Mad Jack's Shack

ex luce ad tenebras

Teaching History Instead of Math

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.

From teacher:
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.


Good Samaritan Fallout

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:

So Nancy went away to the happy house for three days for observation, and when she got back she was riding on an even keel.  Seemingly, anyway.

Well, time goes merrily along as time is want to do, and Nancy's toe heels up, which makes me happy as I know happiness, and just when I'm ready to celebrate -

Runaway train on track 13!

Two weeks ago Next-door  Nancy told me that she was running low on pills, and the pharmacy wouldn't give her a refill because controlled substance, opioid crises, political assholes, new laws and all that.  No sweat, I tell her.  Call your doctor and explain what happened (she spilled the bottle trying to fill her weekly pill dispenser and some of the pharmaceuticals rolled under the refrigerator - her hands shake, right?) and the doctor will fix it.

So naturally she didn't do that, and I didn't check up on her.  Yeah, I'm a real fathead sometimes.

Nancy shows up at my door this morning around ten.  She rants.  She raves.  It's raining, water is building up on her patio, she has no money and no food, and her buddy Gayle was supposed to take her shopping today but canceled - the nerve! - and so now she's in misery.  Well, I can kind of sympathize with this.  Empathize, anyway.  No problem, I'll get my foot gear on and we'll go to the bank, then to the store.

Nancy isn't getting any cheerier on the ride to the bank, so I ask her if she's taken her medication today.  She affirms she has, so I just shrug and keep driving.  She's having a bit of a bad day, and that's it.

Nancy spends about ten minutes in the bank, nine of which is spent bending the ear of the poor bank manager.  The bank has glass walls, and I can see this poor guy wondering just what he did to deserve a customer who is yelling at him and waving her arms.  In truth, I can't hear anything, but judging from what I'm seeing I figure there's every chance in the world that the manager is hitting some kind of silent alarm, the cops are going to show up, arrest Nancy, and I'll get stuck in the middle.  I am truly not up for this.

Nancy comes out with a mitt full of dead presidents and we head to Kroger's.  She seems a bit calmer, but I'm not sure that's true.  Maybe she's just holding herself together somehow.

We get to Kroger's and I powder off to pick up a few things.  I go through the check out line, noting that my cashier is named Gwendolyn, has long blonde hair, a three day growth, and has a button that reads She and Her.  Oh boy.  Then the shit hits the fan.  Nancy's in the next lane over and she's throwing a fit.  She can't find things, everyone is grinning at her in derision (they aren't), and she's going to kill herself.  She doesn't just say this.  She screams it.

Holy hell on a biscuit.

I try to get her to calm down, but she isn't having it.  She refuses.  Other customers try to help, but nothing doing.  The manager shows up and manages to fill her order.  While he's playing step and fetch it, Nancy is alternately weeping quietly or giving serious hell to everyone within earshot.  I wait, hoping against hope that we, mainly me, can get out of here without the local constabulary getting involved.

Nancy comes within a whisker of getting barred from the store for the rest of her natural life, but we manage to make it out.  On the way home I discover that, surprise surprise, she hasn't taken her meds today.  The reason for this is that she spilled the contents of a bottle while loading her pill dispenser.  I tell her to call her doctor as soon as she gets home, and browbeat her until she agrees.  We get home and I escape.

I make a few calls, starting with the church.  It turns out that they've been having trouble with Nancy for about three days now.  Then her sister, who is Nancy's emergency contact and who has no clue as to what's going on.  I explain the scene at Kroger's and the woman is truly amazed.

One way or another, I give Nancy's doctor a call.  He's out, but the nurse is in.  When I explain what's going on, the staff swings into action and gets refill orders on all prescriptions.  I'm relieved and thank her.

One of the neighbors (the president of our Condo Association, Madam President) took Nancy to the pharmacy.  Good, now she's got pills.  Take two and call me in the morning!

She won't.  She refuses.

Somebody pass me a cigarette and a blindfold.

Nancy shows back up at my door.  She wants to bitch and moan and complain.  I want her to take her pills.  It took me twenty minutes, but she finally returned to her home and took her nerve medicine.  I checked on her an hour later, and she was coming down.

And that's how today got shot to hell.

I don't know what I'm going to do in the future.  In my mind we're all in this together, and if a person can give a little help to another poor sap who desperately needs it, help should be given.  At the same time you can reach a point where enough is enough.  I'm tired.  My nerves are shot.

I'm going to have a drink.


Requim for a Website

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.

Southwyck Mall
Eventually, everyone with an IQ over room temperature stopped reading.  I check in every two or three months just to see if the place is still up (it is) and in a moment of boredom will post a response to the loonie-tune opinions posted by the Left, which has dwindled to a single user.

Apropos of absolutely nothing, the chief troublemaker and official SJW leader posted this piece of drivel: My Personal and Sincere Apology to Chris Meyers.  I posted a suitable response, which you can read or not as it amuses you to do so - SwampBubbles! We are driven...

A long time back, I posted a link to Anil Dash's piece, If your website's full of assholes, it's your fault.  He's right, and if the state of the site were actually worth caring about, I'd blame the owner.  As it is, I really don't care.

I'm writing this as an example of what can happen to a society, any kind of society, when the Left succeeds in driving off everyone with a sense of reason and accountability.  The place ceases to exist.  Sure, SB is still on the web, still live, but it provides nothing.  Even the moonbats have lost interest.

There are other organizations that share the same sort of fate.  Commercial Media comes to mind.  Most of commercial media is gone.  Look for a story, and you'll find the same take on it from ABC, CNN, Google News, Huffington Post, LA Times, NBC, NY Times, USA Today, Washington Post, and Yahoo! News.  All say the same things the same way.  Whatever journalism they once had, it's dead, killed off by the owners of these pseudo news services who encouraged the SJW crowd to do what they dearly love best - destroy everything that dares to disagree with them.


I Got Your Progressivism - Right Here!

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.

I'll digress and offer a much better definition from RooshV: What Is A Social Justice Warrior (SJW)?
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 local scandal sheet from Toledo reported that State agency rules against Toledo School for Arts in racial discrimination case.

From the article:
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.

Note that this is probable, meaning likely. There's nothing absolute about the findings.

From the article:
[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.”

And there you have it.

India Springs is a new hire, is a black female, and part of her job was to create a code of conduct for the school students.  According to the school administrators, there were immediate problems with that.  I'm going to hazard a guess that her boss and co-workers found her impossible to work with.  She'd go off without any warning, she was always right, and anything said within her earshot was motivated by overt racism.

The ruling was appealed, and lost on appeal. Why? Consider the executive staff of the Ohio Civil Rights Commission.

G. Michael Payton, Executive Director. Black male.
Darlene Sweeney-Newbern, Director of Regional Operations. Black female.
Stephanie Bostos-Demers, Chief Legal Counsel. White female.
Mary Turocy, Director of Public Affairs and Civic Engagement. White female.

The rest of the staff are commissioners appointed by then-Governor John Kasich, a real loser, and there isn't one white male among them.  There is the token white female, but I think she's a lez.

What chance does the school have?  Slim and none.

What the commission failed to point out is the obvious; The school hired an employee who turned out to be impossible to work with, and who screamed about racist personal attacks every time anyone dared to speak to her in less than adulating terms.

Are there any racist administrators or teachers at TSA?  Probably.  Do they discriminate?  If they do, it isn't much.  Personally, I don't think so.

I also think that the Titanic could have avoided the iceberg and should not have been declared unsinkable.

Ohio has a public school system that's failing, and the State government doesn't care.  With my health and my lifestyle, I won't live long enough to fully enjoy the fruits of that system, but anyone graduating high school today had better take a hard look at what's going on around him, and plan his life accordingly.

Someone give me a refill.


Michael A. Stackpole: The Resurection!

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.

Meaning that he fell on his sword (publicly resigned GAMA) and so became a martyr for all to see and admire.

The +5 Holy Avenger is a reference to the Dungeons and Dragons fantasy role playing game.  In the game, a paladin (holy warrior) might gain a magical sword, the much coveted and oft abused plus five holy avenger.  Such items are often intelligent and have their own name, hence Constance.

The point of all this is to ridicule Stackpole's resignation.  More people have heard of Stackpole than have ever heard of GAMA, and the only people who could possibly give a tinker's damn about Himself's ostentatious resignation are Himself and the other members of the board, who are well rid of a grandiose gadfly.

To the best of my knowledge, Michael A. Stackpole is still with us, for good or ill.  Physically, anyway.  Mentally might be a different story.

Patricia Pulling has been worm's food for over 20 years, and hence has nothing to say.  She said plenty when she was alive, but that was then and this is now.

However Gamergate got into this dog pile, I guess it's in.  It's old news, and the reason that it's difficult to understand is because it's all about the hysterical actions and reactions of SJWs under self-induced delirium.

You can learn all about Gamergate by reading What Is Gamergate, and Why? An Explainer for Non-Geeks along with Know Your Meme - Gamergate, which gives a slightly more comprehensible explanation.

From Know Your Meme:

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.

That's all the explanation I'm going to write today.


Michael A. Stackpole, Dead at 61

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.

Which is what this whole thing is really all about.  Here's a short summary of the incident Stackpole is referring to:

Back in the early part of August, 2018, GenCon held its annual convention in Indianapolis. This is the largest gaming convention in the U.S., and hosts about 60,000 rabid game geeks of all ages from all over the world, literally.  The dealer show is significant, and a dealer table costs a small fortune.  The entire convention area is in perpetual gridlock until the show mercifully ends on Sunday night.  What fun.  Hotel rooms for the next year sell out minutes after registration opens.

Stephan Brissaud, chief operating officer (COO) of iello had leased a booth in the dealer show, which is a significant expense.  Unfortunately, the delivery of his materials for the booth was one day late, which created a fiendish problem for Brissaud, as he would now have to set up while the show was in session.

Making matters worse were the organizers of GenCon and the local security staff.  GenCon organizers could have allowed Brissaud to use an entrance that was fairly close to his display, but they declined to do so.  Mainly, I suspect, because they could, and we all know it's much more fun to deny than to allow, and by denial make someone's life miserable.

Then the security staff prohibited the use of hand trucks or dollies to move the merchandise, meaning that Brissaud and his skeleton crew had to move their load by hand, one box at a time, from a doorway three or four times further away than it should have been.

Now security gets their turn.

There's a video tape of a confrontation between a self-important fat ass biological female in a uniform, one Candace Gene Patterson, who stopped Brissaud as he was on his way into the show, carrying a box.  She demanded to see his exhibitor's pass.

Having been jerked around by the obstructive officials at GenCon, forced to use an entrance that was far removed from his booth, and now confronted by a JBT wanna-be, Stephan Brissaud did what I would have done, and what I suspect many men would have done.  He told her the silly bitch to get the fuck out of his way and he kept walking.

She objected and filed file a police report with the local PD three days later.  Yep, three days after the incident, she makes an official complaint.  Mind you, there is no evidence of an assault or battery, but what the fuck, right? If you can make someone's life just a little harder, go for it.  The SJWs will thank you later.

The GenCon officials (Peter Adkison and his crew) threw Brissaud out, which was the wrong thing to do, but which is expected.  They don't have to be nice to anyone, and that's generally what happens when a group of snots like these get authority without any responsibility.

For his part, Stephan Brissaud issued an apology, which is a major mistake.  Never apologize to the Left.  Never ever.  Instead, Brissaud should have doubled down.

If you watch the video, and I have, you'll note two things; One, Brissaud's arms are full and he's busy moving in.  Two, Brissaud is a head and a half taller and around 150 pounds heavier than the security bitch.  He Brissaud actually assaulted her, she'd likely have ended her shift in the neurological ER.  But she didn't and he didn't, and that much is obvious to the local PD, as no arrests were made.

Getting back to my original topic, Stephan Brissaud happens to be president of Game Manufacturers Association (GAMA).  Now illeo Games isn't going to do much of anything about this incident
except decide if they're going to attend GenCon in 2019 - I wouldn't, but that's just me.  For its part, GAMA is in the position where it can't do anything by way of punishing Brissaud without a violation of the GAMA by-laws.  This wouldn't slow down a group of left-wing moonbats, but other people take this kind of thing seriously.  So they, the GAMA board of directors, decided to officially disapprove of Brissaud's actions and censure him.  Or, put it another way, do nothing but say you shouldn't have lost your temper.

Which he shouldn't have.  He should have waited.  What he could have done was write about his experience at GenCon and give them a little bad press, which they richly deserve.

As for Stackpole, his major malfunction is that he's decidedly light in the loafers and his fellow butt buddies at GAMA are failing to hammer the official SJW target du jour, Stephan Brissaud.  Note that rules and regulations don't bother Stackpole in the slightest.  Because, you know, this is different.  And so, in a gigantic snit, complete with an apropos white wine and a few select canapés, this illustrious gift to the literary world is packing up and going home.

So there!

Don't get me wrong.  Stackpole is a successful author, which is today's world equates to being very shaky in the masculinity department - and it ain't from low Tee, Joe.  Having attended a few of his lectures and interacting with him a bit, I wouldn't buy him a drink, I wouldn't have him inside my home, and I give his political and philosophical opinions the same significance that a leading neurosurgeon would give Glen Filthie's opinion on the limbic system, a stainless steel roto-rooter, and the latest surgical techniques involving same.

For those of you who have skipped a perfectly good rant to get to the bottom and, we all fervently hope, a fucking point to all this, well... here it is.

Stackpole is no loss to anyone.  GAMA will somehow manage to get along without him.  Were I on the board at GAMA, I'd ask everyone for a moment of silence for Michael A. Stackpole, and when the snickering died down, it wouldn't be business as usual - it would be a real relief not to have to deal with an SJW flaming faggot during a business meeting.

When dealing with the loony left, never, ever, apologize unless you, personally, have suddenly discovered some massive fuckup that you've committed.  This is doubly true when you deal with the rabid loony left, which most are.  Instead, double down.  Take a page from President Trump's book and make no apology.  Attack right away, and attack with as much vitriol as you can manage.

Here's a hoist of the evening bourbon glass to Stephan Brissaud.  He may have issued a public apology, but I don't think he meant it.  At least, I hope he didn't mean it.

Here's how!


Government Shutdown - Emergency! Emergency! Emergency!

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.


Happy New Year - 2019!

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.

The Ohio State Supreme Court will hear a case of the this law being challenged, mainly because public school employees can all agree that they don't like it, but actually on a mere technicality. It seems that HB 70 got rushed through the House and Senate, and I'm guessing that a lot of the legislature didn't have time to read the bill before voting on it.  Not that it really matters, but they should at least get the opportunity, right?

Anyway, an attempt to strike the law is being made.  If the law is stricken from the books, it's going to float to the surface again and this time will lead to a lot of argument, ill-will, and legislative gridlock.

The real problems of education, as I see them, are this:

Who am I kidding? You or me? Public schools are failing, and have been failing for years. Teachers say that it's the parents, none of whom are involved in their children's education. If the parenting improves, then all we have to worry about is the pay, which is just a short step above poverty.

The reality is that the parenting isn't going to improve, ever.  Just drop that idea, because it's never going to happen.

While the salary is low, paying someone twice or three times what they make now is not going to magically make them a better school teacher.  For instance, the New York Philharmonic could hire me as a musician (I used to play trumpet in high school), but everyone within earshot would immediately know that I should have never in a million years have been hired, I'm a complete and total failure, and increasing my pay is not going to turn me into Mindy Kaufman, Arlen Fast, or Christopher Martin.  This is especially true in the case of Mindy, who's a good looking woman, and me, who is not just male but uglier than the back end of a Mexican bus, and who is decidedly not confused about his sexual identity and his preferences, and if any of you derelicts want any proof or testimony to the fact, you can go fart up a flagpole.

Okay, I got carried away there.

In the meantime I'm waiting for the Reynoldsburg school system to make the list, which it might.  I note that Toledo is on the list already, and rightfully so.

Having a CEO who is empowered to make drastic, sweeping changes to the current school system is a double-edged sword at best.  What the staff wants is a decidedly progressive black female, preferably lesbian or transgendered, who is sympathetic to their current situation.  What they're likely to get is a 60-something ultra-conservative male with the ethics of a chainsaw and the empathy of an empty beer can.  With any luck at all, reality will be somewhere in the middle, meaning nothing will really change.

And so it goes.  The 18 and over crowd, generation Z if you like, will continue living with roughly 25% of them unable to read, balance a checkbook, understand the terms of a loan, or any number of things that the readers of this incredible hound take for granted.  Now what?  Well, I'm glad you asked, because I can answer that one.

A certain percentage of today's adult population really and truly wants the government to run their lives for them.  The government, like a giant, benevolent oracle, who knows all, sees all, and decides all for everyone.  The government will keep us all safe and well-regulated.  These are the moonbat democrats, generally speaking.

This is the segment of the populace that grows lager every June, when little Johnny finally graduates and files for welfare, because there's nothing else he can do.

I don't see this as a conspiracy so much as I think it's an unintended consequence, but now that it's happened and it's beneficial, why not keep it going?

The real solution now is to either send your kids to a private school, or home school them. But how many will do that, or can afford it?

We'll see, I guess.


Published! Rimworld - Militia Up by JL Curtis

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…

Check out the original post at Rimworld - Militia Up is Done (at last!).  JL is an excellent storyteller and writer. His characterization is strong and consistent, and his plot is reminiscent of the good old stuff. I enjoy his writing, and I'd recommend it to anyone who likes science fiction.


Congratulations to Momma Fargo!

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.

Well, maybe so. I have no trouble envisioning a typical Fargo scenario:

Little Jimmy: She keeps pinching me!

Fargo: And you let her? Belt her a nice one in the old snot locker. She'll quit.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Principal: And she told you what?
Little Jimmy: She said to belt her in the snot locker, so I did.
Principal: Now Jimmy, I want you to listen very carefully. Hitting someone is wrong. It's the wrong thing to do, and hitting someone never solved anything.
Little Jimmy: Well, she stopped pinching me.
Principal: You should have told your teacher.
Little Jimmy: I did! And she said -
Principal: James, I'll hear no more about it. Now you go apologize to Suzy right now, then we'll schedule a meeting with your parents, your teacher, and the school psychologist. We have a zero tolerance policy in this school.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Little Jimmy: Suzy? I'm sorry you're a real fourteen carat chrome plated bitch on a stick whose only natural talent is playing the victim, so I had to belt you in the snot locker.
Principal: James! Did you really say that?
Little Jimmy: No, not really. I'm only a literary device and the author got a bit carried away. I was supposed to say, "I'm sorry I had to hit you in the snot locker."
Principal: Jack? Mad Jack! Knock it off, and I mean now. I don't know why you ever bother to come to school anyway. It's not like you're learning anything.
Mad Jack: You're the reason I come to school, Mister Principal. You're my idol. When I grow up, I want to be a great big zero, just like you.

That last got me an additional three day suspension, but it was worth it.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

I fear I've digressed a bit. Therefore, I urge you to point your browser at Ma-story (pronounced mastery only spelled different) Accomplished and leave a congratulatory note in the comments section.

Thank you.


Mental Health Warning

Do-gooders abound everywhere.  My father ran afoul of the do-gooder staff and got locked up for being somewhat naive.  Now it's my next-door neighbor, whom we'll call Lois, who has been entrapped.

A few years prior to his demise, my father suffered a series of strokes that ultimately left him bed ridden, a condition he hated.  He could barely walk to the bathroom and had to be helped with everything.  He hated this condition, and said so when he was hospitalized.  When the sugary sweet, helpful little nurse asked him how he felt, he gave her a brutally honest answer.

"Terrible.  I wish I was dead."

And that's all it took.  They wheeled him into the psyche unit and kept him locked up for 72 hours.  He was terrified, and frankly I was a little worried.  Once you're in the psyche unit little can be done to get you out.  Worse, the psychologist who signed the order (called a pink slip in Ohio) to put him there lied about examining him.  Dr. Rat-shed claimed to have interviewed him, and hadn't.  The lies were blatant, the staff at the cracker factory were very obstructive with everyone, and it's an experience that I, personally, wouldn't wish on the Ayatollah Obongo.

The lady living next door to me (Lois) is a devout Christian with a few physical ailments.  She suffers from epilepsy, and so is not allowed to drive a car.  Her hands shake with a severe palsy, which she's very self-conscious about.  Physically, she's small but fairly athletic.  She walks everywhere she can in all but the worst weather, and she sets a pace that I'm hard pressed to keep up with.  For my part, I take her on errands and drive her to church services every Sunday.  It's nothing to me, and it makes her life easier.  She lives alone, and is a bit neurotic.

The neurotic builds castles in the air, the psychotic lives in the castle, and the psychologist collects the rent.

She isn't living in the castle, but from time to time she's toured the grounds.

Yesterday someone, and I don't know just who, called the Columbus PD to do a safety check on Lois, and during the course of general conversation I gather that Lois told the cops, "I wish I'd never wake up in the morning."  And that's all it took.

So now Lois is locked up in the Cracker Factory for 72 hours of observation, and in reality she isn't any crazier than I am.  Okay, scratch that.  She isn't any crazier than the sane people that you, the reader, meet on a daily basis.

I've written all this as a sort of cathartic exercise in frustration, and as a prelude to this:  We, the great unwashed, can no longer deal with any civil service or health service employee openly and honestly.  Say the wrong thing and you'll get tazed and taken away.  This is pretty much akin to being swatted, except you're locked up, possibly put into four point restraints, and for the most part held incommunicado.  Family members might get in to see you during visiting hours, as could your pastor or priest.

Should the entire experience turn out to be based on a false or exaggerated accusation, absolutely nothing will happen to any of the people responsible for holding you against your will, or even medicating you against your will.  Yeah, that last can happen too.  It keeps you quiet, you see.

If you're feeling a little depressed over something, whatever you do, don't let anyone in authority know what you're thinking.  Should any authority figure question you, deny it, and keep denying it until they give up and let you the hell alone.  Not allowing them into your home is always a good idea.  Not answering their questions is also good.

In three days Lois will be back on the street.  I only hope she learned something.


Quora Question: Have you ever seen someone showing more than expected while wearing a skirt?

Have you ever seen someone showing more than expected while wearing a skirt?

Sure have.

Disclaimer: Not safe for anything.  Names changed to protect the guilty; there are no innocents.  Your mileage may vary.  The sleeves will ride up with wear.

Back in the disco era I taught dancing.  Everyone wanted to be John Travolta, and thankfully John wasn't really all that good.   On weekends we'd go out to one of the local clubs and dance until closing time. One of our favorites was the Lightfoot Lounge (not the real name).  They had a fog machine, a great light show, and a waist high brass railing as a sort of fence around the dance floor. The club wasn't all that big, but it was one of the nicer ones.

One instructor from a sister school came in for a few weeks of training.  Jim was from Columbus, and had to leave his girlfriend behind him.   Joan could be somewhat possessive, and did not like the idea of Jimmy going out of town by himself.

The first night we all went out on the town and ended up at the Lightfoot Lounge.  Jimmy got half in the bag and started cutting up.   At one point he tried walking off the dance floor and hit the railing, doing a neat somersault that landed him on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and trying to collect his thoughts on reality.

A little later that night he's at the bar talking to some girl in a miniskirt, and for reasons not clear to anyone, Jim thinks the girl wants to sit on the bar stool next to her, but being small she needs a little help.  Ever the gentleman, he puts his arms around her and lifts... and her skirt rides up around her waist, and she isn't wearing a thing under it.   Nothing.  Nada.

Red hot damn on a Saturday night!

The girl freaks out, and since Jim can't see what might be the trouble it takes him a few minutes to release her, during which time her mons veneris is exposed for half the crowd to see, and her nice, round, spankable derriere is in full view of the other half of the crowd.

Eventually Jimmy drops her, she takes off, and he gets to hear all about the show he missed.

Oh well, right?

The next week Joanie comes in for a little visit with Jim, and we hit the Lightfoot lounge.  Now we, Jim's fellow staff members, know enough not to talk about girls, barstools, and a lack of proper attire in front of Joan.  Especially since Joan has a burr under her saddle about something or other and has been sniping at Jim all day.

Jim gets Joanie a drink, then another, dances with her a little, and just gets her all settled down and sugared up when the D.J. comes over.

"Hey Jim! Nice to see you. Hey, is this one wearing pants?"

"What?" Joanie says, starting to frown.

"Sure!  Didn't Jimmy tell you about the naked broad at the bar he was fooling around with?"

And that was that.

Joanie wanted revenge sex, I wouldn't give her any (I can't speak for the rest of the staff), and she and Jim eventually patched things up.  I never saw the showgirl again.


Ha! Here Comes the Welcome Wagon!

A while ago I made an off-color adult oriented suggestion involving late night driving on the expressway and - never mind.  I opined that since we didn't have any female readers here, I should just drop the whole business.

I was wrong.

We have one (1) for certain sure lady reading this blog - Lord only knows why, but there she is.

Since GlassLass didn't leave a comment similar to Baked Brie's cheesy attempt at an insult, I'm going to assume a rather thick skin and a penchant for guns and drinking.

Welcome to the site.


Thanksgiving 2018: Day 4 - Shootout in the Back Forty

It was just at dusk, and I was sitting downstairs at the bar considering which cocktail to start my evening with, when Albert strolled in.

"Dad's gonna shoot some guy!"


"Dad's gonna shoot some guy!"

Knowing Shotgun Bob as I do, there may actually be some truth to this, but given Albert's tendency to elaborate on factual information I sincerely doubt that this is an emergency.  Still, I wouldn't want my brother to go out with homicidal intentions and not have backup.  I put on shoes and my international orange hoodie, grab my pistol (Smith and Wesson 686 in .357) and head out behind Albert.

I've got to get a shoulder rig.  I put the pistol in my waistband and my pants fall down.  This makes me look ridiculous and hampers my movement, so I put it in the pocket of my hoodie.  I have to hold it there or it'll fall out.

I'm trailing by 100 yards when the two of them hit the woods, which is not good, and I'm wearing loafers, also not good.  I get as far as a wet marsh and loose 'em.  I wait around for a while, listening for shots, but I hear nothing but the wind.  It gets noticeably darker, and I can barely make out the lights of Shotgun Bob's house through the trees.  Pretty soon my phone rings.

It's my brother, Shotgun Bob, and he informs me that he and Albert are on their way back.  Very good; I'll wait.  Five minutes later they show up.  It turns out that Albert was in his tree stand when he saw a hunter walk past.  The hunter didn't see Albert, so I suppose Albert could have popped him with the .30-30, but bushwhacking is bad form.  Seriously, the man is trespassing.  Seeing as how this is deer season, old Bob didn't think he should come back into the woods unarmed, and so is carrying the lever action .30-30 I gave him as a wedding gift.  I bought it from Commander Cody and never got around to shooting it.

Observing my footgear, Bob suggested that Albert get the four wheeler and bring it around, then give me a lift back home.  I accepted this generous offer.  A 16 year old with a four wheeler - what could possibly go wrong?

If anyone should ever ask if I'm as dumb as I look, just tell them 'No - he's one whole helluva lot dumber.'

The four wheeler is top heavy, a fact that I'm keenly aware of.  Put Albert on it, and you add maybe 130 pounds.  Put my fat ass up there and you've not only exceeded the recommended weight limit, but you've made the stupid thing so top heavy that it's likely to roll at a 30° tilt.  I don't think Albert is fully cognizant of this fact, but I am and I do not want to end up in a ditch with a four wheeler in my lap.

"Okay, Parnelli, take it easy and no shenanigans," I tell him while I figure out how to heave my considerable bulk onto the passenger seat.

"Okay Uncle Jack.  Hang on!"

Holy fuck.

It's dark by this time, and the lights on the four wheeler don't work.  At all.  While the forest isn't exactly impenetrable, there's a plowed field next to us that runs parallel to the forest.  Along that edge is a neat little drainage ditch, about a foot or so deep.  We run with two wheels in the ditch and two wheels up on the field.  I lean into the tilt.  After a few hundred feet of this, Albert puts his left foot on the ground and starts pushing, sort of like a kid might push his scooter along the sidewalk.

"What he hell are you doin'?"  I inquire.

"Tryna' get us out of the ditch!"

"Okay, hold up a minute."

The four wheeler stops and I consider getting off and walking.  I stay aboard, which is a mistake.

"We've got four wheel drive, right?  So turn to the right and just ease it out of the ditch.  We'll climb right out."

Albert does, and we take to the plowed field.

For those of you who are not familiar with farm life, allow me to enlighten your dumb asses.  Me being a reformed country boy, my version of a plowed field involves a Cub Cadet 8.5 HP tractor pulling a plow through soft ground and producing furrows that are perhaps six inches deep at the most.  By contrast, this field I'm in now has been plowed by a 1000 HP four wheel drive farm tractor towing a device that turns the earth over and produces furrows that are around two and a half feet deep, maybe deeper.  Driving through this with a four wheeler is a bit jouncy.  My coccyx will never be the same.

After a few miles of this we come to the end of the field and hit the gravel road that leads to Shotgun Bob's house.  The road is bordered by a shallow ditch and an undeveloped berm next to it.  We take to the berm, natch.  In the nearly pitch black gloom, I see a phone pole approaching.

"Okay, hold up a minute," I say, trying to keep myself rational.


"What about that pole and the guy-wire next to it?  How are you going to handle that?"

"I'll get around it one way or another."

"Right.  Let's take the road instead."

"But then we'll have to cross the ditch!"

I'm tempted to ask if crossing the ditch might be breaking some local taboo, but I refrain.  This is neither the time nor the place for levity.

"Back the four wheeler up and turn it so as to approach the road at a 90 degree angle.  When we get to the ditch, just ease on through and we'll be fine."

And he did that, and we were.

Now we're on the open road, no traffic, no lights, it's dark, and since Shotgun Bob lives out in the middle of no where, no ambient light.  Albert hammers it.  Wheeeeeee!

We, or rather Albert, find the driveway by route memory.  He slows and uses a hand signal for a left turn.  No, I'm not kidding.  I couldn't believe it either, but he's just got his driver's license and I guess he's being correct and careful.

We pull up in front of the house and dismount.  I'm thinking that any landing you can walk away from is a good one, but instead I congratulate him on doing a good job and getting me home.

My first stop is the bar downstairs, where I put away a shot of whiskey.  Neat.


Hate Speech From the Feminazi Left

I have a first cousin once removed who we'll call TroubledClef.  He's a music major somewhere in the loony Left and will make his living by teaching music to the underprivileged but oh so talented public school children.  He's a senior and is just now realizing that starting a brand new career at twenty-something, with no experience, and $150,000 in school loan debt might be a bit of a bitch.

Politically, socially, and philosophically, TroubledClef is so far to the left that his back is resting against the fence.  But not to worry, as they'll move it soon, and so very sorry for your discomfort and confusion, but being male we understand that you can't help yourself.

A bit like being mentally retarded.  He can't help himself, poor thing.

Thing indeed.

Being incurably meddlesome and easily roused to irritation, I occasionally read his FB page and cannot resist kicking over the hornet's nest.  I'm immune to the hornet stings of the Left, having the hide of a rhino and the heart of a mortgage lender - a Republican mortgage lender - so whatever transpires doesn't affect me.  My somewhat caustic comments aren't driving him to think, which is a real shame because the young man isn't dumb, he's just wrong headed.

Then I found this crap on his page and I vehemently objected.

Hate Speech
More Hate Speech
This is directed at me, and people like me.  Both inspire a good fisking, but I have neither the time nor the self-control.

During my entire working career, I've found that the only thing worse than working with a group of women is working with a bunch of faggots.  Gay guys.  And working for a woman manager?  Forget it.  You'll never get a fair shake.  Yes, there are exceptions, but these women are incredibly rare.  I should know.  I've met a few, and none of them wasted their time with propaganda like the incredible waste of bandwidth above.

The hell with it.  I'm going to take apart the second example anyway.  As contributed by gem at vegbby, which is somewhere in the UK.  Just wait until this self-important little twit tries to educate a half-dozen Muslim refugees about women's rights.

You interrupted me.  I'm not finished talking.
It's been twenty minutes and you have yet to say anything remotely intelligent, let alone offer a solution that will begin to work.  Your time ran out fifteen minutes ago - shut up and sit down.

Fine.  I'm headed out to the club.  See you in the morning!

That isn't funny.
Then why is everyone laughing?

That isn't appropriate.
We speak plain English here, and we call a spade a spade.  If you don't like it, move along.

I already know that.
You might think so, but you don't know the truth.  I'm trying my best to enlighten you so that you'll stop sounding like a brainless fluff chick and be able to take part in the conversation.

That won't be necessary.
It's an offer to help.  It's considerate and polite, but in the future rest assured that you'll be on your own.

Leave me alone.
No problem.  Believe me, it'll be a relief.

You're making me uncomfortable.
So what?  This may come as a shock, but your personal comfort is not high on my list of priorities this week.  Next week isn't looking good either.

Stop ignoring what I'm saying.
Then say something intelligent or mildly interesting.  All you do is babble and yammer about what you would do, how you feel, and why some remote societal situation is completely wrong.  Do you want to be taken seriously?  Wise up, grow a pair, and say what you mean in 25 words or less.

Propaganda and hate speech from the Lunatic Left.  Where would we be without it?


Thanksgiving 2018: Day 2

I spent the night at a Motel 6 in Mad City.  In the morning I got breakfast at Perkins Pancake House; waffle, scrambled eggs, sausage.  Absolutely delicious!  The people in Mad City are very nice, which is how I remember it.  Out of all the people I ever met in Mad City, I only found two, maybe three, whose absence would make the world a better place.  I'm very tempted to name them, but decorum and temporary sobriety cause me to decline.  One example of humanitarianism in Mad City I observed on my way out was the manager of Perkins Pancake House calling the police about a blonde woman who has been sleeping in her car in the parking lot.  The objection?  The blonde keeps
throwing her trash into the parking lot rather than the waste can.  The manager didn't care about her sleeping out there, just don't strew your garbage all over.  The blonde had been told, but never listens.

I hit the road and drive through Wisconsin.  What I'd really like to know is how the place ever got settled in the bad old days.  The terrain is beautiful, but the winters are harsh and the settlers had to clear land, build a cabin and a barn, plant stuff, get enough food to eat in the meantime, and chop enough firewood to survive the winter.  I wonder how many froze to death, or broke a leg or an arm and died, or died in childbirth, or whatever.  Clearly, a few survived.

I arrived at Shotgun Bob's around 1:30 PM, local time.  There are five dogs and two cats.  I plan to compile an inventory and post it.


Inspired by Glen Filthie - Shooting the .45-70

Inspired by Glen Filthie over at Filthie's Thunderbox - Ow!.

I found this video of the featured derringer (.45-70 M4 Alaskan Survival Derringer) actually being fired. Enjoy!


Thaksgiving 2018: Day 1

November 20th

I decided to go visit my brother, Shotgun Bob, this Thanksgiving.  I spent the previous two days cleaning the house and packing, and arranged for my Christian neighbor, Next-door Sandy, to feed and water Danté.  Big Mike was kind enough to stop in every few days and make sure the place hadn't burnt down, flooded out, or been burglarized in my absence.

I got a late start, around 9:00 AM or so, but I didn't forget anything.  My intent was to avoid Chicago, but I forgot that Garmin and Google Maps have separate minds.  I followed Garmin and ended up in Chicago.  While traveling the Illinois tollway I tried to move the sun visor around to the side so as to block the morning sunlight, and the thrice-damned thing fell off.  I was traveling I-90, East of the big windy.  I crossed the river and got off the tollway to deal with the problem.

The Big Windy

The sun visor is attached to the ceiling by a wire, which is part of a vanity mirror set into the visor.  I pull off and get the pliers out of my toolkit (which Main Lady gave me years ago).  The pliers are the old fashioned kind with a wire cutter at the fulcrum.  I snip the wire, then follow Garmin back to the Illinois tollway.  If the local PD knew what I had in my car, they'd call in three SWAT teams and an air strike, but I'll tell you this: I was very glad to be armed.  I finally get back to the tollway and head for the Big Windy.

Traffic in the big windy is crap.  Some segments are bumper to bumper at 3 mph.  Other sections are 50 mph or better, then traffic stalls out again and resumes stop 'n go.  I sit back and relax as it's going to be a long epic.  While I'm relaxing, some little SOB cuts in front of me.  I get his picture, complete with license plate and advert for a taxi company.  I'm going to complain about him.  The space in front of me is not for him to use; it's to maintain as assured clear distance from the vehicle in front of me, and to provide space to allow me and the people behind me to keep moving, which is how you get through traffic like this.  This incredible little hose head decided he owned the toll road.


By the time I'm through the traffic and out of town, it's dark.  I stop at the old Belvidere Oasis for fuel and food.  Fuel's easy.  For food, I have to find a parking space, then park and walk.  The wind has picked up and rips right through me.  I get a slice of pizza and a Pepsi (they don't have Coka-Cola).  There's nothing in the world like Belvidere Oasis pizza to fix your digestive tract.  If you're constipated, make sure you remain within 50 yards of a flush toilet for the next three days.  Suffering the Nixon Two-Step?  One slice of this will put you right for three days or maybe even longer.  Just don't say I didn't warn you.  The only people immune to the side effects of Belvidere Oasis pizza are truck drivers and teen-age boys.

I sit at the window on the overpass and watch the constant stream of cars pass by; an endless river of Detroit iron, vig to the banking system, spent fuel, tired drivers, and potential insurance claims.  This last puts me in mind of the health care industry, the myriad medical claims that insurance companies refuse to pay, the endless hours spent on the phone talking to obstructive customer assistance associates by people in pain (physical and emotional), the occasional moment of complete despair when the rest of the family learns that the bread winner bought the box condo in the Big Windy.  The family truck is now junk and we still owe 37 more payments.  If there's any life insurance the bill collectors will start swarming around like impatient vultures, and the funeral home wants their money up front.

For a typical family of five, help will vanish.  The in-laws and outlaws won't have the room or the time to babysit three kids, and frankly there are a few of these close friends and relatives who couldn't be trusted with a box of dead flashlight batteries, much less three traumatized children.  One way or another, everything just keeps rolling along.  Mom might start dating again, the kids will grow up without a father, but I suppose there are worse things.  They'll have to make do with Uncle Paul, a retired railbird who helps them with their math homework and offers up political opinions that get the
oldest sent to the principal's office.

I finish the pizza and chase it with Pepto-Bismol.  I've got a long drive in front of me, I'm not getting any younger, and the clock is running.  I wonder how many of those drivers down there are getting a blow job from the old ball and chain.  I wonder how many guys reading this have ever gotten a blow job late at night while driving on the highway.  I wonder how many women reading this have ever... nah.  Women don't read this blog.

By the time I hit Mad City I'm well and truly beat.  I call my brother and tell him I'm checking into a motel for the night, then I try finding one.  The deal is that Mad City has changed since I was there last.  More and better roads, for one thing.  By Garmin and Divine Intervention, I find a Red Roof Inn and get myself a very basic room for $60.  Dinner, which is a burger and onion rings, is $8.  I know I put a small bottle of Old Thought Provoker in my luggage, but I can't find it anywhere.  Oh well.  I watch a few episodes of The Big Bang Theory and imagine I'm a brilliant scientist who has cracked the cold fusion problem, and everyone loves me and thinks I'm brilliant, and President Trump calls me on the phone and congratulates me and invites me to the White House for dinner, and then there's this drop dead gorgeous blonde that looks a lot like Penny, only with half the morals and twice the imagination, and then... some SOB out in the parking lot lays on his horn and wakes me up.

There's a domestic going on, but it's a brief domestic.  With a string of curses in Spanglish and threats of physical violence, the guy takes off before the police get here.  The woman spits hatred in his
wake.  I turn the TV off and go to sleep, thinking that if I were truly ambitious I'd haul out my pistol and put a couple rounds into the air, just to get everything straightened out.  But then someone might call the cops, and the fracas would start up again.  Back to cold fusion.

End of Day One


Quora Question: Lying, Cheating, and An End to It All

Today is your lucky day!  Here are three incredibly dumb Quora questions that I took the time to answer.  Maybe I should contact the local bird cage liner and offer a sane alternative to Damn Landers...

How should I end my extra-marital affair?

Quickly, and with a great deal of finality.  Tell her that the real problem is you, not her.  On no account put the blame on her, because she’ll get spiteful and tell your soon-to-be-ex what’s been going on for the past however many months the two of you have been playing hide the salami.

Have you ever lied in a job interview?

Of course.  Almost everyone lies during a job interview.  I’m no exception.

My very first job as a programmer/analyst was writing a major application using dBase III+ (about 1986, I think) on Ms-DOS.  I had limited experience using MS-DOS and no experience with dBase.  I lied and said I did, and on Friday the headhunter called me and told me to report on Monday.

I bought three books on dBase and read them over the weekend.  I reported to work on Monday, and about eight months later produced a successful application along with documentation.  Not bad, right?

So yeah, I’ve lied.  Big deal.  I got the job and the client was happy with the result.  That job opened a lot of doors for me and I was able to parlay it into a nice career.

I just caught my boss cheating on his wife, should I blackmail him to increase my salary?

It depends on how solid your proof is.  If you’ve got explicit video or photos combined with a verifiable stay in the local no-tell motel, and if you know that your boss is trying to hold his marriage together, then you might have some leverage.

Ask for a promotion, a raise, and a transfer to another department.  Assemble a good case for all three, then present it to him.  See what he says.  If he agrees, you got what you wanted.  Otherwise…

Digitize a non-explicit photo and attach it to some email.  Make sure that the faces are blurred out.  Use an anonymous email service and send it to your boss’s email address.  Do not use any names - just a message, “Be nice to your employees.”  Deniability is key here.

Wait a little while, then renew your raise request.  Unless he’s a real blockhead, which he might be, he’ll put two and two together and come up with maybe.  If you get turned down again, increase the explicitness and the subject identity of the pix.

Now me, personally, I wouldn’t use anything like this to actually blackmail the poor dumb b*****d, but I might use it for a little coercion - such as better treatment.  For instance, I once had a boss that liked the old Bolivian Marching Powder a little too much and would come in from lunch all screwed up.  I suggested to him, privately, that random drug testing might be a good idea, but if he didn’t think so I’d drop the whole thing.  One hand washes the other, you see.  We got along good after that.


World War 2 War Heros: Joachim Rønneberg

Ex-Main Lady sent me a copy of her svensk nyhetsbrev (Swedish newsletter), which had an article about WWII Norwegian hero Joachim Holmboe Rønneberg who passed away October 21st, 2018.

Joachim Rønneberg sabotaged Vemork, the hydroelectric power plant located outside Rjukan in Tinn, Norway, which was controlled by the Nazis and was being used to manufacture heavy water.  This sabotage prevented the Nazis from developing the atomic bomb before the United States did.  Unlike the U.S., the Nazis had a delivery system before the end of the war, and could have easily won WWII with their version of the atomic bomb.  Joachim and his team prevented that from happening.

From the article in the newsletter:

In 1943, Nazi Germany was close to building the world's first atomic bomb using a key ingredient, heavy water, produced at a hydroelectric plant deep in a fjord in southern Norway. Because the plant was heavily defended, Rønneberg's five-member team dropped at midnight by parachute into a mountaintop blizzard, met up with four other resistance fighters, and crosscountry skied 40 miles to the site in subzero winter. The plant was surrounded by mine fields, and a suspension bridge, the only way in, was too heavily guarded. Their only hope was to climb an insurmountable icy 500- foot cliff in the middle of the night. At the top, the team snuck in at guardchange, set explosives with only 30-second fuses, and narrowly escaping to the mountains as explosions crippled the heavy water plant. The saboteurs skied their getaway 200 miles to neutral Sweden without losing a single man. A previous attempt the year before had resulted in the loss of all 41 men when their gliders crashed and Nazis executed survivors. He led other resistance missions in Norway before returning to his home town of Ålesund. He married in 1949. He was awarded Norway's highest military honor, the War Cross With Sword, and the Distinguished Service Order in Britain.

Reading about his team's adventure, these men were Olympic class athletes with a skill set that they had to begin acquiring when they were children.  I think they also had Divine intervention, as they parachuted into their destination in the middle of the night, in the middle of a blizzard.  Read the whole thing; it's a worthy read.

I read about people like this, and I wonder where they came from.  Joachim never talked about his war experiences until late in life.  Obviously the war wasn't much fun, but by his own admission Joachim didn't expect anything else except hardship.  He and his team didn't worry about their own safety, they just worried about getting the job done.  They didn't understand how important it was until much later in life.  They just did their job without complaint.

I look around today and I wonder a little about where our society is and what we've come to.  I hear boom cars drive by my home all the time playing 'music' that amounts to black people chanting about how much fun it is to kill white people.  The Columbus PD refuses to do anything about this, in spite of the noise ordinance that's being violated.

This Sunday is Veteran's Day, but our local government isn't holding the Veteran's Day parade on Sunday - they decided that Friday morning would be a better time, so this year's parade will be held Friday morning when children are in school and normal people are at work.  The official time is Friday, November 9th, 2018 from 9:00 AM until 1:30 PM.  Note that the city of Columbus held the gay pride parade on Saturday (June 17th) from 10:30 AM until whenever.  So I guess the LG-whatever the hell they are parade is more important to the slime bags that run the city of Columbus.

Then we have another attack by a deranged man armed with a .45 pistol, who goes to a large country western bar and opens fire.  He kills 12, wounds 1, and 15 others are injured trying to get away from him.  The political Left screams for more gun laws, completely ignoring the laws that have been broken - premeditated murder, for one - and the failure of the laws in and of themselves to prevent this kind of attack from happening.  The gunman, who I refused to name, took his own life before police could shoot or capture him.

I do not, by the way, blame the police for this.  They got to the scene as quickly as they could, rushed inside, and one police officer who was literally days away from retirement was shot and killed.  He leaves behind a wife and child, and any number of friends and family.

The moonbats are screaming bloody blue murder over the last election, and Florida is headed for a mandatory recount and a very possible voter scandal.  I can tell you something about Florida and elections from personal experience.  I was living in Jacksonville when Bush was elected, and prior to the election there was all kinds of rabble rousing talk about denying people their 'right' to vote - mainly in the black sections of the city.  One incident stands out.

Bright and early on election day, the line starts forming outside the polling location.  The big glass doors to the polling place are locked, and potential voters can clearly see the staff inside.  They appear to be working, or maybe not.  The people outside start knocking on the doors; they want in.  The staff isn't ready yet, and ignores them.  Does anyone see where this is headed?

The knocking continues until one worker responds, stating that they aren't open yet.  Words are exchanged through the thick glass barrier, until the inevitable happens.  The workers state that they will open when they feel like it and suggest that the porch monkeys outside chill the fuck out.  The people outside go nuts, and the Jax PD shows up.  In force.  Instead of throwing water on the fire, the PD resorts to using gasoline, the commercial news media shows up late to the party, and the polling place doesn't open until things settle down - 10:00 AM or so.  Mind you, this happened some years back, but in Jax things don't change all the quickly.

I'm old.  My hope is to make it to the bell without having to be warehoused due to health reasons (mental health included).  I'm seeing a division in society that I never really thought would occur, and if we believe commercial media, this division is accompanied by violence.

I'm just a little worried.

Thanks for reading.


Quora Question: What programs are being done to keep the children in rural and urban areas fit?

Another answer that's likely to be deleted. Well, here we go...

What programs are being done to keep the children in rural and urban areas fit?

Oh, there are quite a few. Splitting firewood, mending or building fence, various kinds of animal husbandry, hiking, and extended bicycle rides are but a few of the many character building and healthful exercise programs available to people of all ages in rural America.

Not a part of the answer...

Where do these retards come from?  Despite its absurdity, this question remained unanswered on Quora for several weeks.  I got sick of seeing it, and so provided this block head with an answer.  I could have expounded on my answer, but I wanted to keep it just believable enough to argue that it's a serious answer to a serious question.  Hey, why not, right?

I need a hobby.


Widener's Revisited

About ten or more days ago (time flies when you're old and half in the bag most of the day), some enterprising ne'er-do-well offered me some cheese if I'd give them a free plug.  I really didn't think there was anything in it, but what the hell, right?  They offered a $25 gift certificate for a shameless commercial plug, and I snapped it up.  Well, I was a bit bored and it was after five o'clock eastern standard time.  What I expected was a gift certificate good for $25 off your order when you spend $250 or more, because why not?

But that's not what happened.

Instead, I got my gift certificate and it was on the up and up. 'Well,' thinks I, 'red hot damn on a Saturday night. Will you just look at this cheese!'

I pointed my browser at Wideners Reloading and Shooting Supply, and not long after found what I was looking for.  Right now I have enough .45, .38, 9mm, .32, and .25.  But .22?  You can never have enough .22 ammo - at least not for long.

I ordered and the ammo shipped the same day the friendly folks at Wideners got my order.  I am now the proud owner of a nice big box of Winchester .22 hollow points.

Winchester 555 Rounds of .22

These people have a nicely designed site, their pricing is good, and they ship right away.  You can read original post as it amuses you to do so at Commercial Message from Widener's.

Check out Wideners Blog for a few articles, but the site that I recommend is Wideners Reloading and Shooting Supply.  They did a great job by me, and I'll shop there again.

My only beef is with Winchester.  They packed the .22 ammo loose, so now I'll have to count it to make sure I actually got 555 rounds.  Doesn't that just bite the big one?


Quora Question: What does it feel like to be shot with a .22 caliber firearm?

Much as I'd like to oblige this genius with a first hand experience, this could be a legitimate question from a somewhat morbidly curious 8 year old.  So on June 28, 2017, I posted an answer.

On March 30, 1981, John Hinckley tried to assassinate US President Ronald Reagan. The President was wearing a special overcoat which is made of second chance body armor. Soft armor, such as second chance, prevents penetration from small arms - like a .22.

So some talking head got hold of a second chance overcoat, put it on, and had the sound man shoot him with a .22 pistol. The genius immediately danced around, flapping his arms and yelling “Damn, that hurts!” Which it probably did, and serves him right.

Soft body armor stops bullet penetration. It does nothing about the bullet impact. So although the bullet doesn’t get through to make a mess of your internal organs, the impact will, at the very best, leave one huge bruise. Basically, if feels like being hit with a hammer. The area goes numb for a brief second, then the pain starts.


Commercial Message from Widener's

I got this in my email today.  I haven't read my email in a few days, so it's a bit out of date.  Still and all, the advertisement is supposed to earn me a $25 gift certificate - hey, who can't use $25 worth of ammo, right? - and a chance to win free ammunition for one year.  Whatever that may mean.

Here's a copy of the email Jacob sent me.

Hi Jack,

I’m Jacob from Widener’s. In honor of our new blog launching, we are hosting our very first giveaway contest exclusively for bloggers. Since we both view the 2nd Amendment as a right I thought you’d be interested in participating and I should reach out with an invite.

What is our contest about? It’s easy! We are giving away “Free Ammo For A Year” to one lucky Widener’s fan. To win all they have to do is subscribe to our blog newsletter by following the link below: https://www.wideners.com/blog/ammo-for-a-year/

So, what’s in it for you as a blogger?

We want you to share our contest with your audience, It’s that simple! Sharing our contest automatically gets you a $25 gift card from Widener’s and enters you in a grand-prize drawing to win a $1,000 Widener’s gift card! To qualify for the gift card and contest you must share the Widener’s “Free Ammo For A Year” contest with your blog audience by Friday, October 5th, 2018. The grand-prize winner will be notified after October 31st, 2018.

While you're at it, stop by and check out the new Widener’s blog. We hope our new blog will serve as a resource for our customers who share our passion for shooting, hunting and the freedom of the great outdoors. We are committed to helping our customers get as much enjoyment as they can out of the shooting sports we all love. We are hopeful this journey will be a fun experience that even seasoned shooters will get valuable information from as we continue to grow.

If you think this sounds worthy of your time and trouble, and would like to receive your free gift card, just let me know you’re in and we’ll send along the gift card ASAP. From there, we’ll enter you in the big blogger only gift card drawing that will take place October 31st.

If you have questions about the contest, or if you would like to have some free ammo to review, let me know! 

Being hungover and not terribly bright, I snapped up the bait and checked out the sight.  It isn't bad.  They're just getting started and could use a little extra traffic and a few suggestions.  The articles are okay, but they could use a few more pix.

My suggestion is that if you want to increase traffic, include pictures of red hot women, liquor, and guns that most of us will never be able to afford.  For a little diversion, point to a few decent blogs that deal with guns and the Second Amendment.


Quora Question: Will it be ok to become a dancer if I am a transgender man?

I would say no.  No, it isn’t acceptable to become a dancer if you are a transgender man.  I say this for two reasons:

1. Dancing is an art form that requires a lot of passion and self-expression. People who succeed at dance are invariably sensitive and emotionally brittle. They don’t bend, but they do tend to break easily.

2. The world in general isn’t ready for an artist like you. You’ll draw unreasonable criticism from critics who know little to nothing about dance, but who know a vulnerable target when they see one. Even with a solid emotional support network, you’ll be under severe emotional strain and it will affect your dancing.

Best of luck to you.

What I didn't say on Quora:

If you were just an average, everyday, door knob sucking, bull dyke fearing faggot, I'd tell you that your question was the stupidest thing I've seen in a month of Sundays.  The area of dance, dance studios, and dance productions are loaded with faggots.  You'd fit right in.  Just remember to bring your membership button, official thermos and lunchbox, and don't forget to give the secret handshake at the door.

But, well, since I don't know just what the fuck you are, the answer to your question is: I don't know.  You might be on your way to becoming a dancer, and some other faggot tries giving you the secret handshake in the locker room and the poor little fucker can't tell just what he's got hold of.  That could be traumatic for everyone.

So until you find out just what you are, confine your antics to marching in the gay pride parade where ever you think you'll fit in.

We'll see how long this question and answer stays up on Quora.  Me, I'm betting that it gets taken down within a week.


Page created: Fri, Feb 15, 2019 - 09:00 PM GMT