etc., and made them slaves. Sincerely, your ancestors.”
They being the white privilege straight male citizens of the newly minted United States, who did, in fact, occasionally steal slaves. Theft isn't a new thing, and although I have no first hand knowledge, I have no reason to believe that slaves were never stolen. More often than not, slaves were purchased. The point of origin was Africa, the dark continent. Various tribes from the interior would raid their neighbors so as to capture slaves and eliminate competition. The victors of these tribal wars would then sell or trade the slaves to the tribes along the coast, who would in turn sell them to European slavers in ships, who would take the slaves to Europe or the U.S. - anywhere that they could get a good price for them.
As for scientists, doctors, et al., no. The slaves were from a culture that had no written language and were still at the hunter/gatherer stage in technology. Take an adult who has lived outside all his life, and natural selection will provide you with a first class woodsman. But a scientist, a doctor, or an architect? No. Doubly so since the slaves we're talking about here came from inferior tribes - they got defeated and captured, remember?
The snowflake continues:
“It all started with this little boy in my class,” Bradshaw told WLOX. “We were talking and he said, ‘Slaves didn’t do much because they couldn’t read or write.’
Which is true. In fact, teaching a slave to read or write was against the law, and the punishment was significant. This is doubly true today, because frankly if you're a functional illiterate, you are well and truly screwed.
He kinda caught me off guard. I said, ‘Baby, if I snatched you up and dropped you off in China or Germany or Africa even, you wouldn’t be able to read and write their language either. Does that make you useless or any less educated?’”
In fact it does. I have good reason to believe that most people who read this incredibly antagonistic blog possess above average intelligence. That isn't saying a whole lot, but I believe it to be true nonetheless. Most of the readers likely fall into the bright or very bright range. That being the case, getting kidnapped and transported to central China would be an interesting experience for a hour or so, but then reality would set in.
Most white people from the U.S. can't speak Chinese at all. The necessary sounds are beyond them, and even if you learn to speak Mandarin well (for a round eyes) you'll attract a lot of attention. So yeah, you are not valuable. Even if you were a neurosurgeon, you couldn't find a hospital or explain what you were, where you wanted to go, or that you were a citizen of the U.S.
Maybe that last is just as well - foreign devil.
Drop you into Germany, and you'd catch on. German is a Latin based language, and the technology is high. Hell, you could hike to the border in Germany in a few days time. But work there? Maybe. But you speak no German and you don't know local custom, so whatever job you get will be pretty menial. Unskilled physical labor, I'm thinking.
Then she drops the 'A' bomb: Africa. I have some second hand experience with the dark continent, and depending on just where you ended up, your lifespan would be measured in days. Unless you could find someone who spoke English, you're screwed. You're not going to learn an African language, and African tribes in general don't have a written language. No money, no AK-47, no nothing. You'd probably die of some weird disease within a month.
I'm thinking in terms of adults here. But a child? The child becomes a liability at the very best, and short lived slave labor at the worst. Well, okay, food at the worst. The Africans will eat anything that doesn't put up much of a fight, and if the natives won't the critters will.
My old pastor and godfather was a missionary in Africa. The village defended itself against jackals, lions, giant snakes, and if it was poisonous or venomous in any way, be it animal, plant, or other, it's represented in Africa.
We got HIV and Aids from Africa.
What gets to me is that this school teacher is so far away from reality that she's actually defeating the learning process for one student who figured the system out immediately. If you can't read, you won't amount to anything except a parasite.
What bothers me most is that there is one child who got it right, who showed a spark of brilliance, and got lied to and castigated by a local authority figure.
I'm not what any sane man of average intelligence would call a good Samaritan. I'm a crusty old curmudgeon, generally half in the bag. I like dogs, cats, guns, and whiskey. I don't like people, which is why I live alone. Well, one reason anyway.
So a few months back when my neighbor, Next-door Nancy, asked me for a ride to the bank and then to the grocery store, I pretty much shrugged it off and told her we'd put it on the street in five. That's how it got started.
The deal with Next-door Nancy is that she's had a head injury followed by neurosurgery, and there are after-effects. For instance, seizures. Next-door Nancy is prone to zone out and tip over without warning. I actually found her lying in the parking lot last July and called the meat wagon for her, which she didn't like a bit.
"It's only a seizure, honey. Just wait until I come out of it, instead of making a fuss and running up medical charges of six bills and change." Or words to that effect.
Her hands shake. She can't write. Tying her shoes takes 20 minutes or so. Anything requiring dexterity is impossible. She's about five-three and maybe 110, and she walks everywhere, weather permitting. I've even offered her a ride in good weather, and she declines. I think it's a measure of independence for her.
About a month back Nancy came over to the shack and requested I trim an ingrown toenail for her. I declined. Anything involving bathroom surgery is above my pay grade and outside my official license. I told her to call a podiatrist and make an appointment. Thirty minutes later she's back over at my shack, telling me her appointment is tomorrow at eleven, and looking at me expectantly. What could I say?
All kinds of things, but I told her we'd leave at ten forty. Me and my big fat yap.
And so it came to pass that I skipped my morning snort and took Nancy to the podiatrist, Dr. Slipshod, and took my Kindle along so as to keep myself amused while waiting in the waiting room. Turns out the waiting room has a fish tank, a TV with the sound off, and three chairs. I settled in and started reading Jack Vance. About 45 minutes later I realized that Next-door Nancy should have been out some time back. I go back to Vance and finish the chapter, then the nurse comes out and escorts me back to the treatment room.
The floor has an untidy pile of bloody gauze, Nancy is looking okay, but the big toe on her right foot is looking a bit the worse for wear. The nurse starts bandaging the foot while giving me directions on changing the dressing every day. Why is she bending my ear with this First-Aid for Retards junk? Then the truth hits me. I'm slow, but I eventually get there. Nancy has to soak her foot in Epson salts for 15 minutes, then the toe gets dressed with magic powder, Neosporin, and covered by a band-aid. With the way her hands shake Nancy isn't able to do any of this, so it just naturally falls to little old me.
Oh well. It probably builds character or something.
But there's just a little more to the story. Nancy is on several kinds of bats-in-the-belfry medications. She's neurotic-psychotic complete with fits and gaslighting. In the old days they'd say she was a bit too high strung. Back in my day (shut up you guys) they'd say she was wound tighter than Oscar's pocket watch at high noon. Now, if Nancy stays on her meds, she's okay. One of these meds is Clonazepam (Klonopin, Clonazepam); I don't know the other two. So naturally she fails to take her meds and goes koo-koo.
The first person to get wind of Nancy's new outlook on life is the church pastor, who listened to her without comment for three minutes or so, then hung up and called nine-one-one. The cops got there ahead of the meat wagon and ascertained that:
A local message board that I used to enjoy reading and contributing to some years back turned into an SJW hotel with about three residents, all on moral welfare. You'll find them sitting in the lobby on broken down, lice infested furniture, watching TV and mumbling about the devil in the White House.
At one time SwampBubbles hosted heated arguments about local politics and problems, and had a good number of contributors. It's now as dead as the Southwyck Mall. The reason? The loony Left took control, the SysOp (Chris Myers) lost interest, and intelligent arguments were spammed by moonbat messages.
While reading a local (Toledo, Ohio) message board, Toledo Talk, I came across a somewhat provocative thread which was almost guaran-damn-teed to inspire a few demagogic comments from the multitude of literate but inerudite contributors: Racist Threats and Harassment at Toledo Workplace.
I was able to restrain myself, and confine my somewhat pithy comments to my own ambit - this blog.
The following is not safe for work and might cause a brain aneurysm in any warm, sensitive Caspar Milquetoast SJW. Your mileage may vary.
I'll take a moment to mention that Toledo City Schools are failing, while the Toledo School for the Arts Performance is a charter school and is doing well, by comparison.
You can bet your bottom dollar that there isn't any discrimination in Toledo City Schools - unless you're white, at which point you have to contend with the fact that the only people in this world who are racist and who discriminate are white, well-educated people, but mostly men and mostly fat old men who like bourbon, guns, and women. Real women, that is.
Toledo Public Schools (TPS) are supposed to be run by the Toledo Bored of Education (BOE), a group of horn tooters and mental defectives who couldn't fix an electric hammer, much less a failing school system.
Enter Toledo School for the Arts (TSA). The place was founded in 1998, but when Crystal Bowersox was a runner-up on American Idol, enrollment skyrocketed.
Dodging an obvious bullet that was more like a burst from a 134 Minigun, the school administrators wisely put an admissions lottery in place. Everyone was welcome to apply, but only the lucky ones got in.
I'll cheerfully admit that I would have done this much differently, and allowed admission to the best and brightest. But what do I know, right? Well, I know this. With an institution like this one, the clock is ticking. There's money, prestige, and power to be had. Right on the heels of the Prada knock off wearing wanna-bees is the opportunity to make someone's life miserable. That's low hanging fruit to every Moonbat in the vicinity.
The TSA is supposed to be progressive, and it probably is. Just not in the way everyone would like. Consider that Progressivism
is the support for or advocacy of improvement of society by reform. As a philosophy, it is based on the idea of progress, which asserts that advancements in science, technology, economic development and social organization are vital to the improvement of the human condition.What it really amounts to is a haven for Social Justice Warriors (SJWs), the deliberately offended scum of the internet who are so quick to dogpile anything or anyone they find offensive. Which just as sure as hell includes this misogynist honky here.
A felicitously pejorative term, social justice warriors believe in an extreme left-wing ideology that combines feminism, progressivism, and political correctness into a totalitarian system that attempts to censor speech and promote fringe lifestyles while actively discriminating against men, particularly white men. They are the internet activist arm of Western progressivism that acts as a vigilante group to ensure compliance and homogeny of far left thought.
The commission in mid-November found it probable that TSA leaders did in fact engage in unlawful discriminatory practices against then-Dean of Students India Springs, and found it probable that they retaliated against Ms. Springs after she filed a complaint with the state agency in January, 2018.
[Director Doug] Mead, in an affidavit dated March 23, said he was unaware of any harassment or discrimination Ms. Springs suffered, and that her accusations largely resulted from her misinterpreting the feedback she received from others.
“I think Ms. Springs views harassment in two parts,” Mr. Mead said in the affidavit.
“First, if there is ever a point where we’re trying to give her support or guidance or we gave her the impression that what she was doing wasn’t 100 percent right, she considered that harassment. Second, when a faculty member questioned her, if we did not put the hammer down on that faculty member, she considered that harassment of not being supported.”
I've had several questions about the state of noted author Michael A. Stackpole. On January 5th, 2019, I wrote that Stackpole was on the dark side of the lawn (as in pushing up daisies, six feet under, deep-sixed, checked out, living in the box condo, etc.), having committed seppuku (harakiri). I made the remark that:
The cause of his untimely demise was self-impalement upon Constance, Stackpole's personal +5 Holy Avenger.
GamerGate refers to the online backlash against perceived breaches of journalistic integrity on video game news sites that occurred as a result of the Quinnspiracy, an online controversy surrounding indie game developer Zoe Quinn's alleged affairs with a number of men working in the video game industry, including Kotaku staff writer Nathan Grayson. The term has also since been used to describe the group of internet users, based mainly on Twitter, who claim that there is a lack of transparency within the video game journalism industry. These same people have also been criticized of practicing misogyny and sexism by many, through harassment and trolling, referring to their opposition as social justice warriors.
Noted author, game designer, and sociopolitical commentator Michael A. Stackpole passed away somewhat messily on January 5th, 2019 at precisely 3:00 PM EST. The cause of his untimely demise was self-impalement upon Constance, Stackpole's personal +5 Holy Avenger. He did not go gently into that good night.
When notified of Stackpole's demise, infamous social butterfly Patricia Pulling had this to say:
You can read more about the left and times of Stackpole at My Resignation Letter to the GAMA Board of Directors.
From the article:
The board [of Directors - MJ] is broken when it, having previously enjoyed robust and detailed discussions about GAMA harassment policies, down to the minutia of the structuring of an investigative team to be in place at our shows, chooses only to censure an officer who physically assaulted a female security guard.
Things are worse than I thought. Much worse. According to Daniel Greenfield at Sultan Knish, the world may end in a few days if the government isn't restored to its former grandeur.
Check out Government Shuts Down, Nation Descends into Riots, Looting and Cannibalism.
From the article:
In Chuckolod County, Colorado, a transgender person was denied access to the Ladies Room. Frantic calls to the Justice Department were forwarded to an answering service in Depar, India, instead of Doneparre City, Indiana. In Brooklyn, New York, an overweight Iraqi woman was unable to obtain a sign language interpreter while waiting on line to collect her free Obamaphone. In Olegon Falls, Florida, the National Museum of Native American Yarn was forced to shut down depriving schoolchildren of an educational experience and three hours throwing bits of yarn at each other.I didn't know the government was still giving away free phones.
It is now the Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand Ten-andNine. Happy new year to all of you reading this. Having dispensed with the social amenities, I will now pour myself a little eye opener and get down to business.
The eternal battle between sanity and chaos continues, and will continue unabated until the moonbats come to their senses or are exterminated. I have no preference for either solution, nor do I believe either one will occur in my lifetime. Hell, given my diet, my excess weight, and my alcohol intake, I'm not talking about a significant length of time here.
On the education front, anyone affiliated with public education in Ohio has their collective knickers in a knot over the application of Ohio House Bill 70, which states, in part, that if the school system is failing by Ohio standards (and those standards are not all that high, let me tell you), the folks who work there will change whatever it is they're doing and produce desirable results - or else.
Peanut Gallery: Or else what, Mad Jack? It isn't like a teacher can be fired, what with the teacher's union being what it is. The only other way to enforce this directive is to cut funding, and since our elected officials are much more concerned with being reelected than anything else, and cutting State funding for schools being a third rail when it comes to elections, well... wouldn't you say we're pretty much hosed?
I would indeed. Except - look at this cheese: State takeover of Columbus City Schools?
From the article:
It [HB 70] applies to any school district that gets an overall “F” grade on the state report card three years in a row, triggering the appointment of a powerful state-employed CEO with “complete operational, managerial, and instructional control of the district.” The CEO has the power to unilaterally run the operation, convert district schools to charters, cancel union contracts and privatize public operations.
Two other districts already have been taken over under the 2015 law: Lorain and East Cleveland. Dayton schools could be next, after the end of this school year. Columbus and eight more districts — Ashtabula, Canton, Euclid, Lima, Mansfield, North College Hill, Painesville and Toledo — face potential takeovers after next school year.
Here's a shameless commercial plug for the latest work by JL Curtis.
|JL Curtis Rimworld Series|
It was supposed to be a simple contract for a couple of months of security services off world, but the devil’s in the details.
Tight Bridge Technologies hired Ethan Fargo and his militia to guard their power stations on the planet Endine against mob unrest and sabotage. When they arrive, they find the planetary authorities don’t want outsiders around to uncover their dirty secrets, and the Galactic Patrol’s not interested in providing backup. They all but order him to stop making waves, kicking asses, and taking names. The harder Fargo works to keep his people safe, the more troubles he finds. Dragoons and pirates are stalking the outer system, while the planet itself is a snakepit of treachery, tyranny, rebellion, and corruption. Everyone wants him to fail, while taking the blame.
They made one mistake: they underestimated Ethan Fargo. After the mob kills two of his Ghorkas, and kidnap his lady, he’s out for blood, and to hell with anything in his way…
Here's a hoist of the afternoon bourbon glass and a tip of the old fedora to Momma Fargo, who can now be properly referred to as Magister Fargo. Read the entire story at Ma-story (pronounced mastery only spelled different) Accomplished.
Momma now has her Masters degree, and is going to begin teaching in higher education. By her own admission she'd be a better fit with older kids.
From her article:
I love little kids, I just am not good at molding their minds.
Page created: Sat, Apr 20, 2019 - 09:05 AM GMT