Sunday, March 31, 2013

Sunday funnies


Good ol' Herman.

Hamburgers and freedom: the two just naturally go together.

Beer goggles, illustrated.

Happy Easter!

"But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared. And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were perplexed about this, behold, two men stood by them in dazzling apparel. And as they were frightened and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them, 'Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise.' And they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb they told all these things to the eleven and to all the rest."

- Luke, Chapter 24

Saturday, March 30, 2013

It's a trap!

Courtesy of the outstanding People's Cube.

Friday, March 29, 2013

Don't wind up as a cinder

The cold war is hotting up again as one of the world’s last communist regimes threatens to nuke the United States. Can you depend on your government to protect you in an age of sequestered budgets and defense cuts? You know the answer to that! In Obama’s world, you’re on your own.

But help is on the way. For the low, low price of $19.95, Preemptive Atomic Counter-Ordnance, a division of PACO Consumer Defense Industries, can give you complete peace of mind with the Blast Master II.

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Don’t delay, order today (particularly if you live in Austin, Texas).

Great Moments in Stupidity

Important safety tip: keep a substantial amount of daylight between you and a bison.

Happy Feet Friday

Maxine Sullivan says she ain’t misbehavin’.

I've been pwn'd!

The actress in the mystery photo is Gloria Dehaven - who is still with us, BTW.

But that's not who she was held out to be in the email Mrs. Paco received. According to the email, it was Frances Bavier, better known as Aunt Bea from the Andy Griffith Show. This was supposedly a picture of her taken back in the 1930s. After posting the photo yesterday, I started getting a little suspicious and began researching it. Alas, the Aunt Bea connection turned out to be a hoax. And it was the striking contrast between Aunt Bea, young and old, that made the whole thing kind of interesting.

Still, Gloria Dehaven. Rule 5 goodness!


Thursday, March 28, 2013

This is what a cast iron stomach looks like

I'm late in catching up with this post by Boy on a Bike, but it is just so epic, so Homeric, that it needs to be linked, however belatedly.

Robert Redford: his ideas aren't aging any better than his face

Who better to produce a tribute to the vile world of the young Bill Ayers than Robert Redford?

BTW, Redford used to be handsome, but he has sure gotten over that.

Sheesh! He looks like a Mr. Potato Head put together by a child with really bad hand/eye coordination.

(H/T for the image to Bruce in the comments).

You don't say

Mrs. Paco recently received an email from a friend that included one of those "guess who this is" photos. I invite readers to try to identify the actress in the photo below (answer tomorrow morning). I'm thinking that if you do guess correctly, you almost had to have received the same email.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

What, is the TSA still here?

“A bumbling TSA agent 'playing around' with a pepper-spray container at Kennedy Airport fired the caustic liquid at five fellow screeners yesterday, sending all six to the hospital, a source told The Post."

Of course, the upside to this story is that the bozo took out six TSA screeners, including himself. Nice shootin’, Tex!

Scenes from Obama’s America

Looks like a substantial number of Americans are heading back to dorm life:
With the cost of living on the rise and showing no sign of slowing down, total strangers desperate to save money are moving in together.
In other end-of-civilization news, coyotes are now prowling about Northern Virginia neighborhoods. This is one of the hazards of leaving politicians lying around; they attract scavengers –and not just coyotes and foxes and raccoons. The other day, one of my neighbors was out walking her dog and a lobbyist bit her on the ankle (she says the rabies shots are excruciatingly painful). And many of Romney’s failed political consultants have gone feral, wandering the suburbs in packs and baying pointless and unconvincing slogans at the moon.

One of the weirdest jobs in the world

Not to mention one of the most dishonorable: "Meet Alejandro Cao de Benós, the only non-Korean employee of North Korea’s foreign ministry."

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Pee Wee's Big Israeli Adventure

Obama's "smart" diplomacy: looking dumber all the time (H/T: Jill J).

Cyprus: One-Off or Template?

The notion has been floated, repeatedly, that Cyprus is a “special situation”, that the confiscation of bank deposits is an “extraordinary” measure peculiar to the dynamics of this one little country’s current financial crisis.

Well, I guess that notion is blowing up faster than Cyprus’s overworked ATM machines:
The euro fell on global markets after Jeroen Dijsselbloem, the Dutch chairman of the eurozone, announced that the heavy losses inflicted on depositors in Cyprus would be the template for future banking crises across Europe.
Could never happen here, though, right? No, of course not.

Er, by the way, coming soon from Paco Financial Services (Cayman Islands): Perdurable Asset Caching Offshore. Yes, in these ominous times, we think it wise to consider socking away a significant amount of getus in an IRA, Roth or 401(k) account that provides diversification among a range of assets sure to increase in value: gold, silver, guns, ammo and canned goods. A P.A.C.O. account can help you achieve your retirement goals – and it’s fully compliant with all IRS regulations (no need to look it up; just take our word for it).

Paco Financial Services: Commando investing in a time of economic apocalypse.

Monday, March 25, 2013

Virgil Trucks, RIP

Major league pitcher Virgil Trucks, who enjoyed his greatest career successes as a Detroit Tiger, has died at age 95.


U.S. Border Patrol uniforms: made in Mexico.

Given his notoriously anti-Semitic record, I’m tempted to say “he ought to know”, except for the fact that Al Sharpton is, as usual, so far off base (and in this instance, projecting like mad).

New Jersey Democratic assemblyman Joe Cryan aspires to higher office (and, presumably, bigger paddles).

Oh, by all means, let’s give some serious attention to the opinions of Jim Freakin’ Carrey on gun control. If our Bill of Rights doesn’t suit you, you can always go back to Canada and work as a janitor, bat boy.

Hugo Chavez may be dead, but a convention of spiritualists recently gathered in Cuba to celebrate the man’s fat, greasy spirit (which is still apparently floating through the air like the aroma of an overcooked ham hock).

Paul Krugman’s mind: not improving with age.

Michael Bloomberg: resistance is futile.

I guess we need more bank regulations because the regulators we have are pussies.

The reading of books continues to decline. So, what are you doing to counter this ominous trend?

What a huge surprise

Never saw it coming: “McCain emerges as key senator in expanding background checks”

Ok, enough sarcasm for now. Of course John McCain would be the most likely Republican to sell us out on a Bill of Rights issue. Remember McCain-Feingold? I mean, how else is he going to get back in the good graces of the media, except by leveraging his RINOism to consort with known Democrats in a burst of “statesmanlike” compromise?

There’s no tool like an old tool.

Update: So many shocks to my system, and in one day, too: A sociologist at the University of British Columbia discovers that “the professoriate either contains the highest proportion of liberals of any occupation in the United States for the period 1996-2010 or is right behind another famously liberal occupational group, authors and journalists.”

Must…get to…my nitroglycerin…pills…Shock…too great…

Monday movie

The final scene from Duel in the Sun, as star-crossed lovers Jennifer Jones and Gregory Peck meet their tragic destiny.

Sunday, March 24, 2013


I think I may have missed Earth Hour this year, but I did want to commemorate it, however tardily, by citing Lord Byron's apocalyptic poem, "Darkness".

If he were writing today, Byron might have entitled his poem, "Hey, what if the whole world looked like North Korea, 24/7?"

The Green paradigm: to be accomplished without concentration camps...unless they're absolutely necessary.

More guns, less crime

John Stossel discusses guns and gun control in this instructive video (H/T: the excellent Hickock45; check out all his videos - for example, this one, on the relative merits of a double-barreled shotgun and an AR-15 for home-defense purposes).

By the way, I want to see Obama's financial disclosure form. Hard to believe he's not an investor in this company, since he's done more than anybody actually on the payroll to boost sales.

Sunday funnies

Update and bumped: Julia Gillard's new friend.

I knew it! Salad is more dangerous than hamburgers.

Sequestration implemented: art lovers hardest hit.

Incisive political poetry from that wild man of the worldwide web, TimT.

Here's another Jonathan Winters bit: fishing from the perspective of the fish (as usual, Winters uses sound effects to enhance the experience; his imitation of a catfish - at about 5:40 - is truly inspired).

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Sequester this!

What, they don't have a Motel 6 in Paris?
Recent documents posted to a government website give a rare glimpse of Vice President Joe Biden’s overseas travel expenses.

Official business took him last month to Europe, a trip that included a bill of $585,000 for his one-night stay in Paris.
For this, we're going to furlough meat inspectors?

Call your lawyer

Jeff Goldstein has an interesting video in which an attorney explains the importance of the fifth amendment, and why you shouldn't talk to the police without first getting legal counsel, even if you're innocent. The video is 48+ minutes long. I've only had time to listen to the first ten minutes, but it's so fascinating I intend to go back and catch the rest of it.

Update: Of course, a good lawyer is to be preferred.

Friday, March 22, 2013

Happy Feet Friday

Ivory Joe Hunter lays down some of that smooth boogie.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Biden: making friends and influencing people

You just know he's saying, "H-e-e-y-y-y, paisan!"


Lifted from Moonbattery.

Go, Nick!

Nick Searcy, one of the stars of the (excellent) cable TV series, Justified, takes on the race baiters.

Update: If you haven't seen Nick Searcy's short comedy videos, "Nick Searcy's Acting School", give yourself a real treat. Here's episode 1 (H/T: Mr. G)

What’s next, Andy, Cuban-style block captains?

New Yorkers are given an inducement to rat out their gun-owning neighbors.

Check out the photo of Governor Andrew Cuomo at the linked article. Looks like a mafia capo from central casting.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

NASA's strategy for dealing with asteroids

"Pray", NASA chief Charles Bolden says.

I think that's certainly one viable option. But, as the saying goes, the Lord helps him who helps himself, so why not back up that appeal for divine intervention with asteroid insurance? Now available from Prudential Asteroid Coverage Online, a division of Paco Financial Services, Ltd (Cayman Islands).

That's right, you - or rather, your beneficiaries, unless they happen to be staying with you - can sleep soundly knowing that you've got a P.A.C.O. policy. Allstate? Their hands are in their pockets. Progressive? Flo's napping in the break room. GEICO? That little lizard will scurry off leaving his wriggling tail in your hand. Only P.A.C.O. will be there for you (not at the point of impact, of course, but in spirit).

Affordable coverage, peace of mind. Remember: At Paco Financial Services, we treat your money like it was ours.

Sorry, got to run

I’ve suddenly got an urge to go and check out some yard sales.

The unending obscenity that is the TSA

The stupidity, laziness, callousness and complete absence of judgment that characterize this agency should have made it the number one target for sequestration cutbacks.

The latest outrage:
Transportation Security Administration officers “humiliated” a Marine who lost both legs to an Improvised Explosive Device by requiring the wheelchair-bound Marine to stand and walk. They also had him remove both his prosthetic legs, according to a letter from Rep. Duncan Hunter (R-California).
I wonder if this type of behavior isn’t rather encouraged than otherwise by this administration. After all, if the Leviathan state is going to condition the people to accept poor service in most aspects of their lives (e.g., health care), it has to start somewhere.

Homicides caused by cold weather

Dan Mitchell takes a satirical look at gun-control statistics.

Elsewhere…hey, thanks, Harry Reid, for stripping Diane Feinstein’s idiotic “assault” weapons ban from the Democratic gun control bill; however, you’re still a monumental creep. But, who knows, maybe there’s hope for you. Just remember…

President Feckless

So, Obama wants to "woo" the Israeli public.

He's sure got a strange way of going about it (H/T: Jill J).

RIP, Chuck Norris's beard

Not to worry; he's just going undercover. He's going to deport Piers Morgan - with a roundhouse kick.

Today's Chuck Norris fact: Chuck Norris doesn't call the wrong number. You answer the wrong phone.

Monday, March 18, 2013

I’m pretty sure we can do without this particular form of government-subsidized art

A $40,000 portrait of former EPA Administrator Lisa Jackson? Really? I mean, as a subject of aesthetic interest, Lisa Jackson doesn’t even rise to the level of Dogs Playing Poker.

Not that the portrait is a bad likeness; in fact, it even rather brilliantly manages to convey her approach to regulating the private sector…

Still, why not just take a photo, frame it and hang it up in some Gallery of Soon-To-Be-Forgotten Bureaucrats? Although I have to question why we even need a photo; anybody who wants to see what she looks like can just Google “Lisa Jackson/secret email accounts” and, most of the time, get an article that features her picture.

Can’t wait to see the episode where Samson slays a thousand men with Joe Biden’s jawbone

The History Channel is featuring a series on the Bible that has a Satan who bears a remarkable resemblance to the preshizzle (and as Carlos Eire says in the linked post: “Forget the comparison to the devil. That will probably elicit fewer outraged complaints than the fact that this show had the audacity to represent him in a hoodie.”)

Nothing funny about these Keystone Cops

Professor Glenn Reynolds has written a thoughtful piece for Popular Mechanics on the increasing militarization of our police forces around the country. Well worth a read.

Monday movie

Earthquakes and floods strike an Indian city in The Rains Came (1939).

Sunday, March 17, 2013

"Such safety finds the trembling lamb environed with wolves"

Looks like Shakespeare's got your number, Bone Head: "House Speaker John Boehner says he 'absolutely' trusts President Barack Obama"

Sunday funnies

The paranoia in schools over things that look like guns is really getting ridiculous.

Joe Biden: in his own words (but, unfortunately, not unedited).

Unfathomable: a man threatens to close down a neighboring restaurant because of the smell of bacon.

Great local news captions.

Do you know where your dog is?

Random facts.

(Image courtesy of Moonbattery)

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Eric Holder goes for the gold!

Organized Crime's Man of the Year.

"Nice goin', Eric. I gotta admit, you make me look like some kinda no-name goombah."

Friday, March 15, 2013

Kudos to Pat Caddell

The Democrat pollster gave a riveting lecture at CPAC yesterday, in which he attacked the GOP establishment. Among other gems was this observation:
"The Republican Party," Caddell continued, "is in the grips of what I call the CLEC--the consultant, lobbyist, and establishment complex." Caddell described CLEC as a self-serving interconnected network of individuals and organizations interested in preserving their own power far more than they're interested in winning elections.
Before we take our country back from the progressives, we’re going to have to take our party back from the over-priced and useless time-servers that constitute its elite.

H/T: Wombat-socho at The Other McCain.

Tweet of the Day

From Don Surber via Ed Driscoll (background here).

Happy Feet Friday

Bill Haley and the Comets in “Hot Dog Buddy Buddy”.

Thursday, March 14, 2013


Pope Francis: a bit of an enigma, but I’m sure he will become less so as time progresses. As a Catholic, I certainly wish him well.

South Carolinians! Lindsey Graham is receiving support from NYC mayor and national pain in the ass Michael Bloomberg. What more do you need to know?

Admiral Locklear is late to the global warming scam, but seems to have fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

Memo to President Obama: If you’re ignorant of history, it can be kind of hard to get on the right side of it.

Obama’s thin skin is catching.

So, how exactly does a “charm offensive” work without, you know, charm?

Senate Democrats finally come up with a budget initiative. Their awesome plan? “Let’s raise taxes by another $1 trillion.”

I like Mr. G's plan better.

What appears to be an interesting new book: Karl Schlögel’s Moscow 1937.

Cuba has no intention of writing off its investment in Hugo Chávez just because of the minor inconvenience that the Venezuelan strongman is now dead.

The soda pop anthem.

I keep waiting for a loud report, like the sound of a balloon popping.

John McCain is now starring in a reprise of the Hitchcock classic, entitled The Wacko Birds.

Solid reporting from ace newsman, Jack Wiley Dithers.

Swampy's paradise: and the German Shepherd shall lie down with the turkey.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Detective Paco and Wronwright in “The Bounty Hunters”

The PI business was proving to be no more resistant to the chill from Obama’s wet economic blanket than any other profession, so I figured it was time to expand the scope of our activities. I had discussed the opportunities afforded by bounty hunting with the team, and had actually gotten a line on some prime quarry: an illegal alien by the name of Henrique Soto, a native of El Salvador whose crimes were apparently considered so minor – home invasion, assault, vehicular homicide – that the Department of Hopeless Security had released him as part of the president’s sequestration gimmickry. He was still wanted on additional crimes in Maryland and DC, however, for which he had yet to be charged, and I had solid information that he was currently operating in the vicinity of northwest DC. The bounty was a not-too-shabby $25,000, and I smiled as I walked up the steps to the office, picturing myself writing the amount in my check book - particularly all those zeros (in front of the decimal point, for a change).

As I latched on to the knob of the office door, I paused. There was a lot of angry shouting coming from the other side – most of it in unintelligible, but, I was sure, profane Greek – and a violent scuffling noise, punctuated by shrill female invitations to “stop this RIGHT NOW”.

I opened the door carefully, and just had time to duck my head to one side in order to avoid having my eye poked out by the end of what appeared to be an aluminum pole. I dashed over to my secretary’s desk, where Sheila had taken cover behind a file cabinet.

“What’s all this?” I yelled, to make myself heard above the din.

“Nick the landlord came by and insisted on collecting the back rent”, Sheila said. "He threatened to start throwing our stuff on the street. Wronwright lost his temper and began employing his bounty hunting gear to get Nick out of the office.”

I stared in amazement. Wronwright was standing there – in dungarees, a sleeveless shirt, an open, western-style vest, and an outback hat; he resembled a stand-in for Paul Hogan on the set of a Crocodile Dundee movie (assuming that what was needed was a very long camera shot in dim light). He had clamped a huge butterfly net over our fuming landlord, Nick Perites, and was attempting to drag him to the door (it was the pole attached to the net that had almost caught me in the face). Perites was screaming imprecations and probably calling down the wrath of Zeus as he tried, ineffectually, to free himself from the net.

Acting quickly to restore order, I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled. The antagonists paused a moment, sensing an opportunity to catch their breath before resuming hostilities.

“Wronwright, let him go.”

Wronwright, panting, gasped out a response. “But Paco…he threatened to toss our furniture…out the window…couldn’t let him…do that. I told him how we’re about to clean up…in the bounty hunter business…but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Let him go”. With ill grace, Wronwright lifted the net off his prey, but stood at port arms, just in case.

Nick, a short, tubby fellow with receding curly hair, a nose like a prize-winning eggplant and a bristly little mustache, straightened his jacket and began gesticulating like Stokowski conducting the William Tell overture.

“Look, Paco, I’m entitled to have the rent money, in my hand, the first of every month. You guys are three months behind, and when I began explaining the consequences of delinquency to your scrawny partner, here, Ferret the Bounty Hunter, he throws a net over me, like I’m some kind of escaped lunatic. Do I look crazy to you?”

Nick’s recent struggle had left him agitated, disheveled, and red-faced, with foam-flecked lips and a distinctive twitch in one eye, so, considering discretion to be the better part of valor, I thought a candid answer might not be quite the way to proceed.

“Why, no, Nick, no. You strike me as being eminently, er, sane. Sane and reasonable. And I’m sure a reasonable man wouldn’t tear up a lottery ticket before he even looked at it.”

“What do you mean ‘lottery ticket’?”

“Take a gander at this.” I produced a circular showing a mug shot of Soto and the reward being offered for his capture.

Nick grimaced. “Man, that is one ugly face. What’s that thing on his neck? Looks like a tattoo of a frog.”

I took the circular back from him and put it in my pocket. “That’s not a frog. It’s Janet Napolitano, the head of Homeland Security. He got it when he was released from a federal detention center; kind of a sarcastic tribute. Or maybe an act of defiance.”

“What’s he defying? Good taste?”

“Could be. Anyway, the point is, I’ve got a line on where he’s hanging out. He’s worth 25 grand to me, and three months’ rent to you. Now, wouldn’t you rather take a chance on a sure thing that’s going to put money in your pocket than just settle for the short-lived psychological satisfaction of throwing us out of your building – a building, incidentally, which I have reason to believe has several fire-code violations, and has had some repair work done without the proper permits?” I suavely offered him a cigarette and lit it for him.

“All right, all right,” he said, “if you really think it’s a sure thing.”

Sheila sashayed adroitly to Nick’s side, and purred. “That’s right, Nick. You scratch our backs, and we’ll scratch yours.” She ran her fingers up and down his back in a slow sensuous motion.

Nick suddenly gave the appearance of someone who had been poleaxed, but, strangely, had enjoyed the experience immensely. His jaw dropped, the cigarette fell out of his mouth, his eyes fluttered and he smiled at Sheila with unaccustomed benevolence.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll give you another chance. But don’t take too long.” As his glance lighted on Wronwright, he suddenly frowned, made a sign to warn off the evil eye, and departed.

When we were alone again, I turned to study my partner. “Really, Wron? A butterfly net?”

Wron adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles and drew himself up to his full height. “Hey, it came in handy on that White House job!”

I pushed my fedora back on my head rubbed my eyes. “Wron, we were chasing geckos. And you accidentally bagged Rahm Emanuel”.

“Well, it’s the best I could do on short notice. So, what’s the plan?”

“There have been a string of burglaries and home invasions in Maryland and northwest Washington, and they seem to have Soto’s M.O. They all occur around dinner time, the perpetrator only takes whatever cash is on hand – no jewelry or electronics – and he wears a bright blue ski mask. He’s armed with a pistol and a machete, he typically herds his victims into a bathroom and ties them up, and then steals one of their cars, which he inevitably abandons a mile or so away from the crime scene."

Sheila frowned. “Yeah, but has anybody been able to positively identify Soto?”

“Up to lately, no; however, I recently came across a guy who says he got a pretty good look at him. The victim managed to untie his bonds quickly, and ran to the window in his bedroom, where he saw the man pull off his mask before jumping into the car. I’m going to drop by and see him. His name’s Ed Hurley and he owns a high-end beanery in Washington called the Vanity Fare – f-a-r-e.”

“Clever,” Sheila opined.

“Yeah, I suppose. It’s one of those places where the elite meet to eat; crawling with politicians, I hear.”

Sheila sneered. “Doesn’t do much for my appetite.”

“Baby, at those prices, you don’t have to worry about getting within a mile of the joint.”

“When do we meet Hurley?” Wron asked.

“Tonight, at his restaurant. And wear a tie, will you? If you go in there looking like somebody from the cast of Swamp People, you’re likely to excite comment.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wron and I stood in the vestibule of the Vanity Fare waiting for Ed Hurley to appear. It was only 5:30 pm, but the place was already crowded with early diners. And the restaurant really did live up to its reputation as a gathering place for politicos. At a booth near the front, a weepy John Boehner called a waiter over and informed him in doleful tones that he had asked for peas, not asparagus, but that he was open to reasonable compromise, unless asparagus was all they had, in which case it would be just fine. Meanwhile, Chuck Schumer was making the rounds of the tables that were occupied by apparent out-of-towners. He wore a camera around his neck and was offering photos for a buck; his own, mind you, not the customers’. He figured the rubes would be delighted to take a picture of him with his own antique Instamatic, and carry the images back to Boisie or wherever as a cherished memento of their trip to the capital.

Hurley finally materialized from the depths of the restaurant. He was a stocky specimen in his mid-fifties, with black hair just beginning to turn gray around the temples. He was swaddled in a double-breasted white dinner jacket and striped black pants. I introduced my partner and Hurley motioned us to a stairway behind the maître d’s station that led up to his private office. After a brief climb, he ushered us into his sanctum sanctorum. It was small, but elegantly appointed, with an oriental rug, an empire desk, a couple of antique oak filing cabinets, a glass-fronted bookcase and – most importantly, in my view – a small table displaying some very high-end booze.

“Sorry for the delay, gentlemen. May I offer you some refreshment?”

I smiled in thirsty anticipation. “Thanks. A bourbon and water for me.”

“And you, sir?” Mr. Hurley inquired of Wronwright.

“You don’t, by any chance, er, have a bottle of Yoo Hoo?”

Unfortunately, the rug impeded my ability to melt into the floorboards, as Wronwright, once again, asked for his favorite beverage, to my acute embarrassment.

But Hurley astonished me. “Sure do.” He stepped over to a small refrigerator, withdrew a bottle of the chocolate drink, and handed it to Wron. Perhaps noticing that my ears had turned fire-engine red – at least, they certainly felt to me as if they had – Hurley smiled. “We get every conceivable request from our customers for all kinds of food and drink. We like not to disappoint even our most…discriminating patrons.” He bowed in the direction of my partner.

Wronwright smirked. “See, Paco? I told you the stuff was high class!”

“Yes, well, ahm, Mr. Hurley, we don’t want to take up too much of your time, so I’ll get down to business. In our telephone conversation, you said that you had gotten a good look at the man who staged the home invasion at your house.”

“I certainly did! As I told you previously, he barged in right as my wife and I were sitting down to dinner, commanded us at gun point to turn over all the cash in the house, plus my car keys, and then tied our hands and feet. But I got loose faster than he expected and ran to my bedroom. It has a window that overlooks the driveway, and I grabbed my binoculars out of the closet. He ripped off his ski mask before jumping in the car, and for the few seconds that it took him to unlock the car door, I saw him quite close up. He had a very distinctive tattoo on his neck, the image of a lemur, I think.”

“Did he look like this?” I pulled the wanted circular out of my pocket and showed it to Hurley.

He didn’t hesitate. “That’s him! No doubt about it. Although…I wonder…is that a lemur or a rhesus monkey?”

“Neither. It’s Janet Napolitano.”

“Ahhh, yes! Of course. How could I have missed it?”

“A perfectly understandable mistake. Anyway, you’ve been very helpful. Thanks for your time.”

Hurley put on an overcoat. “Here, gentlemen, I’ll see you out. I’m on my way to dinner.”

Wronwright’s eyebrows shot up. “What, you’re not eating here?”

Hurley made a sour face. “Are you kidding? The foo-foo muck we serve here may be ok for our pretentious clientele, but I need something more substantial. I’m off to Five Guys Burgers and Fries!”

* * * * * * * * *

The following evening, Wronwright and I cruised the expensive neighborhoods of northwest Washington in my ’38 canary-yellow Packard roadster, keeping an eye open for Soto. It was a bit of a longshot, but since he always escaped in a stolen car, I figured he must arrive by bus or cab, and we might catch a glimpse of him wandering around, searching for the main chance.

Wronwright was in a skeptical mood. “Don’t we kind of stand out in this thing, Paco?”

“Don’t worry, pard, everything’s jake. In the first place, we definitely don’t look like the police, so if Soto’s out here, he’s not going to find us alarming, and in the second place, it’s not that unusual for the fat cats in these neighborhoods to be driving around in classic cars from time to time. Besides, it’s the only vehicle I have.”

“We could have taken my ride.”

“And if we do catch Soto, how were we going to transport him - and both of us, for that matter - on a Vespa?”

“Yeah, I guess it would have been a tight squeeze, at that.”

“Plus, how about all that junk you’ve brought along? What is that stuff, anyhow?”

“Just your basic man-catching equipment: trip-wire, pepper spray, handcuffs, a ninja grappling hook, a net…”

Not the butterfly net!”

“No, no, that was just a temporary substitute. This is a genuine net for casting, like those carried by a retiarius.”

“A what?”

“A retiarius. You know, a gladiator who fought with a net.”

“God, Wron, you haven’t got a trident and one of those spittoon helmets, do you?”

“Of course not! I mean, er, not with me. For this work, I don’t think those other accessories are necessary.”

We rode along in silence for a while, quartering the neighborhoods, watching for a man who seemed to be just ambling about, taking a too-close interest in the homes in the area.

And at about 7 pm…there he was - although he had progressed beyond the ambling stage. Wronwright spotted him, crouching behind an oleander bush near the front porch of a sizable colonial-style mansion. He was in the act of pulling on his blue ski mask.

“Paco, there! See that guy hiding behind the shrubbery?”

“I sure do. Good catch, Wron. I’ll park the car on a side street and we’ll see if we can intercept him.”

I turned right at the next street, and Wron and I made our way through an alley to the target house. All the properties on this block were fairly heavily veiled in hedges and trees, and we were briefly disoriented.

“Paco, is this the right house?”

“I think so. Shhh! What’s that?”

There was a rustling noise in a bank of overgrown azaleas, and, suddenly, a dark figure shot out into the open.

“I’ve got him!” Wron yelled. He cast his net over the rapidly-moving target, and the next thing I saw was Wron jerked off his feet, his slender form traveling almost parallel to the ground as he flew past my eyes in the merest blur. This event was followed shortly by ferocious barking and the rapidly diminishing wails of my partner, as he was dragged into the night, calling for help. The gathering gloom made it hard for me to follow the trail, but I stopped every few paces and listened, and the sounds of triumphant baying led me to a small stand of holly trees where Wronwright had finally come to rest.

Although, perhaps “rest” is not the word I want. Wronwright had shinnied up one of the holly trees, and was held at bay by an enormous dog – some kind of wolfhound, I believe – that, while still enmeshed in the net, had torn a hole in it large enough for his head to poke through; and that head was full of sharp teeth, vividly on display.

The dog was so thoroughly fascinated by Wronwright that he didn’t see me until I had stealthily taken up a corner of the net and quickly tied it to a low-hanging branch. This substantially restricted his freedom of movement and made it safe for Wronwright to descend.

Except that Wron’s freedom of movement, itself, was somewhat hampered by the barbs on the holly leaves. These did not obstruct his progress on the way up because of the urgency of his need for altitude, but now that he was at somewhat more leisure to consider his descent, he was painfully aware of the needle-like leaves.

“Ow! Paco, I feel like a pin cushion! How do I get down?”

“My advice is just to jump as far out from that branch you’re sitting on as possible.”

“But I must be fifteen feet off the ground!”

“The only alternative, then, is to pick your way carefully down the same way you went up.”

From the house nearby, we heard a deep male voice bellowing. “Prince! Where are you, boy? What the hell’s going on out there?”

“Ok,” Wron said, “here I come!”

Wronwright leaped out of the tree, took wing for a fraction of a second, and landed with a thump at my feet.

“Let’s get out of here!” I whispered, and we ran as fast as we could toward the nearest street light.

Pausing to take our bearings, we realized that we had entered the yard of the wrong house. We ran back toward my car, and then around the corner to the front yard of the house where we had originally seen Soto. To my relief, he had not yet broken in; he was, in fact, still standing by the same oleander bush, staring off in the general direction of our recent adventure, no doubt curious and perhaps alarmed about all the racket.

“I don’t know about you”, Wronwright said, “but I’ve had enough of this skulking around in the dark, waiting for someone’s pet wolf to tear my legs off. Let’s get him!”

I nodded my approval, and we ran for him. He heard us coming from about twenty yards away, and took off.

I’ll say this for Soto: whatever else he had done, he had definitely put time and effort into keeping himself in good physical condition. We chased him for what seemed to be dozens of blocks, through backyards, across busy streets, down dark alleys and up leafy lanes. We jumped across ditches, soared over fences, splashed through water-filled gutters and sprinted through public parks.

We were getting into territory that was increasingly unfamiliar, and we were almost completely spent, when we stopped to take a breather. The houses had thinned out considerably, and we seemed to be at the boundary of a large park or compound of some kind.

Wron lit up with recognition. “Paco! You know what this place is?”

“No, what?”

“This is the Naval Observatory!”

“The Naval Observatory? Wait a minute; isn’t there a house on the property that serves as the official residence of the Vice President?”

“Yeah, that’s right. In fact, I believe it’s that stately pile over there.”

At a distance I saw a large white house of the Queen Anne style. Built in the late 19th century, the place has been the official residence of the Vice President of the United States since the mid ‘70s. I figured if Soto got loose in this neighborhood, security was so tight he’d be a goner – and so would our reward.

I was hoping that Soto would skirt the area, but suddenly I heard the ripping of cloth and an angry shout of “Mierda!”. It sounded as if Soto had jumped the fence and torn his pants.

“C’mon, Wron! Over that way! He’s heading onto the grounds!”

We came up against a security fence hidden in a tall hedge, but quickly found a breach; Soto must have been carrying a chain cutter or similar tool. As we eased through the ragged hole, Wron said, “You know, this place is going to be crawling with Secret Service agents in a few minutes. I hope they’re trained to distinguish the good guys from the bad guys.”

“All I know is, we’d better get to the house so we can explain ourselves and raise the alarm about Soto.”

We ran toward the house - and saw a shadowy form heading in the same direction.

“There he goes!” I shouted.

Wron and I made for the front door; but when we arrived, running up the steps to the stoop, all was dark and quiet.

“Where do you suppose he is?” Wron inquired.

“I don’t know. I’m going to knock on the door and warn the VP.”

“No, señor, I wouldn’t do that.”

Wron and I glanced at each other, then turned slowly around. There was our man, standing a few feet behind us, a semi-automatic pistol in his hand, pointed right at yours truly.

“The jig is up, Soto”, I said. “In a few minutes you’re going to be surrounded by Secret Service agents.”

He smiled, unpleasantly. “No, señor, you and your friend are going to be surrounded by federales. Or rather, they’ll be gathered around to look down on your corpses, wondering who the two intruders were, and why they shot each other. That little distraction should give me plenty of time to escape.”

“You’ll never get away with it, Soto!”

“Let’s find out.”

I whispered to Wron, “Off the side of the porch. Now!”

Wron dove off the porch to the right, and I jumped off to the left. Before I had even hit the ground, I heard a loud report, mingled with the noise of splintering wood and shattering glass. I carefully crawled from around a shrub, and, to my astonishment, saw Soto lying flat on his back. A quavering voice inquired, “What’s going on out there?”

I knew that voice. “Mr. Vice President”, I said, in my most official tone, “this is Detective Paco. I’m out here with my partner. We were chasing a fugitive felon, and tracked him here. That’s the man, spread out in your yard over there. You shot him. Sir, I’m coming out slowly, with my hands up. Please put down your weapon.”

I stood up and walked cautiously toward the porch, my hands held high. I couldn’t suppress a smile. Joe Biden had been true to his system: he had heard a noise and had fired his shotgun blindly through the front door; he was kneeling, staring through the big new hole in it. With a groan, his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell away in a dead faint.

* * * * * *

Wron and I spent an hour with the Secret Service boys straightening out the whole mess. Fortunately, I knew one of them personally, which smoothed the course of our discussion.

“Ok, Paco, I think we’ve got all we need.”

“Thanks, Craig. How’s the VP?”

“Oh, his wife waggled a bottle of smelling salts under his nose, gave him some chamomile tea and put him to bed.”

“Say, do you think he’ll try to horn in on the reward?”

“I doubt it. He committed at least two felonies tonight, so I believe he’d prefer to quietly bury the whole incident. Your bounty’s safe.”

“My landlord will be pleased . You think Biden will have any trouble with Eric Holder’s people at the Department of Justice?”

Craig chuckled. “You’re kidding, right?”


Craig squatted down beside Soto’s body – the late fugitive had taken a load of buckshot directly in the chest – and scowled.

“He sure was an ugly mug. What’s that tattoo on his neck supposed to be? A cow?”

“Janet Napolitano.”

Craig grinned. “If you ever repeat this, I’ll deny having said it, but that was actually going to be my first guess.”

The outrageous Cabinet appointments just keep coming

And Thomas Perez for Secretary of Labor is possibly the worst in a field already crowded with frauds, incompetents, cranks and radical ideologues.

Monday, March 11, 2013

I think we have all the proof we need

According to Nature World News, reverse evolution is "possible".

Possible? More like an absolute certainty. Why do I say that?

"And after you fire your shotgun through the front door, remember to drag the body inside your house".

Case closed.

Coming soon!

Detective Paco and his sidekick Wronwright will shortly be reappearing in an exciting new adventure. Watch this blog for details.

Monday movie

Bob Mitchum takes on corrupt Robert Preston in this fight scene from Blood on the Moon (a fine western with a distinct film noir vibe).

McCain's and Graham's beef with conservatives

Even pettier than I had imagined.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

The Republican establishment isn't going quietly

It looks like Boehner et al are perfectly willing to work with Democrats in order to thwart conservatives in their own party.
House Majority Whip Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) said on Sunday that he would be open to ramming through bills without the support of a majority of his own Republican caucus. Not just on small bills. On issues like immigration and gun control, McCarthy said, he’d be open to taking rogue Republicans across the aisle to work with Democrats.
And here's confirmation of my long-held opinion that Republican moderates see government as an assembly line for legislation (whether it's good or not):
“It is better if the House does their work,” said McCarthy. “We should be sending bills to the Senate.”
Republicans have been sending bills to the Senate, and stiff-necked partisan Harry Reid has been refusing to take them up. The Democrats have refused to compromise on virtually anything, so here come the Vichy Republicans to help them by rolling over their own unruly conservative coleagues - for the good of the country, of course.

If you really want a civil war in the GOP, McCarthy, congratulations, you just got one.

Sunday funnies

Shoveling snow: there’s a right way, and a wrong way (or maybe that’s just the fast way).

Reject rejection!

I suppose everyone should have a hobby. On the other hand….

As Mr. Smith was on his death bed, he attempted to formulate a plan that would allow him to take at least some of his considerable wealth with him. He called for the three men he trusted most - his lawyer, his doctor, and his clergyman. He told them, "I'm going to give you each $30,000 in cash before I die. At my funeral, I want you to place the money in my coffin so that I can try to take it with me." All three agreed to do this and were given the money. At the funeral, each approached the coffin in turn and placed an envelope inside. While riding in the limousine to the cemetery, the clergyman said "I have to confess something to you fellows. Brother Smith was a good churchman all his life, and I know he would have wanted me to do this. The church needed a new baptistery very badly, and I took $10,000 of the money he gave me and bought one. I only put $20,000 in the coffin." The physician then said, "Well, since we're confiding in one another, I might as well tell you that I didn't put the full $30,000 in the coffin either. Smith had a disease that could have been diagnosed sooner if I had this very new machine, but the machine cost $20,000 and I couldn't afford it then. I used $20,000 of the money to buy the machine so that I might be able to save another patient. I know that Smith would have wanted me to do that." The lawyer then said, "I'm ashamed of both of you. When I put my envelope into that coffin, it held my personal check for the full $30,000."

* * * * * * *

Upon seeing an elderly lady for the drafting of her will, the attorney charged her $100. She gave him a $100 bill, not noticing that it was stuck to another $100 bill. On seeing the two bills stuck together, the ethical question came to the attorney's mind: "Do I tell my partner?"

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Nixon and Obama

The parallels continue to be striking:
"I don't know why any individual should have a right to have a revolver in his house," Nixon said in a taped conversation with aides. "The kids usually kill themselves with it and so forth." He asked why "can't we go after handguns, period?"

Tricky Barry


So, what do you call a bunch of people who, because of their youth and inexperience, tend to be poor decision makers and big insurance risks?

How about the basic material from which our armed forces are created?

Update: If you fly Virgin Atlantic, consider finding another airline: "Royal Navy girl who fought in Afghanistan told to cover up uniform on Virgin flight in case it offended other passengers".

Friday, March 8, 2013


Image gratefully lifted from Instapundit.

Whatever one may think about Rand Paul's filibuster, the response by McCain and Graham was...sadly predictable.

Update: McCain doubles down.

Senators McCain and Graham are excellent examples of what’s wrong with the Republican Party. These guys are like tacky yard ornaments – plastic trolls or pink flamingos – hopelessly out of date, in appalling taste and a disgrace to the neighborhood. They don’t realize that the political ground has shifted under their feet, that they’re up against a smart, well-organized, technologically-advanced and strongly ideological Democrat Party that isn’t interested in compromise, but is extremely interested in destroying the GOP. It would be bad enough if these generally useless politicos were mere benchwarmers, but they continue to thrust themselves forward as leaders, beguiled by their own egos into thinking that they are genuine stars, and that up-and-comers like Paul and Cruz are just green, know-nothing kids down in the Single-A league.

I don’t really know how these two manage to stay in office, unless, as is probable, it’s simply due to the magic of incumbency. In McCain’s case, I can also see how a significant demographic helps him: there are a lot of retirees in his state, and there’s a certain type of old geezer who no doubt sees a bit of himself in McCain’s impatient, self-centered and cranky personality (and notes the similarity approvingly). Lindsay Graham’s continuing success is harder to pin down, especially since he falls into that small but uniformly awful class of male politician whose physiognomy vaguely resembles that of Eleanor Roosevelt (Jimmy Carter is the paradigm in this category). Still, there he is, year after year, no end to his career in sight.

I don’t know if any of you are familiar with the TV show, Psych. On a recent episode, one of the main characters (Sean Spencer, played by James Roday) referred to someone as “a lame-chop slathered with fail sauce”. This expression rather admirably sums up my opinion of these two leading lights dim bulbs of the GOP establishment.

Happy Feet Friday

Rosemary Clooney sings "I’ll Be Seeing You".

Update: A Happy Feet Friday special bonus, via Colonel Milquetoast.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

The one that didn’t get away

I haven’t had an opportunity in years, but I used to be a devoted, even a fanatical, freshwater fisherman (I devised a double-hooked purple-worm lure that would drive bass crazy).

All I can say now is that this guy is living my dream.

The unfriendly skies

Haw! (Click image to enlarge)

H/T: Moonbattery

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Al, I know you're out there

The yankee government is closed today due to a snow storm that is blowing through the D.C. area, so I clomped around the Paco Command Center this morning and took some pictures (click to enlarge).

As storms go, this one's nothing to compare to what they've faced in the Midwest and the Northeast. Still, people in the capital region are such pansies about maneuvering in even a little bit of wintry precipitation that I wouldn't be surprised to hear reports of frozen bureaucrats strung out along Highway 50 and cannibalism in the remoter cul-de-sacs of Fairfax County. Kind of like a Jack London story, with BMWs instead of dog sleds.

Update: Every time I toy with the idea of retiring to Florida, I see a story about a killer sinkhole or an article about something like this.

Does gun control work?

It all depends on your perspective.

Update: Dubious advice from police on what to do during a home invasion.

My new hero

Rep. Gohmert of Texas, who has proposed the following amendment to the proposed continuing resolution:
None of the funds made available by a division of this Act may be used to transport the President to or from a golf course until public tours of the White House resume.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Hugo Chavez hands in his dinner pail

But what a ride! This defender-of-the-poor-and-oppressed schtick really pays off.
Criminal Justice International Associates (CJIA), a risk assessment and global analysis firm in Miami, estimated in a recent report that the Chávez Frías family in Venezuela has “amassed a fortune” similar to that of the Castro brothers in Cuba.

According to Jerry Brewer, president of CJIA, “the personal fortune of the Castro brothers has been estimated at a combined value of around $2 billion.”

“The Chávez Frías family in Venezuela has amassed a fortune of a similar scale since the arrival of Chávez to the presidency in 1999,” said Brewer in an analysis published in their website.
H/T: Drudge

Update: Chavez died on the the 60th anniversary of Stalin's death. Ed Driscoll marks the occasion by digging up Uncle Joe's New York Times obituary, which indicates how little the Times has changed.

Update II: The condolences are rolling in from Pig Man's fans on the left. Note particularly George Galloway's Tweet, in which the execrable Brit calls Chavez a "modern day Spartacus".

TSA personnel may be annoying, hidebound bullies…

…but at least they’re going to look sharp. Joel Gehrke at The Examiner discusses the new uniform perks for TSA screeners.
Under their new collective bargaining agreement, Transportation Security Administration officers get to spend more taxpayer money on their uniforms every year than a United States Marine Corps lieutenant can spend in a lifetime.

“TSA employees will see their uniform allowances nearly double to $446 per year,” the House Transportation Committee noted in a press release on the TSA’s new collective bargaining agreement. “By comparison, a combat Marine Lieutenant receives a one-time uniform allowance of $400. The cost of the increase in TSA uniform allowance is an estimated $9.63 million annually.”
Well, this isn’t going to make the TSA any more pleasant to deal with, but maybe the experience will now be more…I don’t know…memorable, somehow.

“Good morning, grandma, I’m your TSA screener, Bob “Slow Hand” Gropewell, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to search your wheel chair for bombs. You want to just kinda tumble out of that thing so we can get started? And don’t cry all over my new uniform. Remember: I’ve got a sword and I know how to use it.”

Practically right next door

If I do wind up retiring to St. George, Utah, one of the benefits will be that this kind of stuff is in the neighborhood.

Barry's yard sale

Wes Pruden takes a skeptical look at the President's "advisory board", and the high cost of membership.
Bubba was a piker. The Clinton White House sold sleepovers in the Lincoln Bedroom that were cheap at the price. Barack Obama is auctioning off access to His Grandiosity for really big bucks. Unlike Hillary, Michelle doesn’t even have to straighten up the room and make up the bed when the guests leave.

Monday, March 4, 2013

A map of evil

"[R]esearchers have cataloged some 42,500 Nazi ghettos and camps throughout Europe, spanning German-controlled areas from France to Russia and Germany itself, during Hitler’s reign of brutality from 1933 to 1945."

When men turn truly evil, they sink, not to the level of animals, but to the level of demons.

(H/T: Jill J)

Monday movie

A particularly creepy scene from the first-rate vampire thriller, Salem’s Lot.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Brad Smilo interviews the President on the sequestration

Brad [in a low voice, barely above a whisper, speaking into a small transmitting device hidden under the bill of his sun visor]: Hello, this is Brad Smilo on the Washington beat for Paco World News Daily. Today, President Obama has graciously consented to grant me a face to face interview as he unwinds with a game of golf with Secretary of State John Kerry.

Obama: Hey, caddy! Where’s that three-iron?

Brad: Right away, sir! [resuming low voice] Ok, full disclosure: the president didn’t exactly consent to give me an interview, but now that I’ve managed to get close to him, it all amounts to the same thing. I’d better take him his club.

Kerry [talking with Obama]: So, I just don’t understand what’s going on with the Russian foreign minister and his refusal to answer my phone calls. Each time I say, in a very polite tone of voice, “Hello, this is John Kerry. I’d like to place a collect call to”…Oh, here’s your caddy.

Obama: Well, it’s about time! You know, there’s something about your face. You look kind of familiar, and not in a good way. How long have you had that ZZ Top beard?

Brad: Oh, a long time.

Obama: Mm. Alright, so, how do you think I ought to play this hole?

Brad: I think you should address the ball in a direct, straightforward way, and not blame your slice on other people.

Obama: What?!? When have I ever blamed my slice on anybody?

Brad: Mr. President, I heard you tell Mr. Kerry a while ago that you developed a slice as a result of some bad advice you got from John Boehner.

Obama: Oh. Yeah. Well, Boehner did tell me to angle my body slightly to the right while pulling hard to the left. Here, stand back….*Thock!*...Ah, that’s a beauty, isn’t it John? John? Say, where is Kerry, anyway?

Brad: He said something about washing his balls. I suggested he might want to try some Tinactin if his jock itch was bothering him that badly, and he seemed to get a little huffy.

Kerry [returning from a small covered area near the fairway]: Damn! The water in the ball-washing machine was filthy!

Obama: I guess the groundskeeper’s people haven’t gotten around to…Hey, what’s the matter with you?

Brad: I-I’m sorry, sir, but the thought of grown men soaking their testicles in a common tub…It makes me feel a little ill.

Kerry: What the hell’s he talking about?

Obama: Listen…say, what’s your name again?

Brad: Er…Tad. Tad Silo.

Obama: I swear that sounds familiar, somehow. And again, not in a good way. Anyhow, quit with the jokes, already, and let’s get going.

Kerry: Look, Mr. President! There’s a golf cart coming this way, and at a high rate of speed. Isn’t that your chief of staff in the passenger seat?

Obama: Sure looks like him. What now, I wonder. I’m getting so sick and tired of having to interrupt my golf games to run the country.

Brad: Denis McDonough, the president’s chief of staff, is approaching in a golf cart.

Obama: Who are you talking to? And how do you know the name of my chief of staff?

Brad: Oh, I try to stay informed.

McDonough [leaping out of the golf cart]: Mr. President, terrible news!

Obama: What happened?

McDonough: It’s the sequestration.

Obama: Oh, that. You know the sequestration isn’t a big deal. I was just hyping it for political advantage.

McDonough: But, sir! You’ve been furloughed!

Obama: What?!?

McDonough: That’s right. Two days a week for the next six months.

Obama: Why, this is an outrage! Wait a sec. On the other hand, I could get some more golf in, work my handicap down. Tad, will you quit waving that sun visor in my face?

Brad: You heard it here first, folks. The president of the United States: hoist on his own sequestration petard.

Obama: Wait! I’ve got it! [Yanks the false beard off of Brad’s face] I knew there was something fishy about you!

Brad: Thanks for the time, Mr. President, but I’ve got to go and file my story.

McDonough: Hey! He’s stealing my golf cart!

Obama: Smiiilloooooo!!!!

Brad: There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. It looks like President Obama will be having a lot more free time on his hands. This is Brad Smilo of Paco World News Daily reporting from the second hole of the Army/Navy golf course.

* * * * * *

Meanwhile, back at the White House

Secret Service agent: Er, do you really think it’s a good idea to be doing skeet shooting on the north lawn, Mr. Vice President?

Joe Biden: Mr. Acting President, Steve. Pull!


Secret Service agent: Well, sir, you missed the clay disk, but you did pick off that window washer on the VA building.

Biden: Is that why the fellow is dancing around on that little platform, holding his butt?

Secret Service agent: Yes, sir.

Biden: Well, if he doesn’t want to find himself on a plane heading back to El Salvador, he’d better keep his mouth shut. Pull!

Sunday funnies

Bill Engvall goes deer hunting with his wife.

Overoptimistic book titles.

States of mind.

The unforgivable sin?

Swampy gets a pleasant surprise (and one or two unpleasant ones).

Friday, March 1, 2013

The pie-hole of everlasting stupid

The head worm in the Big Apple shares his economic insights:
“We are spending money we don’t have,” Mr. Bloomberg explained. “It’s not like your household. In your household, people are saying, ‘Oh, you can’t spend money you don’t have.’ That is true for your household because nobody is going to lend you an infinite amount of money. When it comes to the United States federal government, people do seem willing to lend us an infinite amount of money. … Our debt is so big and so many people own it that it’s preposterous to think that they would stop selling us more.”
Until it becomes obvious that we can no longer service the debt, at which point, you know, it's not quite so preposterous.

May God deliver us from know-it-all billionaires.

Cue the tiny violin

Duke Energy guaranteed a $10MM loan extended to the Democratic National Convention, and now it’s getting stiffed on it.

Suckers! I’ve got no sympathy for Duke. The company’s CEO, Jim Rogers, was (and is) a big Obama supporter, and Duke Energy made out handsomely in obtaining stimulus money and coal credits after Barry was heaved into the White House. In fact, the ten million is chump change considering the hundreds of millions Duke extracted from the government. Call it a “gratuity” for services rendered (past and, no doubt, future).

Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of sequestration!

Meh. That’s not nearly as scary as I thought it would be. In fact, I suspect that things won’t really change all that much at all.

Update - Via JeffS: Chaos!

Update II - From Anonymous in the comments: "World ends, Dow Jones Industrial Average closes up."

Update III - "World doesn't end, Obama hardest hit".

Obama's humane policy on deportations working about as well as expected

"Illegal Alien Who Killed Nun Was on Obama’s Supervised Release".

(H/T: Doug Ross)

Global warming

Is there nothing it can't do?

Happy Feet Friday

Ginger Rogers performs a dance routine with…Jack Benny?!?