Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude
Where Great Intelligence Goes To Be Insulted

Tuesday, 31 July 2018

Filthicus: Blood And Sand

Well, I've been trying to bring in ferocious animals to fight and die in the arena for our amusement since forever and that just hasn't worked out at all. Then I was struck by brilliance! Why not let the retards fight each other to the death?

The game is afoot, my good peasants and peons! I ask you again: are you not entertained?!?!

Gotta Be Quartermain Again

I'd recognize his work anywhere. Rest assured, the authorities are en route!

When One Closet Just Isn't Enough

I'm an old fart that lives under a rock so I'll get the full disclosure thing out of the way right up front. I have no idea who (or what) this silly little lady is or thinks she is - but all the barking seals good whites are clapping their hands with glee and falling over themselves to approve of her. They are ever so tolerant, dontchya know.

I said I would never do it again. And I meant it at the time. Although I haven't spoken to my daughter in years now, I know where she lives on the internet. I know who she talks to, what she says and I used to keep tabs on her because … I was a dad, once. It's like being a Marine or a gangster, once you take on the role you can never take it off - no matter how much you may want to. I finally managed to let her go and gave up on keeping tabs. The other day though, I had too much time to think, the rotten wood in my cranium started smoking.... and I took a quick peak in on her. And instantly knew I'd made a mistake. She's now a cis/pan/bi sexualled-something-or-other now too.

She's also 33 years old this year. Jeez, time flies. I wonder if she feels it slipping past too? Who knows, if you can be oblivious to your gender, the passage of time would be an easy one to let go of too. I wonder what goes on in the heads of these people and realize that I probably don't want to know. Letting go is so difficult. But I'll get there. Time heals.

My Maker obviously has plans for her that don't involve me so I'll just let them get on with it I suppose. I have my own humble little home and life - and some weeds that seriously need to be wacked, and some painting to plan for. Shit happens in life and some of it you can prepare for, and others you just have to roll with the shots. I give thanks for my wonderful wife, my super dawgs - and for your company too: as always, thanks for stopping by and listening to a confused ex-dad prattle.

Search Term Stinker: NSFW - Fun With Farts

For chits n' giggles I typed in 'Filthie's Thunderbox' into the search box and for some reason this pic came up.

There's three rules a man needs to abide by to succeed in this life:
1. Never pass a urinal without using it.
2. Never ignore a hard on.
3. Never trust a fart.
This lady is living very dangerously.

Monday, 30 July 2018

Retard ROTC Program: War Games

The Retard War Games are going about as well as you'd expect. The scenario this year was that me and my Special Forces would mount an assault on Camp Borepatch, seize the terrain and hold it until further notice.

I don't think that's gonna happen. Fact is we're gonna fall back another 600m and call it good. I've seen the marksmanship training they're doing over there and I think we'll just let the drones handle this one.

The Filthie Gourmet

I ate the best beans on my camp trip. Couple months back I was on the Daily Time Waster where CW posted a pic of a big crock of beans n' bacon and not much else. The wife went Youtubing and found a recipe for it... and beans haven't been the same since. I didn't even get the big billowing bean farts from them which was a godsend in our tiny trailer, HAR HAR HAR! There's some mighty fine eatin' to be found on the innernet!

Can't help wondering if this ain't one of those...

Back To Work

Well I just spent four days camping out at the gun club.

I just needed some down time, out of the house with the trees, the dawgs, and my retirement guns. Shooting every day, then back to camp to bake in the sun, catch up on my bible readings - and loaf. I'd fallen behind on the good little book and needed to get back into it. There are large portions where my eyes glaze over, and I start to read without my brain engaged and I have to consciously gear down, back up, re-read it and try and make sense of what that thing is actually trying to say. It's slow going sometimes.

I'm in the Psalms now, almost done and one thing I came across left me at odds and very uncomfortable: it went to the effect that "my faith is in God rather than my sword or my bow..". I cannot bring myself to agree with that. Especially these days where every second schlub you meet on the street is a failed liberal social experiment, and Christianity is a crime right up there with kiddie-diddling in the minds of some people.

It's just not my new-found faith being tested either; there's a fascinating discussion going on at Dalrock's - I don't like the conclusions he arrives at but I can somewhat sympathise and understand how he arrives at them. This is the kind a shite the modern church has to put up with. How do you deal with idiocy like this? A lot of men like Dalrock are wiping their arses with feral women and a cucked church - and flushing. The danger with that is when you throw out your faith, your morals and ethics tend to go with it. I watched my in-laws do it. They were hard working middle class people 30 years ago, but they went along with the liberal cool kids and now they're all contemptable social justice warriors or cucks without the courage to stand up to them.

But at the same time... people screw up. They fail, and they need some way to redeem themselves. A lot of these failed liberal social experiments have been raised thinking the easy way out is always the right one, that the world owes them a living, that being offended always makes you right... and all kinds of other claptrap. When they finally see that crap for what it is they start looking for ways to redeem themselves - and that just drives Dalrock and his boys into a frenzy when the church tries to give them a means to do that. I can see their point, what with churches pandering to single parent families, performing gay marriages and such. I myself will not abide that crap either.

But somehow, a Christian like effort has to be made to redeem these men and women and the wreckage of their families. How do ya do something like that? The very idea of the faith is founded on the family and the community … and people raised by progs can't even tell what gender they are anymore. How do you reach people like that?

Tonight, I will be cleaning guns, the wife will be cleaning out the trailer, and I'll be thanking my Maker for my spot on this earth - and trying to get used to the idea of going back to working for a living.

Too Much Friday Night Steam

and too much Monday...

Sunday, 29 July 2018

Filthie's Wild Animal Kingdom: Camoflage

And Speaking Of Niggers: Holla Bout Ya Dollas

I cannot tell a lie. I try not to steal too much from my fellow bloggers but this one from Pitsnipes was just too rude to pass up. I strongly suspect the jokers over at Coopville are involved in this prank.

I know how this game works. Minority chicken heads act like stupid niggers, and then some poor old crabby stubfart like Ol' Man Filthie is goaded into calling a spade a spade - and goes up the river for a hate crime!

Not this time, chuckleheads!!! My only question in all this is... rescue chicken...? Please! I only look stupid!

Race Bait

Up here in Aaaaadmontim there used to be a Chinese restaurant called the Chin Kee Restaruant. And of course all the rude round eyes like me called it the Chinky Restaurant and drove the SJW bedwetters crazy with fear and loathing. At least the chinamen and us gaijin (or whatever those little yella bastids call us) - were sporting about it.

But then I see stuff like this:

Stuff like this just takes the sport and fun out of recreational bigotry.

Child Actors Go Awry

Friday, 27 July 2018


I’m off for a couple days - camping at the rifle range. Fuggin... Ol Jim cornered me as I was stinking out the range with my marksmanship and I think I just got roped into a position as an executive treasurer for the club. They have a senile old stub fart retard doing it now, and he’s making it impossible for Jim to run the club. He’s over stepped his bounds and authority several times, to the detriment of the club... and it’s time for him to go out to pasture. The club needs younger blood, I suppose, and Jim has me lined up as a prospect. Gawdammit. Ya know you’re getting old when you get stuff like this shoved down ya throat, HAR HAR HAR! Oh well, I’ve been shooting 30 years here so I suppose I owe now.

Old Barry busted my balls today because I wasn’t wearing my club card on the range. “FFS, Barry! I’ve been shooting here longer than you have, and you joined the club back in the Plastercene Era...!” But Barry wasn’t going to have any of it; I had to dig my dog tags out ‘and display it prominently for the range officer’ or he’d kick my arse out! This is the kind a crap I will have to put up with.

Old men are prone to childishness and I hate like hell to see it in myself! And I hate it even more to have my nose rubbed in it, HAR HAR HAR!

It’s high summer up here in Northern Alberta now, the wild raspberries are ripening but the wild roses seem to be pretty much done. Me and the dawgs are holed up in the camper with the air conditioner and little genny going full blast. I’m gonna pop another coolie, have a snooze and if I wake up in time to get another shoot in, that’ll be an awesome day right there. If not, I’ll stoke the campfire and have a few more coolies before hitting the sack tonight.

Hope you survive your Friday - I’ll be thinking of you while I’m out here! ;)

Thursday, 26 July 2018

If Yer Gonna Be The Bug

I've run into a few of these on the bike.
Sometimes it's a real question as to who gets the worst of it.

Oh Poop

This Why I Love Americans

The other day I got in trouble at BW's because I made a rude lame joke about how he should start being a real Canadian and taking picturesque landscapes of fields of pot instead of hay bales. Our asshole of a prime minister made it his mandatet to legalize weed and I suppose I shouldn't be too harsh on him because his father was an asshole too and he wasn't raised right. But outside of Juthtin Turdo - there's a lot of people going along with him that should know better.

What blows me away are the guys piling on the legalization bandwagon. Big money men are bank rolling the cannabis industry up here and it leaves me just shaking my head in disgust. They would never use the shit themselves, they'd kill their own kids for using it, and they'd fire their employees for using it. And today, they are going all in to invest in it and push this shit at other people's kids.

Thus, I have no sympathy for this old prick. It's always the same with these liberal types. They build their world view with hypocrisy and double standards to justify their degenerate morals and ethics - and then get furious when the people they're taking advantage of put their foot down and tell them to FOAD.

The race to turn our nations into urinals and cesspools continue apace.

Wednesday, 25 July 2018

Squared Away

What is that? Elm?

I'm a city kid now, so I only burn poplar on camping trips. It's seasoned, dry, and burns hot n' fast. That's great for the old fart out camping and taking his ease fireside whilst he sips a glass of vino and the blaze is part of the entertainment.

To the rural homesteaders and farmers that heat their homes with wood - I've heard they prefer wood like elm because it burns low and even hotter than poplar.

One of my favourite vloggers is Slim P. Head - an old Canadian stubfart that stays out of jail by keeping his hands busy. Here he makes a great looking camp stove - out of an ammo can!

Slim is one a those guys skilled in making fun
on a limited budget.
Something like that looks like it might be a good
Father N' Son project

Back From Distant Roads: Humpday Music

It's usually the young men getting restless and edgy with the crushing monotony of the day in, day out rat race.  But a trip around the Old Manosphere reveals that the other aging stubfarts are getting tetchy too. A lot of 'em don't like the roads they're on, and look to others for fulfillment and redemption. I feel like that bike in the pic - miled out, rusty and tired... but still many miles to go.

I wonder if Squirtin' Burton and his elderly hippies ever grew up to feel like this?

The Road Home: Back In The World

The first snow of the season swirled around us as the day began to end. Mort and I were half past beat too. It had been a big day, and after we were done our sit here, on the park bench, we'd grab a hotel with running water, heat, electricity and everything regular folks took for granted. As I got older I began to appreciate such things.

The walk out had been glorious: warm weather, fall leaves, sunshine. It was half a day to the road, and just under a day and a half into town. During our first night out temps rose a bit from the night before and things were relatively mild. We set up a bivvy slept like logs. 

I first stopped into the bank this morning and it was like the starship Enterprise. Ya sat down in a booth, a lady's face lit up on a screen and talked you through the transaction. No menu screens, buttons or envelopes. Of course, my license, bank cards and other ID documents were all expired or out of date. No problem; I put the old documents on the table in front, the computer scanned them, then I put them into a another slot and the computer ate them. A new driver's licence, social security card, and credit card popped out of another slot and I was done like dinner. I was back in The World, and a licensed, documented citizen at that. The chick on the screen told me that advanced computers and sensors did everything now, and that during my retinal scan (which I didn't notice) - I needed to stop by a doctor soon. Cataracts were shaping up in my eyes and the sawbones would need to take a look at them soon. If I needed to renew my insurance or pet licenses I could do that there too. My driver's license was conditional; I was legally prohibited from driving at night. I just laughed. I might get looked at by the eye doctors, but I wouldn't be driving anytime soon. I was also happy to learn I had more money than I would probably ever need, living the way I do and given the time I probably had left. 

After that, we went shopping. We went into the mega-pet mart and I bought some fancy canned dog food for Mort. He was as thin as a rail as all he ate out at the cabin was dry bulk kibble, table scraps  and whatever he caught round the cabin. Everything had changed at the pet store now too. The local pet mart did it all the same way the bank did - you could buy pet food and toys and supplies, there was a vet right on site in the store, and even dog groomers too. I put Mort in for a bath and a shower because he was a little smelly. When he had gone with the groomers I realized I was more than a little smelly myself! My sparse hair had grown out and was a mess as was my beard. I asked one of the ladies if she could do a quick run around my noggin with the clippers and she finally agreed after soaking me for 50 bucks. I dreaded the bill for Mort, he was a tangled and shaggy mess too. To pass the time while he was in getting pampered, I figured I would go to the grocery store and indulge myself.

Tonight, we'd feast like kings: I bought weiners, cheese, apples and a loaf of fresh bread. The Piece De La Restance was gonna be a fine cigar, I decided. But buying stogies was now like pulling teeth. I had to sit through an automated recorded video lecture at the counter: it described in graphic detail, the horrors of smoking on your health. Some poor slob with ruined lungs described his health care in lurid detail. At the end, a blurb came up on the touch screen where I had to accept the risks of  death and damnation from smoking in order to buy, or I could decline and leave. Gah! I accepted the risks and bought a dozen gaggers instead of just the one I had originally intended. That sanctimonious preaching almost made me want to start smoking again as a habit just to be spiteful! I bought a few other treats and a fifth of cheap bourbon. It would be the first drink I would have had in years too. I bought a few other possibles and necessaries, then went back to the pet mart to pick up Mort. Big Brother had to be watching me again by now.

And boy oh boy - those gals had done a job on Mort! He looked like a movie star, with all the tangles and matting gone! I got scalped at the till again when I paid the bill. We trudged out, tired, exhausted and ready to call her a day. A conveniently placed park bench presented itself to us for a moment's respite, and I figured we'd just get a head start on the pig-out I had planned for tonight. I rummaged in my pack, came out with Mort's collapsible bowl and a Leatherman - and opened up a can of dog food. It smelled wonderful and before I knew it I'd eaten half a can myself! I didn't get much protein round the cabin with most of my supplies being freeze dried starchy foodstuffs. Everything I ate that I didn't grow or shoot myself had to be packed in on foot, so heavy canned goods were something I never saw for the most part. Mort glubbed his bowl empty in a couple gulps, do I dragged out the wieners and a leatherman to cut them into small chunks to feed the dog. I ate half of his dog food, so he ate three quarters of the wieners I'd bought. By dog math, that was a scrupulously fair deal, I'd wager.

"Well, friend, we've had a hike chock full a fresh air! We've been pampered and primped and preened at the barber shop, and we've just finished an exquisite meal! Does life get any better? Methinks not!" Forgetting that I was talking to a dog - I made a theatrical plunge back into my pack, and came up with a slightly crunched cigar. "But wait! What about the poor dog? Has the selfish old goat gone and pampered himself with luxury while forgetting about his poor dog? Again - methinks not!" And with that, I presented Mort with a big rawhide chew bone I'd picked up at the pet mart. I lit the gagger up with exaggerated care, puffed it alight... and drew the smoke into my lungs. It was simply delightful. After some initial hacking my lungs accepted the soothing smoke - and all was well with the world. I thought about Pop, and how we all worked on my brother's hot rod when we were kids. Cripes, even Pop was a kid back then, HAR HAR HAR! I can still remember that ludicrous car - a 1968 Firebird. When we'd finally got it remotored and running it idled like a monster as it crouched over it's four tires   ....Chug   .....chug   .....chug... it must a idled at about 3 RPM! HAR HAR HAR! It ran like a raped ape when you stepped on it, that's for sure...

I didn't even hear the squad car roll up. I was enjoying a cigar, a full belly after a fine eat, lost in my memories... and I nearly jumped out of my skin when the police woman barked at me. "Excuse me sir! Put that cigar out at once! There is no smoking within the town limits!" 

It had been too long being stuck out in the woods with nobody but the trees and the dog for company, I must have forgotten what it was like to interact with people. "Since when is smoking outside, with nobody around for a hunnert n' fifty yards in any direction... illegal?" I've always been a big supporter of law enforcement, and scoffed at the childish libertarians that try and liken them to jack booted storm troopers and thugs - until I met this bitch. "Sir! Put it out, or I will place you under arrest!" Supercop bellowed.

So I sighed, carefully started knocking the ash off my stogie, and slid it back into it's tube. In Canada, the cops weren't jack booted thugs, they were skinny imported oriental monkeys women that drove around in squad cars painted in all the frooty colours of the rainbow. The cunned stunt stood watching me as I packed up, and I looked her back in the eye with utter disgust. When I was a kid, the RCMP were right up there with Scotland Yard and the Texas Rangers when it came to law enforcement. I muttered to myself as I packed up and then the bint went off again! "Drop the knife! SIR DROP THE KNIFE!" What in hell was this bloody woman on about now?

She couldn't be talking about the Leatherman I was holding, could she? It was a tool rather than a knife. I turned to face the police woman and held it up for her to see. "This? It isn't a knife, miss, it's more of a tool -" But the crazed carbunkle was having none of it. She had her taser gun out now. "SIR! DROP THE KNIFE! DROP IT!"

I was laughing now. "Don't you have some parking meters that need checking, miss? Oh, for fu-" … and with that, my world dissolved into static, hellfire and pain. When the electric powered paddy wagon pulled up, my hair had stopped smoking and the rigor mortis started to abate. There was probably still enough electricity in me to drive the paddy back down to the station - after a tour around northern Alberta! Mort was crazy with worry. I was probably the nation's oldest senior delinquent - that needed to be zapped into submission with a taser. Originally I figured the trip home would take a couple weeks of walking and thumbing, but now I figured I'd be adding 30 days to it - at least.

Gawdammitalltohell. I wished I'd stayed home in the cabin, working and watching the seasons change. What in hell was I doing out here...?

Monday, 23 July 2018

Get Your Teddy Bears, Thoughts & Prayers Out Everyone!

It's time for yet another chitlib blood dance, and the clot headed cnuts at the Estrogen Post have all the details! And of course, the affirmative action flunky they have for a police chief in Tranna won't comment on the motive.

All I can say about is that I hope all the victims were liberals. Being stupid should hurt.

Ohhhh Yes...

Maybe A Little Too Much Friday Night Steam

… and a little too much Monday morning...

Basement Bar

When I was small, the rage among my parent's generation was developed basements. They all wanted rec rooms and bars in their basements and the competition was fierce. The families round here had just regular tiny bars with a little table with the bottles of booze stacked neatly on shelves below or behind and usually some form of decoration. Old Murray pulled out the stops on his - he had a fully plumbed little sink, CO2 tanks, and small pony kegs of draft in his. Herb had a well appointed bar and defied convention - instead of the standard pool table he had a shuffle board in his basement bar.

It was a foolish thing because they seldom got used. Working, middle aged people like my parents didn't spend a lot of time boozing and drinking. As kids we were pleased as punch with them. At Wayne's his basement rec room became a saloon, where us li'l cowboy buckaroos staged our gun fights and brawls the same way Clint and The Duke always did. For awhile, basement bars were a status symbol.

And just like it started, it was all over literally overnight. Within a couple years most had been dismantled and the basements returned to storage or utility spaces. Ol' Murray set the pace in even that: he built a sand filled metal box as a backstop for us kids and our Daisy BB guns. It was awesome, because you could recover and recycle the BB's simply by sifting the sand. We shot at those little green army men, Barbie, GI Joe and any other victims we could find.

My basement has always been a man cave. I have the reloaders set up, yesterday I had a bulletpalooza down there and pished away the day. Only a gunny could appreciate it, and that's fine by me.

Sunday, 22 July 2018

The Old Fart And The Road

I was in that warm golden cloud of sleep, lost in dreams of happier times, better people and places - when the muffled, discordant sound came. No, I thought. Not now.


No, please, not now. My wife smiled at me the way she did, even as my dream of her started to dissolve. She was dressed in that green dress I loved to see her in, with that elegant thin belt, wearing the ornate necklace that made here look sophisticated and elegant. We were kids, in our kitchen in that small apartment we used to live in, thinking about supper after a day at work.


I opened my eyes then, and peered through the window up at the night sky as my mind re-oriented itself. Mort gumbled in protest at my movements and the noise. Of course, that dumb dog wasn't going to wake up. Dogs aren't stupid, unlike their masters. I scratched him behind the ear the ear the way he liked, and stroked him the way he loved. Some time during the night he'd snuck up onto the bed. He sighed softly in his sleep and went back into a deeper slumber. Didn't take much to make him happy.


Fumbling for the matches, I struck a light and lit the kerosene lamp by my bed. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, cut a big billowing bed fart for Mort - and got up. The mobile was in one of my bigger packs that held some of the artifacts from a former life: pictures that were still too painful to look at, my mobile, my shaving kit, pistol and some tools and other plunder. Rifling through it, still half asleep - I dragged the mobile phone out, surprised that it still worked. When I'd bought it a hundred years ago, it had one of the new fangled thorium batteries that were supposed to be good for 5 years. When I left to come out here, I'd seriously debated about leaving it behind with everything else. I'd never been a cell phone zombie, but at the time, it made a little sense to maybe keep one line of communication open with the world. It was packed - and totally forgotten about in the three years I've been out here since.


Still hesitant, I hit the function button and the screen lit up. It was an email from Mom. Oh boy. I knew what that meant. 

Suddenly I realized that I needed to hit the outhouse - badly. It was fall outside, and bitterly cold. Ya do your business fast in conditions like that, and you don't have time to notice how beautiful the leaves and woods and trees are. The snow would come soon, and send the forest back to sleep for the winter. Once back inside I stoked up the stove and threw a log in, and then sat back and looked at the mobile. I would decide whether I'd read Mom's email tomorrow or not. In the meantime, Mort had sprawled  across the entire bed. It was one of those things with him. The big furry galloot would try to hog the bed, we'd fight about it, he'd always lose with good grace and we'd both settle down and get on with the business of snoring and farting the night away. We were two grumpy old men, near the end of their lives that took comfort in odd rituals. Wonder if he ever sat back and wondered what the point of it all was? I turned out the kerosene lamp, and hoped that when I finally got back to sleep, I'd dream of my wife in the green dress, as she moved about her sun lit kitchen without a care in the world.

They say tragedies and mishaps come in threes. For me, they came in a shit storm. Back when we were a family, everything seemed to be going great. Kid was off at school. We had good jobs, and had paid off the house. I even had a motorcycle then and a few toys. We had Made It. We were Living The Dream. We were empty-nesters, who wouldn't have the Freedom 55 of our parents, but although we weren't wealthy... we were free.

Then the culture war started. My daughter came home one day and announced that she was queer, and quitting the sciences at university to take fine arts at a no-name college or institute of some sort. I told her to grow up, get a job and/or start a family - and our own family imploded as the traditionalist squared off against the new breed of social justice warriors - and lost. Everybody lost. Then I lost my job. Then the older of two dogs, and finally my wife - to a new virulent form of cancer that seemed to pop up here and there. The world had moved on and changed without me and I sat back and wondered what to do with myself. I could only find menial work as the job market no longer needed old white men. Vibrant minorities, led by hairy chested powerful women were making the world a better place through diversity. People (like me) that didn't like it were told to lump it. That sounded fine to me - and so here I was. Doing the 'tiny house' thing in the middle of nowhere, long after the fad had faded. Out here there were no fads, just the wind, the trees, and the sky. I still don't know if I came out here to live or to die. Mort and I'd figure that one out when the time came, I guess. Demons from my past came to pay me a visit as I finally slipped into sleep.

The next morning I woke up pished with the world the way grumpy old men do. Everything hurts when you're old, even getting out of bed. I threw another log in the stove, the cabin heated up - and I splurged and decided to celebrate the day with a pot of coffee. Might as well deal with that email too, I thought. I poured a big mug of black coffee strong enough to float a horse shoe - and opened up Mom's email.


Your Dad has passed.
Come home.


I knew what the message was before I opened it, but even so, for a second my control slipped, and a few memories came flooding back. Pop showing me how to handle a gun. Pop cussing me out for my grades at school. Pop showing me how to tear down an engine. Oh...Pop...

I clamped down on that and gasped as I fought for control of my own emotions. Fuggin Mort made it worse by plodding over and plopping his big jug head in my lap - but I got my shit together. The coffee was going cold so I poured a warm up. For a time I just stroked Mort's fur, lost in other times and memories. Then I came back to the world, and picked up the mobile. With clumsy fingers, I typed on my cell for the first time in years.

Hi Mom.

On my way. Be there in a couple weeks.


The response was almost immediate. Mom was a cell phone jockey even though she was an old bird. She and her nattering friends were all over the social media like Twatter and Fecesbook and gossiping about this and that. I might have had accounts on it years ago but they went dormant because if I wanted to talk to somebody, we went for coffees or a visit or met in person. Twitter was a time suck that just got people in trouble with The Hive. Tell the wrong joke, and the wrong person saw it... and you got burnt at the stake for it. People got fired from their jobs for sexually assaulting women with rude jokes or for having the wrong opinions in those days. I wondered - do they still do that?


Jeez, that woman was fast.

You could be here in a couple days.
Please - hurry.

Ugh. Still the same old domineering, maddening woman. All the women in my family were either degenerates, fascists or socialists. Mom was a socialist. Hers was not the stupidity born of genetics, it was a deliberate, cultured stupidity that one had to go out of their way to learn and maintain. It drove me nuts and she knew it and she did it anyway. It'd always been like that.

Mom...Leslie: it's going to take ME a couple weeks to get there. I will make all possible haste, but I will get there when I get there. If certain arrangements have to be made please proceed without me.


I noticed a new button on the phone as I sat there, sipping coffee and trying to come to terms with things. Be damned - it's a power button... you can turn these things off! Cool. I flipped the tiny switch, shut the machine off, and flipped it back into the plunder it came from.

"Mort, ya stinky old retard - have you got one more walk left in ya? Looks like we got a long one ahead of us... and maybe I'd better pack."

Saturday, 21 July 2018

A Saturday Smorgasboard Of Sinners And Saints

If you're an Olde World Man like me, two of your patron saints (aside from Darwin and Murphy) will be these two guys:

That's John Moses Browning.
Where previous attempts at full and semiauto 
guns were unreliable, elaborate contraptions of limited usefulness,
Browning's designs were robust, and elegantly

And this is Col. Jeff Cooper.
John Moses may have perfected the semiauto pistol, but
Jeff Cooper perfected the way it was used.
He was one of the few people out there that understood and taught
the difference between marksmanship and pistolcraft.

I've had a stew of conflicting ideas rolling around in my head this week because of two things I've seen. I find myself intellectually bloated and constipated because I can't reconcile them. Welp… no use trying to hold it all in, so let's get the ghastly out first:

This is a snapshot of what's going on south of the American border.
There's more here if you have the stomach for it.
Thanks for that, Pastor, you can just rock me to sleep tonight...

It's time for the kids and stupid people to shut it. You can't make an argument for open borders with stuff like this unless you are fine with it in your own country, or your own neighbourhood. Nor can we say all cultures are equal anymore. The internet brings this stuff to you when the pozzed mass media tries to hide it. This isn't just Mexico, this is the world. In most countries on earth, stuff like this happens on a regular basis. That is why Donald Trump calls them shit holes, and that is why guys like me laugh when sanctimonious vibrants and chitlibs have a bird and get offended. In those countries, stuff like this flies. It's going to here in North America too if we let it. At this point I would say it's almost guaranteed. Of course it goes without saying that for our nation to survive, the men that do this stuff need to be hunted down and killed to the last man. In fact, a few of those that helped and enabled them will have to be killed too. But whadda I know? I'm just a deplorable racist, bigot, homophobe and fascist. I should be feeling culturally enriched, right? People like Hillary Clinton are more than happy to do my speechin' and thinking for me.

It used to be that in tough times you could look at your heroes role models and say, "What would Uncle Bob or Victor Quartermain do?" What would Jeff Cooper do?

I saw this one over at Irish's place shortly after I saw that blurb on Mexican Butchery:

"Already a couple of the faithful have sent in checks for a foundation memorial to the innocents who perished at the hands of the ninja at Waco ... I have been criticized by referring to our federal masked men as 'ninja' ... Let us reflect upon the fact that a man who covers his face shows reason to be ashamed of what he is doing. A man who takes it upon himself to shed blood while concealing his identity is a revolting perversion of the warrior ethic. It has long been my conviction that a masked man with a gun is a target. I see no reason to change that view."

Col. Jeff Cooper

But Jeff and Uncle Bob and those guys aren't around anymore. Nor is the country they created; I look back at the 90's and wonder what planet I'm on now. Doing the right thing now is wrong, celebrating merit has been replaced by celebrating perversion, and doing right is seen as shameful. If you have principles and ethics now - you are a target. All of our ethics and morals are being revoltingly perverted beyond recognition. It's going to get worse. Our leaders that hate us have told us so.

What is an Olde World stubfart - never mind an honourable warrior - supposed to do in a cultural and intellectual climate like this, Jeff? We aren't in a fair fight; we're losing. What are we supposed to do now?

I can't make sense of what I've seen this week, all I know for sure is that sometimes you walk the dawg, sometimes the dawg walks you. 

I'm off to do my dogly duty - the rest a ya's have a great Saturday.

Friday, 20 July 2018

How Quartermain Ended The Boogie Van Fad

Vintage Retardation: A Children's Birthday Party In The Man Cave

That's Gonna Hurt

This is why you go with Appaloosas, folks. They're generally easy tempered and the vast majority can't buck worth a damn. Having said that - yes I did actually get launched like that once by mine - but only once. I know people with horses that will kill you if you give them a chance - and their owners still love them for some reason.

Thursday, 19 July 2018

From Quartermain's Comic Book Stash

If that were written today, the gal would be a chick with a dick
and the casino would be a bath house! HAR HAR HAR!

When I was a kid the comic industry basically re-invented itself and my age group was right on the leading edge of it. When you're a tyke, watching Superman beat the pooh out of colourful villains and bad guys and always winning was great stuff. And of course as you get older, you get more complex. Stan Lee was famous for his ability to read his audience and market - so the comic books grew up with us. Peter Parker started having girlfriend problems, Captain America discovered that his gubbimint was corrupt and its motives were suspect - and the plots matured a bit too. Today some of these things have themes and plots complex enough to engage adults - but the characters were still the hammy cartoon personalities of our youth.

Sometime in my 40's I grew up and left these touchstones of my childhood in the rear view mirror. Even with all the new twists and plots and big budget movies - it was all the same stuff I read as a candy gobbling snot nosed kid. In fact now it's worse, because I hear that the comic book industry is now run by the LGBGTQFUCKMYANUS crowd. Now Superman is a butt blaster, SpiderMan is black, Thor is a tranny and the rest of 'em are all social justice warriors. Nostalgia driven customers have thrown them overboard in disgust and the kids aren't buying this shite either.

Oh well, here in the real world these things were always a useless waste of time, so their demise might be a good thing all the way around.

Bet The Oxygen Masks Are Always Deployed On That One

Looks like they made use of the emergency exits too.


Our sales girl at work has a ring through her nose, tats on her neck and thinks she is just the best thing since sliced bread. She has a hard on for old white men, conservatives and fascists (same thing in her eyes, of course) - and she makes sure everyone knows she isn't afraid of them.

And since most of the people that are our customers are stupid, dumb old white men, it drives her nuts when more and more of them prefer to deal with me. There was a time when such stupidity would have offended me but now I don't give a hoot. I watch the kids with sad, wry amusement. They will have to learn from their lumps the same way I did.

Wednesday, 18 July 2018


It was so damned hot last night I couldn't sleep.
Now I gotta go to work and I am already tired.
She's gonna be a looooooooong day.

A Particularly Naughty Knot

I have heard it said that you can judge a man by the way he handles a rope. For some reason I am thinking this might be Wirecutter's work.

Random Grumpings Of A Sinful Father

TB is feeling that ripple in the force too. The problem is that our gubbermint and institutions are infested with traitors, their toadies and lickspittles that would have been executed for such conduct half a century ago. The people doing this stuff hate us and seriously want to harm us. There is no civility to be had. One of the many things my liberal mother got wrong was that it does not take "two to tango". It takes two people committing to be honest, peaceful and civilized to get along, and only one of the parties to start a war. One thing I have noticed about the people on the other side of this culture war is that they never take any responsibility for it. They run their mouths, they play head games, they lie and cheat - and when their families and communities fall apart it's never their fault.

And there's no bones about that anymore either. The women are the worst. They tell themselves they can do everything men do just by booting them out of their jobs and taking over - and when they fail they blame patriarchy and accuse everyone of sexism. 25% of all north American women are on anti-depressants largely because the world doesn't work the way they think it should and they are cracking under the strain of staying in that narrative they built for themselves. The fallout has turned our men feral too - there are guys out there saying (seriously) that women need to be beaten regularly to be kept in line, or they go nuts and get up to all kinds of mischief.

I think those boys handled these feral feminists exactly the way they should have too. Americans take their rights, freedoms and liberties seriously but there are duties and responsibilities that go along with that too, and a lot of these liberal uber-feminists, homosexuals and self-proclaimed intellectuals  don't understand that. The Olympics is a sporting event for family entertainment. It's not a political forum for clowns trying to mix their politics with a publicity stunt. I'm sorry (wait a minute, no, I'm not) but I smiled as those bints were kicked and slapped out of area. Contrast that with America where millions of women put on pink pussy hats to protest... what, exactly? Where Hillary Clinton thinks all women who claim to be raped never lie and should all be believed? Where half the nation seriously believes the other half are a deplorable basket of racists, sexists, homophobes and fascists?

The fathers these days are taking a chit kicking too. I was on the leading edge of that and one of the first fathers run out of his family because I thought my daughter should grow up, act like an adult, get a job and start a family. That made me a fascist-literally-worse-than-Hitler, a homophobe, a sexist, and because I have the wrong ideas about race realism - throw in the racist label as well. I dunno if I would beat the liberal women in my family even if it were legal - but I sure as hell won't be letting them tell me what to do or think.

Having been put through the wringer by modern women, now I am supposed to go through it again at the hands of all the future generations I supposedly failed. Great. Another guilt trip shit show. Sorry folks. Been there, done that, got the tee shirt. I ain't doing it again.

Yannow what? Screw you, kids. I don't care what you do.
I didn't want to see the world turn out like this either - but the people
that did it don't listen to guys like me. Fact is they sounded
more like you.

I pooped in the comments over at Aaron's blog. In my grumpiest old man voice I told that little chit that if it hadn't been for me and men like me, he'd a been raised by liberals - and probably be down at the salon getting his nails painted and worrying about what the other bitchy faggots down at the gay bath house would think about his new dress! HAR HAR HAR!

This is why I like Harold Flashman. He doesn't get bent outta shape over stuff like this; he just quietly preps and stocks up on beer, ammo and popcorn. I think somebody said he'd found a great deal on M14 mags so I might go check that out.

As for you unhappy, disaffected kids - the world belongs to you now. You know everything, you have all the answers - so how about YOU go fix it? Show this stupid ol' stubfart how it's done.

There was some old nickel floating round about
fools and history... but I can't seem to put my finger on it.
Ya know what they say: the mind is always the SECOND thing to
go! HAR HAR HAR!!!!!
Did anyone see where my Viagra went?

Tuesday, 17 July 2018

Some Muddled Thoughts About 'Walking Away'

The internet is all a-flutter about how liberals are "walking away" from their more progressive peers to stand against them. There's a small mutiny going on over there; and shitlibs everywhere are in a flather because it has the makings of a large scale revolution. The nut roots of their movement has run away with it and the cool kids are not looking so cool anymore. There was even an OyTube where some self important kid prattles on about how the left has become the enemy of civil rights and decency by embracing racism degeneracy, how they've become sexists, fascists and heterophobes. As a conservative, I am supposed to by overjoyed that guys like university profs like Jordon Peterson are finally waking up?

My question is - why did it take so long? This has been going on for 15 years now and right in public. Many of these Walkers actively took part in the social justice warrior witch hunts like the one where a couple hapless computer geeks "sexually harassed" some menstruating cunned stunt when she overheard them tell a lame joke about 'dongles'. Others went quiet as church mice as prominent liberals like Harvey Weinstein and Bill Clinton raped and whored their way through the halls of power. Even the liberal sluts they plowed went along with it too. The mental illness and criminality of the left has been going on for a long, long time.

Yannow what I think it is with these Walkers? I think it's the fact that the loons over on the left are now finally turning on each other. #MeToo is basically about spurned aged Hollywood sluts avenging themselves on the degenerate elite that currently runs Hollywood. Here in Canada our idiot whoreson of a liberal prime minister - now a prime minister himself and a proud self-proclaimed feminist - is being put through the wringer for groping one of his brainless groupies.

Of COURSE you're a feminist, Turdo!
You even have the pink socks to prove it, you
rascal, you...

I can forgive the younger ones a bit. But hell's bells - even young adults should have had more brains than this. You Walkers knew where this was going a long, long time ago... and you went along anyway. What is it that changed your mind? Did YOU get passed over for a good job because you were white and male? Maybe it was your father, brother or son? Have hordes of vibrant ethnic trash swarmed into your neighbourhood and turned it into multiculti sewer riddled with crime and race tension? And now you want to slink away and deny your part in it? Not so fast, pal. People are defined by their actions as well as their words, and you Walkers had a lot to answer for. Are you reforming yourselves, or are you rats abandoning a sinking ship?

I think anyone can make a mistake. I think for most things a person can wake up and repent or at least acknowledge his errors, and be forgiven IF they are serious about straightening out … and I don't think many of these Walkers are there. They wrap themselves up in airs of nobility as they denounce their peers on the left, knowing full well they collaborated with them for years.

For now I think I'll hang separately thanks.

Monday, 16 July 2018

Coopville Bender

I was out camping all weekend and figgered I could trust everyone to behave while I was gone. But noooooo - the second I turned my back - the delinquents in Coopville got into the bottles, they all got pished as rats - and now I am hearing about all this and shaking my head in dismay. Some kids ya just can't trust.

How ya feeling today King Charles? Skin on backwards?

Sometimes the slower kids have to learn at their own pace. I think it'll be awhile before the gang gets into the sauce again.

North Of Sixty

Awwwwww. Isn't he cute???

The internet is so damn stupid sometimes, it hurts. I remember about a year ago one went viral where it was a pic of a polar bear and a husky dog snuggled up like the best of buds and everyone cooed with delight and adoration.

Of course the rest of the story never got any traction at all: the next day the polar bear killed and ate the dog, and a couple days later the natives killed the bear. Bears that frequent the settlements snacking on dogs eventually try to snack on people.

I don't understand how these critters bring out the stupid in people. Years ago the bloody Brits were doing one of their crockumentaries with some teen aged girl going into the Frozen North - and they tried to explain to the bimbo that these critters were dangerous - and she wouldn't believe a word of it. She said something like "I would probably be more likely to give on a big hug than run away...". Fags like Fat Al Gore and David Suzuki raked in millions from the envirotards when they said all the polar bears were drowning now that the ice caps were melting. And of course, they lied about that too - there's more polar bears now than ever before.

I've never bothered hunting bears of any variety myself. When we were kids my wife worked part time in a taxidermy shop sewing the rugs the customers brought in, and I swear one of the polar bears she worked on was even bigger than that brute in the pic. In rug form, he covered two very large tables.

I like bears too, but any bear that gets that close to me dies and that all there is to it.

Filthie Experiments In Animal Husbandry

Not photoshopped!


I hate you guys. Oh sure - when this young bubble-gumming hottie
does it - you all stifle yourselves and politely pretend not to notice!
But when poor Old Man Filthie does something like that, 
it is the stuff of high comedy and hilarity! Then the jeers and rude jokes start. Assholes!
Like Rodney Dangerfield... I simply get no respect...

Cabin Porn

Morbid Monday

I call dibs on this epitaph!

We went camping this weekend at the rifle range. The raspberries are coming out, as are the hornets. Shooting was the usual mixed bag - with the black powder cartridge rifle I started out smelly and then finished up the session shooting like a champ. With the cap and ball percussion pistol, I shot like a champ to start and then went to hell from there. The wife and dawgs saw three big, fat garter snakes which are something of a rarity around here.

The goofs at the rod n' gun club built the fire pit rings too hight (it's all about safety, dontcha know!!!) so I brought some huge logs to lay down in the bottom of the pit, and built the campfire on top so that we could at least see the flames over the top of the pit culvert. Both were about 18" in diameter and two together barely fit in the pit. Anyhoo, I sparked 'em up and the fire ran for a couple hours and burned down. I drank three beers, and then threw the spark arrestor mesh over the pit and went to bed. I came back out at around 3 to go pee and the logs were both just softly glowing and I nodded in satisfaction - I'd be able to spark it up again in the morning from the coals. When we got up in the morning though - the logs were long gone and only a fine film of ash was left in the bottom of the pit. We said screw it and went back to bed. When it started getting too hot in the camper I went outside, fired up the genny and turned on the air conditioning - and had a snooze again!

Of course when I got home my grass was 3 feet tall, and all the chores I skipped to go bum around on the weekend were waiting for me. I am going to be busy after work all week trying to catch up. It's hard to come back to work after a weekend like that.

I might just go again next weekend. Have a great Monday, y'all.

Saturday, 14 July 2018

King Peter's Ammo Dump

I cobbled it together out of scraps I had lying around. I started it last winter and just couldn't get round to finishing it like I should have. It's all hand stitched by a local hare lipped retard artist and there's no question it will work as advertised... but at least now I have a template to work from to make a better one.

From Uncle Bob's Porn Stash: Feminem Fatalie

Ever the scholar and teacher - even when he dabbled in porn, Uncle Bob did so with an educational intent. It's the same way many men read Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler - purely for the articles that expand the intellect.

History is replete with good men ruined by low and fallen women. How many otherwise good and  virtuous men were seduced by sneaky, sultry socialist seductresses? We will never know.

What we DO know is that there IS a God, and those that conspire against the forces of niceness and righteousness will eventually reap the whirlwind. Time is cruel; beauty is superficial and fleeting, and eventually ... that what lies underneath is eventually exposed. Ask yourself - what hell have these men consigned their souls to - after they married their communists?

The fate of her pathetic husband: to be forever mocked here and in
the underworld as
Wilhelm Von Blowjob

Who is the wife and who is the man
in such sordid relationships?
This commie and it's life partner will never know...

Justice is colour blind; it will not be thwarted
by political correctness.
Death and oblivion would be a mercy
to the man that married this communist.

And so it goes. I can go on, posting pictures of revolting communists, each more hideous and ghastly than the last!

Michell Obama

Stretch Pelosi

Deb Wasserman Whatserface…

I post this mostly in jest, but partly in all seriousness too. When you younger men are lost in the beauty of that smoking hot 20 year old bombshell that looks like she was put together by angels but has the politics of the devil - welp, this is what she's going to look like sooner rather than later. Let's play it backwards. Here are what some of the current crop of communist shrews looked like in their youth:

That's Chrissie Hyndes of the Pretenders

Madonna. I've heard she's done things with
her vagina that involve Volkswagens.
She has the looks to show for it today.

Jane Fonda I admit she's aged rather well
compared to the rest of this lot...
but she's crazier than a shithouse rat.

Errr… where was I going with this rant, anyway? Sometimes I dunno whether to take myself seriously or not! Whatever! I hope this serves as a stark reminder to our younger men: think with the big head, be clean and virtuous (like me) - and have a good Saturday!  :)

Friday, 13 July 2018

Got Written Up At Work Today

All I did was my job. My customer was having a day, he couldn't get his poop in a group for love or money, so I called him up to help. He was so messed up I did a massive reset: I had him send over his requirments, then a list of what he wanted for them, and then created a list of what he needed and explained why he needed it. Afterward, we swapped a few rude jokes and I was on to my next task without thinking twice about it.

Another email popped up a short time later with a nice little order with it, in which the client thanked me for all the help with the previous order - and here was another by way of thanks. He copied my managers on it too, and they sent along their compliments as well.

Yannow I think it must be close to 7 years since I've been recognized like that at work.

7 years. And I didn't even do that much.

For the last year and a half I spent most of my time daring the management to fire me and when they didn't - I fired them, HAR HAR HAR!!! In all that negativity and adversarial maneuvering, in giving it my best shot and getting shat on for my efforts - I just plumb forgot what it was like to be treated like a white man.

It's a little thing, but it made my day. Old farts can be mighty easy to please sometimes.

Hope y'all have a great weekend lined up.

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