No, I have not been drinking lighter fluid with Jack again - I learnt there is actually such a thing as a fall garden!
I finally have a long weekend coming up and I am going to go round throwing out the wife's old potting plants if she doesn't do it first herself. This was the view at the rifle range last weekend:
I was out with the black powder retirement rifle and stinking the range out literally and figuratively. Gotta get sighted in for deer season dontchya know! I had hoped to pack up and set up on the vast Coopville estate to rid them of their deer problem... and got a letter back from King Charles. Seems he thinks I am more liable to hit one of the civilians or chickens than the deer and he is probably right! Shooting the black powder cartridge gun has been an infuriating experience: I shoot just fine with modern smokeless propellants (the secret is to use dacron fillers in the case). But when I switch over to the manly black powder propellant, my groups open up and I start sucking swamp water. I will cheer and crow at the moon with an excellent round one day, and weep and sob at shoddy results the next week. For whatever reason, I don't think I am getting consistent ignition with the black. Something stupid is going on - but I will find it, one day.
Maybe I should throw all my guns in the garbage and take up fall gardening. The results would be infinitely better than my fall shooting! HAR HAR HAR!!!
Being a salesman of professional standing and integrity I like to show my customers not only the product, but what my products can do for them.
Of course the owner and proprietor of Sunnybrook Farm didn't appreciate the demo I did on one of his restored Model T's. He was quite rude about it actually.
For the lousy marksman determined law enforcement
professional, this model has the 50 round drum.
I think 100 rounders were also available but I'd have to check my facts
For the more conservative and discrete citizen, we have
the lite version of the chopper!
If I recall that one is the GI version with the 30 round stick mag.
Ah. A little full auto gun porn is always good for the soul. Now if you'll excuse me, I am off to the opera house, where I yam told da Sunnybrook Philharmonic Pops are playin'. I yam gonna have a nice, calm night of listenin' to the percussion section of the orchestra - if ya catch my drift.
I have a Maytag washing machine downstairs. My Grandmother bought it for us when we were penniless kids back in 1986. A bearing went in it about 10 years ago and we took it down for repair. It was a hassle: I had to unplug it and lug it upstairs and rent a wheeler, throw it in the truck and drag it down to the shop. The owner of the repair shop sold new ones but refused to sell one to me. He put in an 8 dollar bearing, did a smidge over 42 dollars for labour - and that beast was up and running again. That same bearing seems to go every 5 or 6 years.
I was told that most new machines are throw-aways … after 5 or 6 years, they're dead! Those creepy envirotards are always barking about electric cars and wind power... but I wonder how many of them ever think about stuff like this? If it is this way for home appliances, I wonder what other fixtures in our lives have been whored out to planned obsolescence?
Unlike many Canadians I love Americans. But when I see shite like what is happening to Mr. Kavanaugh - I think to myself that like Canadians, at least 50% of them are uneducable zipper heads. The Donks are sobbing that all women should be believed and I am saying BS to that - judging from their women, most of them are liars.
This conduct calls everything they do into question and makes ya wonder how many other good men got pilloried because of them. I am firmly convinced that Bill Cosby isn't being prosecuted for molesting women, he is being prosecuted for telling niggers to pull up their pants and speak English!
We need to do something about people like this, both in Canada and the US. The lunacy and corruption has to be dealt with at some point.
The spring sunshine was glorious. Nowhere in the world is spring more miraculous than it is in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. Some days are so warm that you can run around in shirtsleeves with bright sunshine and a foot a snow on the ground. As for me - I was wrapped up in a light blanket and parked in my wheel chair 'round back of the police station by the dumpster. It was there that I held court and lorded over my avian subjects that came to beg and pick through the garbage looking for a snack. Pickins were mighty slim these days. My favourite was a raven I named Cyrus. Or I would have named him that, if I could speak. The strokes had shut down half my body and I was pretty much done. But I was happy enough. I was now a mascot of sorts of the newly formed Northwest Interim Canadian Police. "Top a the mornin' to ya, you old fart!" Great. Helen was by with my lunch - a bowl of vegetable mush which was about the only thing I was allowed to eat these days.. I mumbled a greeting at Helen as she placed my mush on the picnic table beside me, and went in to say hi to the boys. When she was gone, Bucyrus flew down and landed on the table and made some inquiring tinkling noises deep in his throat. With my good hand I hauled out my cane and pushed the bowl of mush toward him. Cyrus was essentially a flying trash can that would eat anything. If I died that wretched little flea bag would be picking at my corpse the second I kicked off. The thought made me smirk. "I saw that!" I nearly jumped out of my skin as Police Chief Bob Wallace regarded me sternly from the doorway Helen had just used. My hearing wasn't worth sh...spit these days. I mumbled at Bob and almost died of embarrassment as drool ran down my chin. The doctor said I would probably be able to control that and maybe even walk a bit better if I worked at it. I had a bib, and it shamed me to have to use it. Bless his heart, Bob pretended not to notice. "Jesus, Glen - ya gotta eat. You're starting to look frail." I mumbled and tried not to drool. "Glen. I want you alive and well when you stand trial again in a fair and honest court, where you will be tried by fair and honest people. Me and these kids in this police station have risked our careers and lives to get you there. The least you can do is look after yourself long enough so they can see that it was worth it." He was right of course. My trial went to hell pretty much the same day the country did. Several totally independent and unrelated but similar events happened that day and through that week as the nation destroyed itself. A bomb had gone off during a parliamentary session that killed half the nation's elected representatives. Race and civic riots broke out in several major cities with burning, looting and lynchings. Our leaders demanded protection but the people of the law enforcement and military turned in their uniforms and walked off the job - taking their guns with them. Then the net went down, and a couple weeks later the power went out. In the middle of winter. The lunacy of political correctness, multiculturalism, feminism and progressivism died in flames and snow in the ensuing months - along with at least a third of the country's citizens. Winter took care of another third. In our town, Bob became Chief of Police when half his officers quit and went home to guard and protect their families. Martial Law went into effect. I probably would have starved but the kids took care of me as some sort of civic mission. They were deadly serious about me facing trial. People being what they are, Bob would be facing trial right after me. Desperate times required desperate measures and Bob's hair went totally grey that year. He didn't look that great himself. But things were better now. The trucks and trains were going again in dribs and drabs. We had electrical power on Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays for about 3 hours each day. We had enough to eat. It was expected we would have full power again by midsummer, and our town would end martial law, elect some leaders and re-establish the courts and schools and all the other crap the civilised white man insists on. There was hope and optimism in the air again. It was going to be a planned civic holiday, celebration election all rolled into one. People had something to look forward to again and talked about it in the streets. "Mornin' Boys!" Doug Haskell joined us and parked his keester on the picnic table. "How ya doin', Cyrus?" Doug threw some bread crumbs in front of the bird. "I come bearing gifts, O Mighty Bucyrus... even though you were probably the one that shat on the windshield of my squad car...". Doug was on of God's gifts to us, and was always upbeat and in high spirits regardless of circumstances. "Well, that is one shitbird bribed - now for the other two!" And with that, he produced three big, high end cigars. "Doug - forget it. You're not giving Filthie a cigar! For gawdsakes, he's had three strokes already!" Ignoring his boss, Doug puffed one alight - and passed it over to me. I took it gratefully and sighed in contentment. Bob called us a-holes and stomped off in disgust. When he was gone, Doug turned to me and began to speak. "This trial that's coming up, Filthie - it's not going to be another sham. You killed 11 guys. In Canada, self defense is not a right, you only have...err...had the right to use reasonable force to defend yourself and that is a wide open legal grey zone that has gotten guys like you hung in the past. The Crown will go for at least Manslaughter One."
"Fortunately you can't speak for yourself anymore - and even better, I will be representing you as your lawyer. I am going to hand my resignation in to Bob this afternoon so that I can take your case." Doug droned on from there about how I was not to talk to anyone about the case - or write or pantomime about it either. Because of my disabilities I couldn't rat out the people that saved me that day either or they would be on trial up there with me. I guess Doug was a big shot lawyer back before The Troubles or something - but I wasn't worried. I no longer cared. I was more worried about Bob losing a good constable to defend the likes of me. But the kids had priorities that superseded those of a couple old farts pushed past their limits. The kids were putting the world back together right, by the look of it - and me getting a fair trial was a big part of it for them. The tides of history advance and recede, empires and civilizations rise and fall, but for this one, for now - things looked mighty fine.
My trial by my peers had been an unmitigated shit show, of course. I expected it. Not that I cared, of course - I would not be judged by this sanctimonious gaggle of old hormonal women, and a jury full of vibrants and virtue-signalling social justice warriors. For whatever reason, my Maker had chosen my trial to be a propaganda event and a morality play for politically correct rubes that could not be trusted by our rulers to think for themselves. My role is that of The Devil. The Racist. He Whose Name Cannot Be Spoken. That guy that is Literally Worse Than Hitler. I knew I was to be sacrificed to their gods. Didn't matter, I'd just die for mine and to hell with them all. You can do stuff like that when you are old and cranky like me.
The Gong Show was entertaining at times.
"How many migrants did you kill, Mr. Filthie?" The prosecutor asks. I looked at this woman who would be pretty and attractive were it not for he severely pulled back hair, the power suit, and the bitchy demeanour. I always responded with the truth as I perceived it: "At least two, Miss. Judging from the amount of ammo I had after the fight, if I was doing my job right - and I probably was - I'd estimate anywhere between 6 and a dozen more. I assume The Crown at least did a body count at the scene of the crime afterward?" And of course - that would set off the jury, the press, and the growing crowd of spectators that were showing up for the trial sessions. The howler monkeys would hoot at the moon, the harridan judge would bang her gavel and screech for order while the peanut gallery would be shouting and cursing - and I would smirk and chuckle as I presided over the mayhem of it all.
They did their best of course. When I stated the truth of facts that spoke against me, I was allowed to run: "The defence has submitted that you are suffering from a mild form of PTSD, Mr. Filthie, and should not be allowed to represent yourself to this court. You are aware of the hazards of that, by the way? Do you agree with that assessment?" And of course that was hogwash. I got gooned with a rock thrown by some coloured monkey during the attack - and as a result I cannot remember killing any of them after the first two. That was all there was to it. I had the head injury complete with stitches and Barney Rubble-like lump on my noggin to show for it.
If my statement might look as if it might pose a viable defence, I was shut down on technicalities and told to be silent. When asked why I started shooting, I explained that after the driver's side window had shattered, and the migrant that broke through it had cut my brother's throat, I moved to defend myself - and that would result in a shout of "Objection! The defence is trying to complicate the narrative of events....blah blah blah!" Whatever. I knew the fix was in. The only regret I had in all this was Officer Bob. He sat in the peanut gallery and watched with an expression on his face that made it look like he had swallowed a turd. He showed up alone for the first few sessions, then, as the case became more public... some of the others at the police station started showing up too. At times they looked murderous too. Bob had taken great personal risks to see that I got my gun back after my first stint in the can and must have felt betrayed when I mass murdered a lot of vibrant and diverse citizens with it a day after I got out. Who'da thunk it?
The ignorant stinking masses love their theatre. Nobody can forget sound bites and video clips of OJ Simpson's low speed police chase. Or JFK's brains being blown out between his ears. Or the Twin Towers coming down. Mine was the latest and greatest, provided by our good friends at Google Earth and the mass media. When I left the world Google Earth had enveloped the globe with low res pics of every city every street, every house... even in most towns and some rural areas. With a click of the mouse you could drop down to street level and read the numbers on your own house - or anyone else, for that matter.
Nowadays Google Earth was world wide CCTV. Big Brother was home in a way that would have driven George Orwell back to 1984. The clip ran constantly in my trial. I'm told it ran most nights on the cable news networks as talking heads referred to it. Now I have that fuggin thing branded into my psyche too - much to my chagrin.
You've seen it all too in live streaming video: the red 2027 truck slows down as a mob of vibrants take up positions in it's path and spread across the highway. Another group closes off any retreat and they start milling around the truck. The mob starts cautiously at first, but picks up steam. They start kicking and spitting on the truck and banging on the windows and hooting at the occupants. Soon the clubs and pipes come out and they start smashing at the windows, working themselves into a fury that inspires mobs to tear their victims apart. A window breaks on the driver's side, and a Somolian immigrant with an unpronounceable name starts trying to crawl into the cab - and the shots start. The first migrant dies with one shot to the pan. The passenger side window - already a crazed patchwork of crack lines - blows out and the migrant trying to smash it goes down with half his face blown away. The satellite imagery is remorseless with its detail.
The shooter comes out of the cab and even a blind man would recognize him as the defendant in this trial. Migrants are now either in full retreat or in full attack. A rock flies and clips the shooter on the side of the head with a glancing blow. He starts to run on auto pilot and keeps shooting in a pattern familiar to any squaddie or law man: two shots to the chest, one in the head. Two shots to the chest, one in the head. Mag dump, and resume: two shots to the chest, one in the head. Two shots to the chest, one in the head. The migrants begin to mill about as the shooting continues. A few attempts to rush the shooter abort and break, only to reform. Another rock hits the shooter - and down he goes, out for the count. A big white dog leaps out of the truck, and attacks one of the assailants. Another ends the dog with a lead pipe to the head. I usually stop watching before that happens. At hat point it looks like curtains for the old geezer that is Literally Worse Than Hitler.
Before the migrants can set upon him a jacked up 4x4 enters the frame - and although there is no sound with the video, you can well imagine the thumping and thudding as the mob tumbles under the large all terrain tires and are mowed down under the heavy steel bush bars. A small group of men tumble out of the cab and start shooting with rifles. A couple in the back do the same as they scramble to the fallen geezer. One hoists the unconscious old fart up on the shoulder while the other provides covering fire. They then fell back to the truck like pros - but the migrants were done at that point. The truck turned and drove down into the ditch striking a few more, crossed the median and headed back west. It turned off on a heavily treed forestry road - and was lost. Attempts to regain the fleeing video came to naught. There were still, miraculously, some places on the globe that the big tech companies could not reach.I barely heard the power suited career attorney when she asked me why I turned myself in. I just shrugged and said 'Filthies don't run from the law - even when it's crooked'.
And of course, with that, the howler monkeys once more bayed at the moon for my blood, the sports in the peanut gallery laughed and cursed, and the harridan on the bench banged on her desk with her gavel for order. For me, I was lost in thoughts of Mort, my brother, and my mother who was probably at home having to watch all this. My big day was tomorrow when I would supposedly be able to present my side of the story. It didn't matter of course, the fix was in and at this point, I still didn't know what I was going to say.
And so... here I am. If there were crickets, you would be able to hear them chirping in that courtroom. I had a captive audience. Most were malevolent and resentful. After months of theatre and speculation, of talk show experts and vacuous media bubbleheads informing their audience about my crimes, my family history, my ancestry, and my probable spiritual destination - the court had finally, graciously given me the opportunity to speak in my own defence in public. I turned to the pink haired she-twink posing as the judge at my trial, and privately marvelled at the lunacy of it all. She had a few tats on her neck and a face full of cosmetic fishing tackle. I was going to be judged by a sexually disturbed clown? Looking contemptuously down on me from her perch, she asked me to get on with it.
And of course, I vapour locked. As a younger man I'd faced assemblies like this time and time again, trying to do technical sales presentations on precision bolting, torqueing and piping tools. They were often sporting events where the customer's engineers tried to showcase their intelligence and signal their fellows by asking questions designed to stump the salesmen. Often I did that with my competition in the same room, eager to heckle and highlight any deficiencies in my presentation or even manufacture them if they could. I enjoyed the duels of wit and humour and did well in that role - but here? I just wanted it to end. "I'd just like to say up front, Your Honour, that as far as I am concerned I am not being tried by this court. I am being tried by my Maker, who for whatever reason, decided to test me on that day on the highway," I said. "Ultimately I will be tried in His court again, and I will accept my punishment there just as I do here. And so will you -" aaaaaand of course - the prosecution chick shrieked "Objection! Your Honour-"
"Sustained!" the judge barked, "Mr. Filthie, you will NOT bring your 'faith' into this court or I will find you in contempt!" She looked perplexed as I almost interrupted her, "My apologies Your Honour, I withdraw the remark. May I continue with my defense? Could we please roll the video of that incident again as part of my defense?" After some more scolding, my request was graciously granted. The hormonal old hag sternly reminded me of the dire hazards of trifling with the court. Up on the big screen, the iconic bird's eye view began to roll again. The truck approached and slowed and finally stopped in front of the migrant mob - all typical of invaders flooding into the country. I watched like everyone else, and waited for some kind of inspiration as to what to say. Nothing came. Up on the screen I watched, mesmerised, as the migrants began to fall as the shooting started. 100 light years away, a woman was scolding me to either make my case or wrap my presentation up. I barely heard it, as Mort charged out into the fray and was clubbed down - again. More shots. Rocks hurled. Suddenly I was there all over again as smelly, savage men hooted and shouted for my blood in languages I would never understand. Their intent, of course, spoke for itself.
Pulling my poop into a group, I gave my head a shake to clear it of the echoes that never seemed to stop. Turning back to face the jury, I said "I have one message for you all assembled here today: I am not the only one on trial here." Back up on the screen, Mort was now dead, and my rescuers had slammed into the mob of savages with a cold, silent fury that had been years... decades... in the making. I turned to my judge, stared that clown right in the eye and said, "You are not the only one taking names and remembering faces" A ludicrous long pause as the vibrant and diverse audience let that sing in … and again, the court dissolved into an uproar. The blonde prosecutor chick was screaming 'Objection!!!' The vibrant and diverse jury went bananas. The she-twink up on the bench banged her gavel and howled for order. At the back of the courtroom Officer Bob and some of his constables regarded our antics with grim expressions on their faces. They were dressed in their classic RCMP red and white show uniforms for some reason, I noted. Probably for the cameras; they'd look great as they dragged off a racist to prison - a criminal Obviously Worse Than Hitler. It would be a field day for the media, no doubt. My presentation was dismissed and cut short. An hour later after everyone had finished chimping out and virtue signalling, they had control of themselves. I was hauled back in to take my place. When everything was calm, the court went through it's motions and finally, the flink on the bench was ready. "Have you anything to say before this court passes judgment, Mr. Filthie?" I just sighed - and rose to my feet. The judge looked at me warily as I looked back at the Officer Bob and his Mounties in their dress reds. "Yes, Your Honour, I do." I waited until the murmers and grumbling from the crowd abated and then..."Your Honour: what did the blind man say as he walked past the fish factory?" I almost felt sorry for the clown as she gawped, unprepared for the outlandish question. Before the crowd could start again, I hurried on, "Good day ladies, good day! HAR HAR HAR!" Her Honour looked apoplectic as she banged for order. Over the mayhem I shouted to the blonde prosecutor, "Didjya hear the one about the blonde and the jigsaw puzzle-" but I couldn't finish - I had a small oriental bailiff trying to grab my arm. I spun and threw her at the prosecutor with all my might and smirked as they tumbled like ten pins. I shouted at the jury! "This is a classic! A paki, a nigger, and a chinaman walk into this bar-" The taser lit me up like a Christmas Holiday Tree as the bailiffs took me down. Again with a taser. And again. It was a scrum more painful than anything I had ever endured in my life. When you get old pain just seems to hurt more. My face and arm started to tingle. Again with the taser. And again. I gawped and choked as I tried to breathe but nothing came. A curious sense of detachment fell over me as my moral and intellectual superiors struggled tried to subdue me even though I was already down for the count. Again with the taser, but I could barely feel it. Half of my body had gone numb and reality began to fade around the edges. Again with the taser. Then the bailiffs dog piled on me. They weighed down on me, as heavy as army tanks. Consciousness was starting to slip away. But amidst the mayhem, off to the side, I saw my wife. She wore the elegant green skirt, with the thin leather belt and stylish matching sweater that she sometimes wore to work when we were kids. The shouting and scuffling faded to a comfortable warble and was finally gone. We were in her kitchen with the sun pouring through the window. Somewhere, light years away I thought I heard gun shots - but my wife turned my face toward hers and gave me a kiss. The world of struggle and pain was gone. "Are you going to go say hello to your daughter, Handsome?" she asked. My daughter was in the living room of our tiny apartment, sitting on a battered stool, playing video games as her cats sprawled beside their queen. All I could think was how that kid was so beautiful, and I lost my shit. "Oh Spud - I am so sorry... you went to school, you changed and I didn't understand and I wasn't there. I couldn't help, I wanted to! But.. I couldn't! It was too late, and I..." She was in her mid teens again - beautiful, smart, with a world that promised to fall at her feet. All was well with the world. "Jeez Dad! It's okay! Take a pill or something! Wanna play MarioKart?" Finally. I was home.
I learned that my mother was a meat head when I was about 5 or 6. Neil Armstrong had landed on the moon and the rest of the missions had the boys golfing, driving moon-dune buggies, and having food fights in space. Mom tut-tut-tutted about all the waste - that money could have been spent better here on earth, dontchya know! For social programs!
I told her she was an idiot and got slapped ... but it was worth it. :)
Years ago there was this crazy lady that hung out by the Safeway that a friend of mine frequented. We were going into the supermarket to pick up some nibblies for a party when she intercepted us and began a discussion on who shot JFK. She knew the whole story; a water spirit that she knew told her the whole thing in explicit detail. She was obviously harmless and so we just sat there as she brought us up to speed on what the various spirits and supernatural beings around us thought about current events, us, and each other. Normally Bob was a talker but he sat back and made the right noises to make it look like the conversation was actually two sided and I did the same. I guess it was her family that showed up a shortwhile later, thanked Bob and told her it was time to go home and led her away.
Listening to her was an experience because the spirits she communed with were no different than the people. Some of them were good, some were tricksters and pranksters, and others were rotten, vicious and untrustworthy. Oddly enough she was not the centre of her delusions the way so many cranks are. She was obviously a nutter. Back then I thought Christians were nutters too. There was not even the faintest shadow of a doubt in my being that we created our own demons and gods, not the other way around.
The actions of my fellow man over the last several years have convinced me otherwise. It's infuriating. Early scientists would see that certain particles or compounds behaved a certain way, when their existing notions and ideas said they shouldn't. Some would pull their hair out by the roots trying to make the observations fit into their theories and others would throw the theories out and go back to square one and start the plodding: what do we know? What do we think we know? How might that affect what we are seeing in front of us? Those that did so often got ridiculed and mocked by their betters in the scientific establishment and some of them actually deserved it. I think we are seeing a lot of that today - people going back to square one, desperately trying to reset, reboot, and reinitialize their understanding of their world. I think the present climate of the human condition can best be summed up by a scrawl of graffiti I saw on the side of a train recently. On an obscure car in the middle of an endless train somewhere in Canada right now is a simple, crudely spray painted message:
...And underneath, somewhere along those infinite rails, in some other city, town or province, some other obscure kid with a can of spray paint saw that message and responded:
It's dark and dreary Monday here at Castello Di La Filthie and it's been a long week. Another long week lies ahead. Have yourselves a wonderful Monday - and try not to think too much! HAR HAR HAR!
Parents do one of two things when they find out their kid is queer: they either recoil from it or they embrace it and try and pretend it's a good thing. Well meaning people that don't want to get in a fight let them get away with it. Perhaps one of the most dispassionate and objective analysis of homosexuality was done by the Z Man:
No one wants their kid to be gay. All parents say they are just happy if their kids are healthy. That’s mostly true, but no parent wants their kid to turn out to be a happy healthy homosexual. All of those pious Progressives haranguing us about the gays privately hope they never have to be in the same room with a gay, much less have one in the family. There’s a reason for all of the gay ghettos in places like New York, Boston and San Francisco.
Gay men are mostly assholes. Life for homosexuals is not a lot of fun. Unlike everyone else, their pool of potential mates is infinitesimally small. A normal man makes a pass at a women and it is not big deal if she is offended. A man makes a pass at a man and it is big trouble if the other guy is not into dudes. Life for gay people is not a lot of fun and that’s what makes them so unpleasant. We all know this, but what’s the point of saying anything about it? They are what they are and that’s punishment enough.
Lesbians are surly and unattractive. The pornography industry has convinced a lot of men that lesbians are hot super models or the girls down the hall, if you can just get them drunk. Of course, lesbians in the press avoid the normal kit as they know how TV works. Viewers want to see attractive people. That means lantern-jawed men and model quality women.
In real life, lesbians look like the guy who paved your driveway. They have bad haircuts and wear men’s clothes. For some reason, they like wearing men’s jeans and flannel shirts. Younger ones will have a face full of fishing tackle and tattoos. To add to the unpleasant visage, they are surly and miserable people. I’ve trod this earth a long time and I have yet to meet a sunny, bubbly lesbian.
If you are a parent of a gay child, and you have a moral compass and an intellect - you are in between a rock and a hard place. If dare to notice the lunacy of the gay community and their agenda you risk banishment and alienation from the pozzed and the politically correct. If you accept the lunacy, you get sucked into trying to justify ever loonier notions and an endlessly spiralling game of virtue signalling other loons. What are they up to, now? 36 'genders'? Where are we going to be in another twenty years if we let our kids do stuff like this to themselves?
We are all on a road in this life and when our kids choose roads like this, be it drugs, homosexuality, alternate sexualities or criminality - it's easy for us as parents to get dragged along. This is exactly why millennials are so messed up. They have never been allowed to fail on their road, or live the consequences of their actions. They have no framework to build their moral code on. That's why they will sneer at the pedos in the clergy - and think the progressive liberals of the Huffington Post are edgy and trendy when they speak out in favour of pedophilia.
Paths converge and diverge; they go where they go and they end where they do whether we like the ride or not. No amount of wishful thinking, virtue signalling, or political correctness will change that. Some people, God willing, can choose their paths. Others can't. Or won't. There is nothing we can do to help people like that and the best thing you can do for everyone is take the next turnoff and shut up and drive. Don't look in the mirror, turn the radio on. That's as close as I can come to offering advice.
Some Christians are in a bit of a pickle these days with the reality of gay/pedo priests and that idiot and his entourage in the Vatican. Many are throwing out the church and their morals with it because of them. The only hope we have on the road ahead though - is our morals and ethics.
I am at best a rudimentary out house Christian of sorts. I may well be full a beans on this but if I have read the new testament and understood it correctly - it says right in there that nothing stands between you and your Maker. If you insist on letting a pedo or a queer insert itself between you - the fallout for that is on you, not the church or the faith.
Posting will be light; I am back at Retard School as a student this time - learning how to design and model photovoltaic arrays. Got home at 10:30 tonight, she's been a long day. Two 8 hour days this weekend then back to work for my regular work week. The owners want me to pitch our company to the class when half the people there know the industry and the company better than I do - so it should be interesting.
That's pretty much the reaction I expect from any discussion of my weekend plans. I wish I had a dime or even a nickel for every time somebody said that to me... I'd be a rich man.
One day when I was a kid, me and my retarded friend - Toddy - were in the barn and Toddy's dad had left the clippers out. "Ever wonder what a quarter horse would look like with a buzz cut, Toddy?" And of course the answer was - let's find out!
We led his horse in to our impromptu equestrian salon - and were done in minutes! We shaved his horse's mane right off and we thought he looked great. When our mothers found out they shat themselves with rage and our fathers just laughed. But examples had to be made and we got punished. Only Indians shave their horses like that, we were told.
If I had a horse today I would do it again in a heartbeat - and then get a trim myself in the bargain. :)
I ordinarily don't pay much attention to my countrymen in Morontario or Queerbec or BC. Those three provinces are run by shitlibs, Marxists, feminists, queers and other degenerates - for degenerates. Were it not for them, Justin Turdo would have been laughed out of politics long ago. And Justin wasn't anywhere near their worst - Morontario was run into the dirt by a ghastly elderly lesbian named Kathleen Wynne who 'served' as their premiere up until the last election. Unlike Justin, who is just an idiot in over his head - Kathleen was a nutter. In the last election the anorexic old bint was flushed and replaced by Doug Ford.
Lefty rues in Canada primarily through the judiciary and the media. Our supreme court judges are all activist ass hats and held in utter contempt by average Canadians with a triple digit IQ. They are a powerhouse unto themselves and for all my lifetime they have ruled Canada unchallenged. The only defense against them was to invoke a little known, seldom used 'notwithstanding clause' in the Canadian constitution. It basically short circuits the judiciary and allows provinces to tell those judges to take a long walk of a short pier when they over step their authority. The only problem is that nobody had the balls to invoke it except the fuggin fwench - and they hate Canada almost as much as we hate them.
Welp, Ol' Douggie picked a fight with those a-holes collectively right out of the gate. He decreed that Tranna's city council would be reduced by about half. That had Lefty in a Tizzy so he sent his lickspittles in the judiciary to shut Douggie down. A judge ruled that the premiere could not make such a decision, and huffily concluded that that was that about that.
Douggie invoked the notwithstanding clause, and now Lefty is losing his fuggin mind the same way the American mass media has with Trump. How dare an elected official go against an unelected, unaccountable judge?!?! Well... Douggie just did, and he is promising to do it again if the a-holes don't mind their own business.
This is great news but what makes it extra sweet is that this is happening right in the liberals' own back yard. I hope that maybe Trump started something great, and more of our leaders start standing up against the lunacy and corruption of the deep state. Those people don't give a damn about us, and has forgotten whom they work for.
It would be nice to see Canadians start winning for a change too. The next time some left wing liberal meat holes start lecturing about civility and restraint - you have my permission to kick them right in the balls.
Sometimes I have dreams at night of being a younger man, without aches and pains. Just walking long trails and not caring if the game was afoot or not. Of days where there was energy and gumption to burn.
Now the thought of this just makes me
want to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep.
It's a time for new kings and queens to take to the forests, I suppose.
For those of you gearing up to head out - good luck!
Take pictures, respect the game and make sure it is there for your kids.
I just learned that Deb and her husband are in the fight of their lives and need a miracle right now. That's a tall order for a regular good Christian - never mind the outhouse variety as represented by the owner of this blog.
My Maker doesn't talk to me or do exactly what I want him to - if you'd put your hands together real quick and throw one out there for Deb and her husband tonight - I'd be real grateful. As a noob at this sort of thing I beg your indulgence and warn you right up front - I am not any good at this sort of thing. But:
Heavenly Father - please go with Deb and her husband tonight. Amen.
If any of you guys can polish that one up a bit in the comments I'd appreciate it.
There was a clan meeting out at Firebase Flapz and we were invited but because I am a goof and too lazy to tow the trailer out, we decided to get one last bike trip in and make it just a day trip.
It kept sprinkling on the way out and we either were just in front of the downpours or just behind. I ordinarily don't gear up with the full face helmet and chaps but figured it might be a good idea. At highway speeds raindrops hit like bullets even with a windshield. And the fact I am turning into a fat ol' wuss doesn't help. In younger days I rode in stuff like that in a tee shirt.
Flapz' Firbase is about an hour and a half north, about smack dab between Sunnybrook Farm and Pioneer Preppie's Smallhold. The camp is about a 1/4 mile off a gravel road and the drive in is grass and sand. Big Red handled like a boss in the terrain. I was surprised I made it in so easily.
The property has it's own haunted house which is no doubt home to bugs and critters by day, and swamp monsters and hobgoblins at night. Flapz went to work and mowed the grass and cleared out a sweet little place to park the campers and set up the firepit.
Goddammit. We should have brought the dogs and the camper out. But the ride was wonderful too. You can't see it here but the trees are starting to put on their fall colours. What a great one for a day ride. It's definitely time for plaid and flannel.
Flapz and M have some new recruits out guarding the camp:
The Rottie is Zeus, and I forget what the other pup's name was.
They were in heaven.
Mort n' Macey would have loved them.
We are in bear country and there's the odd cat around too.
That Blackhawk is stoke with my reloads and they are barked up enough
to give even a tank like a Ruger Blackhawk a bad case of
Flapz just bought one of those UTV's because he's a retard and suffering from the mid-life crisis thing. He insisted that I had to get checked out on the newest Forest Deployment Vehicle.
He is such an ass. He has so far installed
and LED bar up front with lites that'll roast your retinas.
On the back is a 'Zombie Bar'
complete with disco lites and speakers.
"It'll even play yer theme song Glen!" Flapz shouts. He turned on the stereo and I nearly jumped out of my skin and swallowed my cigar at the volume. I got him back later when we drove down a cattle trail and the front tire picked up a fresh cow pie and deposited a great big sloppy gob of it in his lap! HAR HAR HAR! HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAAAAAAAAARRRRRR!
Apparently this is my theme song now.
If I had one this would be better than most I suppose.
Then the skies opened up and we lit out for home. It doesn't take much to mire the big cruiser bikes in terrain and we had to get out before the ground softened up. We got soaked through in the first half hour home... and then the rain stopped and we had a wonderful cruise home.
So that was my Saturday - how was yours? Leave a comment if you're so inclined and thanks for dropping in! As for me - I got to get a move on - I have to get into the car wash before it stacks up with early bird seniors.
This morning I am headed down to the chiroquack to get tortured, and then we are peeling out on Big Red to visit some friends out camping about two hours north. As you run your errands today - remember to spare some courtesy for the classics that may be on the road today.
While other steam powered bloggers are sleeping a night off on the party train - here at the Thunderbox we are up n' at 'em bright and early! Quartermain will drive, Pete n' I will shovel coal into that beast, and about 5 other retards will run the baler! By the end of the day we should have about 10 bales up!
Let us be a healthy, wholesome example to the rest of you lot to emulate: a good work ethic is a purpose in and of itself! HAR HAR HAR! Have a great Saturday!
PS - and don't let BW Bandy take any pics of our hay bales without paying a generous fee first!
There's bloggers in my list of daily reads that face their seperations every day. Some have lost kids, or families in divorce, elderly parents and I usually shut up and keep my lips zipped. If I am a big fan I will leave my condolences in the comments.
I went through the wringer like so many other men have. Some like me can talk about it. Others can't and will channel their grief into something else. Still others can drop that baggage, keep on truckin' and smilin'. I've seen any number of men that pretend to do that and botch it horribly (I am one that's tried it) and I don't say anything to them either.
If you are one of those that needed to see something like this today - you're welcome. Have a good Friday.
There was a time, light years ago, when I woulda had hair like that. But now? Bald as a cue ball, with not even enough peach fuzz for a thin rime of frost... sob...
When Pete dies I am going to harvest his scalp. Might grab TB's liver when he croaks too. If any of you have organs to sell, please let me know in the comments. Quartermain is now an excellent surgeon after hours of practice on our high tech simulator here at Uncle Bob's Institute For Wayward Boys N' Retards.