ex luce ad tenebras
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.
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.
Have you ever seen someone showing more than expected while wearing a skirt?
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.
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.
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!"
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.
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.
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.
|More Hate Speech|
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 over at Filthie's Thunderbox - Ow!.
I found this video of the featured derringer (.45-70 M4 Alaskan Survival Derringer) actually being fired. Enjoy!
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|
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.
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.
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.
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|
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.
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.
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/
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!
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