"There are countless horrible things happening all over the world and horrible people prospering, but we must never allow them to disturb our equanimity or deflect us from our sacred duty to sabotage and annoy them whenever possible." -Auberon Waugh
A Drexel professor reaches for his barf-bag when a patriotic citizen gives up a seat on a plane to a soldier.
A Pennsylvania college professor said he wanted to "vomit" after an airline passenger gave up a first-class seat for a uniformed member of the armed forces, Heat Street reported.
Drexel University Professor George Ciccariello-Maher, who was criticized last Christmas for saying the only gift he wanted was "white genocide", said he wanted to "yell about Mosul" when he saw the act of kindness on the plane.
There might be a slight chance that this idiot can recover some portion of good judgment and charity, but he, himself, must decide to take action:
Ryan is still making tactical errors. Instead of saying, “Tomorrow, I am calling together all the stakeholders and we are getting right back to work on fixing this,” it was, “Well, that was sad. Let’s forget about repealing Obamacare for a while and work on tax reform because it’s important to let the media spin us as focusing all our efforts on giving tax cuts to the rich instead of cutting normal people’s premiums.” And you just know Wonky O’Tonedeaf is going to wheel out a tax reform abortion cobbled together in some Cannon Office Building utility closet that screws over Republican voters with cuts to the home mortgage, charity, and state tax deductions because why wouldn’t the GOP be stupid enough to shaft its own voters while still managing to get painted by the media as toadying to the rich?
Quite simply, the donks support massive immigration and an easy "path to citizenship" because they're looking for votes. In some cases, the citizenship part seems to be optional.
That didn't work out quite as planned. So now, Carusone and Gardner, under the rubric of rallying, reviving and otherwise bucking up the flagging spirits of the proglodyte women's movement, are convening a coven sponsoring a fund-raiser for The Cause, which they hope will help them unload 4,652 bottles of coffin paint labeled "Rodham Rye".
Rodham Rye will launch on March 25 with a “community conversation” at the Ivy City distillery entitled “How to Support Women in the Age of Trump.” After a panel discussion, Republic Restoratives will lead tours and offer samples and cocktails, while female-owned vendors will provide food. Five percent of proceeds from the $79 bottles will go to EMILY’s List, an organization that helps pro-choice Democratic women running for office.
I toyed with the idea of buying a bottle, as a kind of curio, but I decline to put money in the hands of the pro-abortion crowd. Besides, at $79 a bottle, the investment would make a large hole in my monthly budget for Thunderbird.
Commenters are invited to create a winning slogan - Oops! Too late for that! - make that an amusing slogan to help these gals move that booze.
My entry: "Rodham Rye: One glass of this stuff and you won't care who won the election."
Super-big H/T to Mrs. Paco for spotting this story.
Ageing, over-privileged doper and his little dog, too, take potshots at the Trump family from the safe remove of their depraved fantasy world. They're at least smart enough to know that if they ever tried to make it real, they'd wind up laid out on the sidewalk, shot to doll rags by the Secret Service.
First brought to my attention by friend and commenter Skeeter, and now confirmed to be genuine by American Digest, an American citizen relates what a foreigner has to do to get a work visa in Mexico.
Forget it, Jake. It's Florida: "A man involved in a standoff with police Thursday pulled a gun on relatives in an apparent dispute over cooking hot dogs".
He's so good at trolling the press, and this great tax "scoop" so thoroughly backfired on Rachel Maddow, I wouldn't be surprised to hear that the story is true. And if the story isn't true, then it looks like The Winning has simply become an uncontrollable force of nature, as progressives get sucked into the black hole of their own desperate fantasies.
"I think that measuring with precision human activity on the climate is something very challenging to do, and there’s tremendous disagreement about the degree of impact. So no — I would not agree that it’s a primary contributor to the global warming that we see. But we don’t know that yet. We need to continue the debate and continue the review and the analysis.”
The models will probably continue to be off because they're using a faulty AlGore-rhythm.
Well, New Zealand's kinda socialist, isn't it? Maybe all these fair-weather Americans will be happy there. I know I'll be happier with them over there.
Man, if I had only had my wits about me. I should have bought stock in S&W and Ruger back in November of 2008, and shorted it as soon as I found out that Hillary's presidential run had gone off the rails and crashed into Failure Gorge.
Commenters at Twitchy are mocking what they take to be a dumb CNN headline: a CNN Tweet includes a photo of the "Fearless Girl" statue, with the caption, "New York's 'Fearless Girl' statue stands her ground against the Wall Street bull, even in the snow". What else would you expect from a statue, except that it stand there, whatever the weather? Obvious, right?
Not necessarily. Here is historical, non-fake evidence of an instance in which a statue did move.
I guess that's what you call a blizzard that doesn't live up to expectations. We only got about 3 inches of snow in Fairfax, and it's turning to slush (the danger, of course, is that it may freeze tonight). And I'm not complaining, mind you; I've gotten to the point where "absence of snowfall" is a key consideration in my retirement calculations.
By the way, I'm teleworking, today. But not to worry, Mr. and Mrs. American taxpayer: I'm on my lunch break and using my non-government computer.
Nah, not really; I understand (but did not view it myself) that Scarlett Johansson did a bit mocking Ivanka Trump. But the skit featuring Charlotte Johansson and the pug dog could have been written by Roger Simon or Kurt Schlicter; the lines "spoken" by the dog are both pro-Trump and completely reasonable.
Update: Captain Heinrichs helpfully pointed out that it's "Scarlett" not "Charlotte" Johansson. Measure twice, cut once.
The forecast here in Fairfax, Virginia is for heavy snow and high winds, so transmissions from the Paco Command Center may be intermittent to non-existent. We'll see.
Ten days from the official start of spring, and now this.
Coincidence or flamboyant stunt? "Miami lawyer’s pants erupt in flames during arson trial in court"
Via an email from one of my engineering buddies:
Remember it takes a college degree to fly a plane, but only a high school diploma to fix one; a reassurance to those of us who fly routinely in our jobs.
After every flight, United Parcel Service pilots fill out a form, called a 'gripe sheet,' which tells mechanics about problems with the aircraft. The mechanics correct the problems, document their repairs on the form, and then pilots review the gripe sheets before the next flight.
Never let it be said that ground crews lack a sense of humor. Here are some actual maintenance complaints submitted by UPS pilots (marked with a P) and the solutions recorded (marked with an S) by maintenance engineers.
P: Left inside main tire almost needs replacement.
S: Almost replaced left inside main tire.
*
P: Test flight OK, except auto-land very rough.
S: Auto-land not installed on this aircraft.
*
P: Something loose in cockpit.
S: Something tightened in cockpit.
*
P: Dead bugs on windshield.
S: Live bugs on back-order.
*
P: Autopilot in altitude-hold mode produces a 200-feet-per-minute descent.
S: Cannot reproduce problem on ground.
*
P: Evidence of leak on right main landing gear.
S: Evidence removed.
*
P: DME volume unbelievably loud.
S: DME volume set to more believable level.
*
P: Friction locks cause throttle levers to stick.
S: That's what friction locks are for.
*
P: IFF inoperative in OFF mode.
S: IFF is always inoperative in OFF mode.
*
P: Suspected crack in windshield.
S: Suspect you're right.
*
P: Number 3 engine missing.
S: Engine found on right wing after brief search.
*
P: Aircraft handles funny.
S: Aircraft warned to straighten up, fly right and be serious.
*
P: Target radar hums.
S: Reprogrammed target radar with lyrics..
*
P: Mouse in cockpit.
S: Cat installed.
*
And the best one for last
*
P: Noise coming from under instrument panel. Sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.
S: Took hammer away from the midget.
Weird Hollywood dude, Shia Labeouf - a vocal and emotional Trump-hater - has been attempting some protest stunts that seem to inevitably backfire. First, he set up a livestream camera in front of an anti-Trump banner, that routinely has been hogged by mocking Trump supporters. His next gimmick was to hoist a flag, bearing the device "He Shall Not Divide Us", at a secret location; however, the location did not remain secret for long, as some cunning types at 4Chan discovered it, hauled the flag down and replaced it with a red MAGA cap.
That is one of the funniest things I read about all week. But the absolute funniest thing I encountered was this hilarious video of a professor being interviewed remotely by the BBC. He's sitting in his home office, and his small daughter struts into the room, very much in the manner of Blackbeard strolling on his quarterdeck. That gave me a good chuckle; but when she was followed by the baby in the walker - well, I just lost it, laughed until I cried. Behold! (Suggestion: go straight to YouTube and enlarge the screen for maximum effect).
She may well have tapped her daughter to replace Michelle Obama as National Nutrition Nag, a post to which Chelsea would have been even more poorly suited than the former first lady.
Now, the very idea of spinach pancakes is something I find revolting. I don't know, maybe some of you like them. In any event, I checked out a recipe online, and this is what they're supposed to look like:
Chelsea Clinton turned her hand to cooking up a batch, and they came out like this:
The photo is from a Tweet Chelsea sent out. Her caption is cryptic: "we won't eat them all tonight although Charlotte would if we let her". Unless "Charlotte" is a cow or Popeye's little sister, I can't imagine anyone (or anything) devouring these things in one sitting - or ever, to be perfectly frank.
Public schools in Alexandria, Virginia will be closed tomorrow in honor of our new national holiday, "A Day Without Women".
Now, if this is truly to be a day without women, I expect we won't be hearing from Barbra Streisand or Sarah Silverman or the innumerable other celebrity harpies via Twitter or Facebook or any other social medium, right? I mean, if we're to be without them, let us be without them.
Yeah, of course it won't work that way. The membership of the prog movement's ladies' auxiliary - as utterly dumbfounded as their brethren at having gone to bed with Hillary Clinton on the evening of November 8th, only to be rudely awakened by Donald Trump on the morning of the 9th, roaring for his breakfast - will be firmly planted in our midst, shrieking and tweeting to beat the all-girl band.
So when is Day Without Men? I'm checking my calendar and I don't seem to see it mentioned anywhere. Well, just a temporary oversight, I'm sure. I'm looking forward to it. Think I'll go to the range and try out my new replica of a Richards Second Model Transition Colt .44 (of course, I'm assuming Day Without Men equals Day Without Men in the Office).
I'm sick and tired of hearing about Trump supporters getting their asses kicked by so-called "anti-fascist" punks, particularly in places like Berkeley, where the cops stand off at a safe distance, apparently under orders to do nothing but make sure the violence doesn't spill over into the nice neighborhoods inhabited by university professors who are all in favor of leftists beating up conservatives. There was a time when you could engage in peaceful assembly anywhere in America and be reasonably sure of safety; no longer.
Don't set yourself up to be easy targets. Even in California, you have a right to defend yourself from assault and battery. Herewith, a few suggestions:
1) If you're like me - 61, slightly overweight and definitely out of shape - you've got no business showing up at a rally accompanied by nobody but other old duffers in the same condition. Get some younger people in good physical shape to go with you, preferably current or former Navy SEALS or Army Rangers; anybody, in fact, who's physically capable of engaging in a good scrap. But do be ready to pitch in.
2) Don't go to a rally carrying nothing but a placard nailed to a balsa-wood stick. Fix that sign to a sturdy piece of solid oak, or maybe even a baseball bat.
3) Get yourself a tactical pen and learn how to use it:
4) Load up on pepper spray (but practice not shooting yourself in the face with it).
5) And keep those cameras rolling. There's always a chance the police will be compelled to do some investigating if you happen to get a clear picture of a thug in action.
Doc Pomus (born Jerome Felder) is best known as a songwriter of the rock and roll era, but in the late 1940s he was also active as a singer on the post-war R&B scene. Here he is belting out a propulsive boogie-woogie tune, wonderfully supported by Curley Russell's All Stars.
Barry's surrogate mom, Valerie Jarrett, is moving into the Obama's DC mansion, the better to cook up their treasonous plots against America, no doubt.
Honestly, I'm beginning to think that, for the good of the Republic, ex-Presidents and their senior advisers probably ought to be confined to an island somewhere, completely off the grid. Food and other essentials can be sent in once every couple of months via some island-hopping, rusty old steamer, and if they get sick they can be airlifted to a hospital, where they would be maintained in strict quarantine for the duration of their treatment. When somebody dies, one of the island retainers can sew the person's body up in a canvas sack with a cannon ball, and row out beyond the reef in order to commit the mortal remains to the deep.
