Time to Pay the Piper


With the inauguration of Donald Trump, an awful lot of celebrities should be leaving the country soon, if their previous pronouncements are any more believable than campaign promises. With any luck, Hollywood will soon be a veritable ghost town, leaving a void where the all-to-rare original thought for a movie plot can take hold and flourish.

I get it. Peter Parker was bitten by a radioactive spider to become Spider Man. I didn’t forget from the last movie.

Just for giggles, I collected a list of the scum and villains who promised to vacate the wretched hive that is the United States in the event of a Donald Trump presidential victory. Some I recognized. Some I had to take the word of my good friend Google that they were part of the Cool Kid Club.
A couple of them threatened to leave the planet entirely. It’s a prospect that’s quite appealing until the realization sets in that they would want the project to be funded by taxpayers. Considering the proclamation of University of California freshman Seth Greenberg to cut off his penis should Donald Trump build a wall along the Mexican border, threats to leave the country just don’t have the same pizazz.

This youngster definitely upped the ante in the Things I Want to See Happen category, but looking at his photo, I suspect he doesn’t have much call for its use, so it wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice.

Considering these trend setters garnered a collective shoulder shrug from the villagers for crying wolf one too many times, I wouldn’t blame any of my readers for missing the news. Each of them probably has far better uses for time than to research stupid things said by spoiled brats in a snit.
I had to do a fair bit of searching to collect the evidence. As a matter of fact, when I went to double check myself a few days ago, virtually all of the brave would-be emigrants had recanted.
Some brushed off the statements as a joke that very few people were smart enough to understand. Others claimed hyperbole. Most claimed some sort of burning bush moment of realization that they were needed to effect change in America, rather than flee the Trump Reich.

More likely, reality set it. I only wish we had as strong an immigration policy as Canada or Australia or pretty much any other country in the world.

It seems that when push comes to shove, these same brave pioneering souls, who largely wanted to ditch America for another First World country, or possibly settle on Uranus, found their destinations didn’t want them, either.

Lena Dunham

Probably best known for sexually molesting her sister, false college rape allegations, and insisting everyone find her sexually desirable, the poor child would be better served with membership in a platonic cuddle club to make up for her lack of parental affection as a child.

Reverend Al Sharpton

Tax-evading, race baiting, FBI informant Al Sharpton took about a day to realize he had been caught in another lie and whip out the “just kidding, y’all” card. I think I speak for a sizable chunk of America when I say, “We wish you hadn’t been.”

Raven Symone

We loved her in The Cosby Show. Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper wasn’t too terrible for a 1990’s sitcom. For reasons that elude me, That’s So Raven was popular, but it was downhill from there. If I had to pick between success under Disney and remaining a poor dirt farmer for the rest of my life, I’d pass on working for the Big Mouse. I swear, there is a curse on Disney talent.

Jon Stewart

Despite what Millennials believe, John Stewart began his career as a comedian, so his comment to leave the planet has a reasonable likelihood of having been a joke. Kidding or not, I’d like to see him lead the mission to Pluto. He can even decide whether it’s a planet or not.

Amy Schumer

She should be denied entry to Canada for the Pirelli calendar alone, but there’s so much more to make Amy Schumer an undesirable immigrant. If joke stealing is considered actual theft, our neighbors to the north probably won’t let her past the Customs desk.

She’s further proof that women, on average, just aren’t funny.

 

There are a whole bunch more, but it will just get boring from here on. I think I’ve made my point.
img_20161230_123607555Besides, I have to go feed Amy and Lena.

 

 

 

 

 

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapters.

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Send in the Clowns


clowns1This week’s clown sighting in the woods behind my children’s grammar school caused a panic induced, district-wide lock-down and a roaming mob of concerned, armed parents, supported by local law enforcement authorities, to scour the county searching for a man in clown makeup.

Reports from witnesses told of the clown doing everything from peeking out from behind a tree, to offering children fee candy from a nondescript, windowless van, to ritually sacrificing a puppy.

Coulrophobia is the fear of clowns.

The only leg-pull in the above description is the exact location. As far as I know, there have been no clown sightings in my end of the Tennessee Valley, but with the scary clown hysteria sweeping the country, I expect to be recruited into an insane clown posse any day.

Hopefully, I won’t go insane in the membrane.

I’ve long held the opinion that eyewitness accounts are the least reliable form of evidence. This is especially true when the witness is also the victim. Pain, adrenaline, shock, and emotional stress screw up perception and the mind’s ability to accurately recall the most basic of details.

Disregard the mountains of research that clearly demonstrate everybody sucks at accurate detail recollection in stressful situations. Ask your favorite cop how often a witness’s description of anything is accurate.

It’s not that they’re lying. They’re just plain wrong.

We labor under a cultural assumption that children are accurate relaters of information and possess astute observational powers. It’s as if we believe children are born with clairvoyance that diminishes as they approach majority.

That’s hogwash. Children are sneaky, devious liars who relish opportunities to embarrass adults by innocently blurting out gems such as, “My baby brother was an accident” or “Mommy and Daddy are buying me a pony for Christmas. They’re hiding all the leather tack gear in the closet.”

You’ll get a pony the day I get peace in this house.

Children are not allowed to make important decisions in their lives precisely because they lack experience, the ability to accurately discern, and a wider contextual understating of the world. In short, they’re ignorant of most things, and to take what they say at face value, without rigorous scrutiny, corroborating testimony, and physical evidence, is parental foolishness.

Now, that I think about it, we should probably disregard the vast majority of what children say because it’s mostly whining. Entertaining their petty grievances and indulging their fantasies only encourages them in their neuroses. Try telling my grandfather there was a clown lurking in the woods. You’d be lucky to only be laughed at. More likely, the response would be, “Then don’t go near it, stupid.”

clowns4Harsh? Perhaps, but still sublime. Somewhere along the line, we decided the only letter’s that should not be appended to a gentleman’s name on his calling card are M, A, and N.

Post-secondary education produces exactly the opposite of what it claims. Today, college only makes people dumber. The same founts of idiocy that have given society safe spaces and trigger warnings, also turn out educators, administrators, and civic officials who will shut down an entire school district on a child’s say so.

Doesn’t anybody besides me remember the McMartin preschool case and how many lives were ruined by false testimony from children?

How many IQ points are sacrificed with each tuition check written?

The creepy clown craze has grown from a few isolated instances of idiots to a full-blown hysteria. Schools are prohibiting clown masks during Halloween. Various local police are arresting people in clown costumes for disturbing the peace, inciting public disorder, or whatever catch-all law their jurisdiction uses to deal with low-grade troublemakers.

Most of the arrests are of teenagers getting their kicks scaring younger kids. It’s deplorable behavior, but pretty much what I’d expect from a teenage boy. Whom I really feel for are the honest-to-goodness, no-kidding, professional clowns, who spend years perfecting their craft, only to see their bookings evaporate. That’s the real crime, destroying someone’s livelihood.

If your age ends in “teen,” it’s an open question as to whether you should be counted as a human being or not.

According to spokesfool Josh Earnest, the White House has consulted with the FBI and Department of Homeland Security about how to handle creepy clowns.

Holy crap. Dig up J. Edgar Hoover because this just became a federal case right up there in magnitude with bank robbery, human traffickers, underage prostitution, child pornography rings, and ISIS trying to cut our heads off.

Since when are assholes in greasepaint such a big problem?

clowns2A quick look around the internet reveals the growing counter-hysteria of videos depicting what can be classified as just deserts for clowns behaving badly. These videos show what I would imagine is a non-professional clown who approaches someone going about his day and behaving in one of those disorderly manners that would earn them arrest by a policeman. Basically, being a jackass.

The person or persons approached, either out of what seems genuine fear or simply not being in a mood to be screwed with, knocks the tar out of the clown.

And I can’t say as I blame them. Most people have no desire to be drawn into someone else’s silliness. If you’re stupid enough to go around antagonizing strangers, don’t be surprised when they express their displeasure strongly.

If you’re gonna be dumb, it helps to be tough.

Here is my wild-assed theory: This whole creepy clown hysteria is a viral marketing campaign spun out of control.

My first thought was the campaign was connected to Stephen King’s IT movie adaptation. I thoroughly enjoyed the book and television mini-series. However, with a release date of September 2017, the timing seems off. Hysterical clown sightings for nearly a year seems to be too long to ask to hold the public’s attention.

Besides, both Stephen King and the film’s distributor, New Line Cinema, are established names with enough budget for a traditional marketing campaign and stand to lose far more than they gain when it foreseeably spins out of control the way it has.

clowns6Just like Youtube, Coca-Cola, and Apple, Stephen Kind and New Line Cinema are such dominant players in their fields with such broad general appeal that avoiding alienation of a segment of society is more important that thrilling and impressing a tiny target demographic; i.e., horror movie fans.

Rob Zombie, on the other hand, is a better candidate for wild accusations. His latest movie, 31, is clown-centric and was released September 16th of this year.

Hummmmmm. Law enforcement types call these things “clues.”

clowns5A well-known, but far from household name, movie maker releases a horror movie set in a circus, chock-full-o’-clowns, right at the same time dumbasses in clown costumes begin making benign appearances standing near trees and skittish, overprotective parents hit the panic button, setting off a national frenzy that makes it to the White House and much of the English-speaking world.

Well played, Rob Zombie. Well played.

Starting November first, bearded men in buckskins and Indians wearing loincloths will begin making public appearances to promote my book, L’homme Theroux and generate pre-release interest in Little Crow’s War, the next installment in the Coureur des Bois series.

What the hell. It worked for that other guy.

 

 

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapters.

Chicken Stampedes


IMG_0418Farms are like prisons; they both thrive on routine. Try being late for morning chores to see just how disruptive your barnyard inmates become. With luck, the worst you’ll suffer is obnoxious, sideways looks from the ingrates. If you have teenagers at home, this should be nothing new.

My friends who keep larger animals tell of property damage from 800 pounds of hooved livestock pushing down corrals or kicking apart stalls when breakfast was late. So, I guess I’m doing pretty well that I don’t, as yet, have any animals I can’t wrestle to the ground.

“I don’t care if you have the flu. I deserve to be fed right now.” #ChickenLivesMatter.

In the animals’ defense, I’m sure they all huddled together and passed hushed whispers among themselves, wondering if their human finally had a fatal heart attack.

Something tells me that has never happened. The animals expressing concern for their caretakers, I mean. An overweight, middle-aged farmer who drinks too much and eats bacon with every meal dropping dead from a coronary embolism probably occurs with some regularity. It just hasn’t been me…yet.

In a just world, I will be shot dead by the jealous husbands of the Norwegian women’s beach volleyball team, but more likely, I’ll meet my maker wearing a confused expression because I didn’t know that “flammable” and “inflammable” mean the same thing.

Mrs. Cunha prohibits me from any activity that includes the words, “Y’all watch this.”

IMG_0434Until then, I’ll have to suffer the twice daily chicken stampede. Once in the morning, when I throw out scratch grain before opening the coop door, and again in the evening, when they decide to play General Custer’s Last Stand on seeing me carry out their feed bucket.

Pushing through the mob of hens isn’t so much trouble as it is annoying. It can also be dangerous. I’m relatively light on my feet for someone my size, but at six-foot-four and two hundred none-of-your-damn-business pounds, a slip, trip, stumble, or fall can have absolutely devastating consequences on a chicken because they are not terribly sturdy creatures. Ask me how I know the ease with which a chicken can meet an accidental, premature demise.

That particular situation was slightly different because it was my fault for wear flip-flops into the chicken pen, but by the same token, the owl that killed one of my hens last April has made no effort to compensate me. Like the men before me who suffered setbacks, I simply had to absorb the loss and carry on.

My daughter felt just as entitled to a replacement chicken as the animals feel entitled to be fed, teenagers to a new cellphone, or prisoners do to yard time. When it comes to entitlement, only the circumstances change. The cries of “Gimme, Gimme, Gimme,” are always the same.

Sometimes, it’s not about the expense, but rather the accomplishment.

IMG_0471Little in life exceeds the pride a father feels when finally winning a prize at one of those claw and crane games found in fast-casual type family restaurants, arcades, and carnival midways all over the world. Oddly enough, I’ve never seen one of these machines in a place with a dress code, and since my average reader is more likely to wear Carhartt than Channel, I’ll assume everyone knows exactly the device I’m talking about.

It might take thirty-seven dollars to win a teddy bear the game’s owner bought on clearance from Walmart for $2.99 the day after Valentine’s Day, but dammit, that’s a win in my book.

In an example of both Big Brother looking out for what it thinks are your best interests and parents all too willing to relinquish the raising of their children to the state, New Jersey state Senator Nicholas Scutari has introduced legislation to further regulate claw and crane games.

The honorable Senator Scutari, whom to no one’s surprise is a Democrat, wants to regulate claw and crane games, so they produce a higher frequency of wins for the player. God forbid adults be allowed to chose how to assess their own risks and spend their own money, according to this government lover.

In New Jersey, as in most other jurisdictions, these tempting wallet vacuums are regulated as games of chance, as opposed to games of skill. Both are gambling, when you think about it, so the distinction between the two is really only important to legislators and owners of the machines.

The bigger question is whether you want your kids to participate in gambling. If you’d be OK with Junior sitting in on your poker game, go ahead and try to snatch that knock-off iPod from the top shelf. That’s a decision you should be left to make as a parent.

I have no room to throw stones. My kids learned at a young age how to mix a proper Old Fashioned and that Daddy likes his Scotch four-by-four; four fresh ice cubes and a four-finger pour. My fingers are the guide, not theirs.

I was shocked how fast the kids learned when they figured out I was tipping for each round. There have been arguments over whose turn it was to serve.

0602161917aOne of the hopes I have for my children is they learn life lessons on the farm that can be carried into adulthood. Slapping an angry rooster silly when he comes at you with his spurs forward is an instructive moment for a ten-year-old girl in how to stand up for yourself and deal with bullies.

The rooster wasn’t too thrilled by the experience, but the lesson must not have stuck. A few weeks later, we had to make an example of him in front of the flock. The rest of the chickens have been on perfect behavior since.

20150531_111648_resizedThat’s why I like to keep an understudy rooster around. You never know when you’ll have to remind those dumb clucks of Rule #1: Behave or be eaten.

All the humans on the farm, even if outmatched physically, have access to tools and technology that allow us to prevail when an animal occasionally decides to challenge our authority over them. It’s by no means a fair fight, and it’s not supposed to be.

The lesson I want my children to take away from that reality is not might makes right or even the biblical mandate that humans have dominion over animals. What I want them to understand is that life isn’t always fair. I’m sure Clint the Rooster thought it mighty unfair that he was sent to Freezer Camp for doing what he saw as right by the hens.

Sometimes, you’re just not going to win. Frequently, the odds are stacked against you, and success is a matter of luck and perseverance. Knowing and recognizing those situations is part of being an adult. It also makes the infrequent wins all the sweeter, both for the game player and recipient of the prize.

Win a stuffed animal for your girlfriend at the carnival ring-toss and you’ll be her king for the rest of the day.

I have no idea that “fair” looks like when it comes to a claw and crane game. What I do know is that if nobody ever wins, people will stop playing. The trick, I would imagine, is to make play just challenging enough to keep people playing, but allow enough wins to satisfy the pleasure centers of the brain.

It’s like throwing out scratch grain for the chickens or packing a bone with peanut butter for the dog. Make the work put into the effort just enough to justify the reward without inducing abandonment of the activity.

Wherever that sweet spot lay isn’t the government’s business to determine, but in the continual campaign to placate the Whine Glass Generation, politicians seeking to curry favor with dependent constituencies and retain their power through reelection, want to make everybody feel like a winner.

IMG_0380When everybody gets a ribbon, and each grab at the teddy bear produces a gleeful, squealing child, an expectation of success is inculcated. It breeds a sense of entitlement and reduces risk taking to a monetary exchange. Ultimately, it creates risk aversion and kills the economic libido of children who are no longer learning life lessons about risk and reward.

The livestock on my farm neither understand nor possess the capacity to understand the relationship between risk and reward. All they know is they want what they want and they want it right now.

That explains chicken stampedes.

Do what you like with your brats, but mine will earn their eventual release from the Cunha Juvenile Correctional Facility with an understanding of how the world works that is better than that of livestock.

Assuming they aren’t trampled to death by a flock of hungry chickens first.

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapters.

The Whine Glass Generation


HW-4020-0952My youngest son, like most of his generation, has figured out the secret to outlandish fame and fabulous fortune. According to him, it’s all a matter of “going to Hollywood and making it big.” I went to Hollywood once. Admittedly, my visit was only as a day-tripping tourist to Universal Studios, so I must have missed the roving packs of talent agents who patrol the street corners and malt shops (do those things even exist, anymore?) in central Los Angeles for the next Lana Turner.

Possessing neither marketable skills nor good looks, I clearly don’t understand how this works.

“Exactly what is it that is going to make you famous?” I said, marking a 2×4 for the next cut.

“Acting,” he said, shooting me an incredulous look I saw in my peripheral vision. “Maybe with some singing and dancing mixed in.”

“You’re a real triple-threat, Gregory Hines,” I said, depressing the trigger of the circular saw and filling the room with its scream.

“Who’s Gregory Hines?” he said, after the din had dissipated.

“Never mind,” I said, shaking my head. “Well, show me what you’ve got.”

“What?”

“Sing me a song.”

“Right now?”

“Yes,” I said. I laid down the saw and cut board. “Or dance, if you prefer. You pick the song. Go.”

Anyone familiar with the entitlement of youth, millennials in particular, knows full well how this exchange ends. You’ve probably lived it.

Mind you, I’ve never seen the boy engage in any of the pursuits he aims to make a living with. Come to think of it, if his phone isn’t involved, it’s a rare day I see him engage in any activity without direction. You would think the siren call of performance arts would move the lad to engage in them occasionally without prompting. Despite all these seeming detractions from the likelihood of success, the boy continues to be obsessed with the achievement of fame.

I guess he’s just so naturally talented that he doesn’t have to work at it…Just like the rest of his generation is continually told.

Showing me a seven-foot-tall Chinaman does not mean all Chinamen are seven-foot-tall.

Of necessity, I paint in the broad brushstrokes of averages. I know a few teenagers who are squared away, responsible, and hardworking. I’d gladly trade mine for one of those, but the few parents who have such adolescent unicorns are loath to trade them.

entitled-kid-494x328So, please don’t point to your brat as a counter to why I’m wrong. You’re probably lying or severely overestimating your precious little snowflake. On the off chance your kid is as perfect as you think, congratulations. You won the genetic equivalent of a scratch-off ticket.

Now, go be content with your life, while I bitch about my kids. Or stay and enjoy the schadenfreude. Whichever makes you happy.

“As long as your happy” is the biggest load of horseshit ever put out by parents.

I hear those words come out of the mouths of people severely disappointed by the choices their children make. That’s part of the reason kids are so fouled up. We parents did it to them in trying not to crush their delicate egos.

Here are some examples with along with what parents hear:

Child says: “I changed my major to Lesbian Dance Theory.” – Parents hear: “You’re going to be supporting me for the rest of your life.”

Child says: “We’re in love.” – Parents hear: “She’ll be a single mother on welfare in two years.”

Child says: “I don’t need to learn a trade. I’ve got talent.” – Parents hear: “I’m going to learn a trade after life kicks me in the nuts for a decade or so.”

Child says: “I’ve decided to come out.” – Parents hear: “You’ll be lucky if your adopted grandchildren even remotely resemble you.”

Child says: “I’m a feminist.” – Parents hear: “I hate my father.”

Of course, my favorite response to that last declaration is “That’s so cute. What do want to be when you grow up, sweetie pie?” It’s bait they can’t resist because feminists, whether female or male, lack even the pretense of a sense of humor.

My sense of humor might be as dark as a Milo Yiannopoulos paramour, but it exists and is anything besides fragile.

Somewhere along the line, society lost the ability to take a joke. I blame it largely on a generation of children taught in public schools staffed almost entirely by women and effeminate men. These delicate flowers entrusted with impressionable minds simply do not appreciate the comedic gold in a loud, wet fart or kicking your buddy in the nuts.

I remember hanging out with my middle school teachers behind the wood-shop building between classes showing them my newest pocket knife while they pounded down a cigarette, sipped from whiskey flasks, and told me dirty jokes. These are also the same men who would backhand a student about once a year for mouthing off too much or steeping toward them aggressively.

Eighth grade was my turn to learn the fine line that separates a vigorous debate between gentlemen, where differences are resolved, and just being a loud-mouth punk. When I told my dad what happened, he gave me a backhand in the opposite direction for being a whiny little bitch about it.

I wish John Lott would write a companion piece to More Guns, Less Crime researching the tendency I see in schools of “More Paddles, Less Problems.”

One of the rites of passage into manhood is the proverbial “mouth writing a check the body can’t cash.” That first good, hard punch in the face a young man receives, usually from an unrelated, older man, delivers more lessons in manners than an Emily Post etiquette book.

Millennials have missed out on such character forming experiences, by and large. Instead of a quick and corrective slap for giving mom a dirty look, they were asked what’s wrong. Their playgrounds, the true navel of education at any school, were made so child-safe and patrolled so heavily for any hint of exuberance that children no longer cherish recess. That is, if they get it at all.

A skinned knee is now worthy of being picked up by a parent instead of rubbing some dirt on it and getting back to class with torn britches. A schoolyard scuffle between equally matched opponents is cause for expulsion and arrest of both participants. And woe to any high school student who goes rabbit hunting before school and is found to have tossed his rifle behind the seat of his car.

When did calling your best friend “faggot” cease to be a term of endearment?

broken-glassLiberals, with zero-tolerance policies for everything that used to be called “hijinks,” have created the Whine Glass Generation; pretty to look at, of marginal practical use, and exceedingly fragile.

Words give these Social Justice Warrior pussies the vapors. I predict that in the near future fainting couches will make a comeback. No college safe space will be complete without one and the de rigueur slipcovers crocheted by fellow special snowflakes calming themselves after being confronted by an idea with which they disagree.

Hand in hand with the expectation of never confronting a divergent idea or a difficult situation is the presumption of entitlement. Perhaps it’s our fault as parents. After living through the privations of the Great Depression and the horrors of World War Two, the Greatest Generation spoiled the mettle out of the Baby Boomers, and the trend has been downhill in successive generations.

01TriggerwarningAs teenagers, my brother Jake and I mowed lawns, hauled trash, and dug out tree stumps to earn money to buy a tiny, second-hand, black-and-white television to place in the room we shared and watch the half dozen channels available. My children are on the verge of calling Child Protective Services because I have only provided a hundred-odd channels, internet, and several video game consoles (they are all “Nintendo” to me) in the family room on a television bigger than any wall of my first apartment.

This has to be the result of continually being told how wonderful they are. They really are like lead crystal stemware; only taken out of the china cabinet for special occasions. Used sparingly. Handled gingerly. Washed by hand. Never seeing the inside of a dishwasher.

And subject to shattering from sound alone.

Life far more resembles a dishwasher than it does a china cabinet. Unable to change the fundamental nature of the world around them, Liberals have taken over education to change the nature of the world’s inhabitants. It’s the most brilliant long-con ever devised.

My grandparents’ generation did nothing less than save the world and then set about rebuilding it. That inheritance has largely been squandered, and were we are on the downhill slide.

How many more generations before we are all Hummel miniatures in someone else’s display case?

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you content, behind the scenes access, and goodies not available on the main site.

Common Sense Gun Control


1Gun1Congress is currently considering the Sexual Violence Toward Women Prevention Act of 2016, which will add possession of a Y-chromosome to the category of Prohibited Firearms Possessors. Gun Control organizations, including the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence, Moms Demand Action, and the various Bloomberg organizations, have endorsed the bill and are leading a grassroots effort to fast-track the legislation.

The bill was introduced in response to the rising levels of gun violence in recent years, combined with the inability of magazine clip capacity limits, implementation of gun-free zones, and prohibition of automatic assault weapon machine guns, to stem the tide of children’s corpses piling up faster than crunchy tube socks at an all-boys summer camp.

1gun2Citing a consensus of research scientists, the gun control organizations rightly point out that the vast majority of the prison population possesses a Y-chromosome, as do ninety percent of workers who experience workplace fatalities. Clearly, they argue, Y-chromosomes cause violent, criminal behavior which justified incarceration, as well as workplace inattention leading to fatal injuries.

“Y-chromosome possession is also the leading cause of boys pulling on girls’ pigtails and roughhousing on grammar school playgrounds across the country,” said Senator Al Franken (D – Minnesota). “Add in a gun and a few hundred-thousand Muslim, Somali refugees who refuse to assimilate, and you’ve got a real problem on your hands. We’ve got to think of the children.”

“It’s really about protecting the majority of the American population from the violent minority,” added Vice President Joe Biden. “It’s a teeny, tiny bit of liberty exchanged for an awful lot of safety and security.”

1gun3In addition to co-sponsorship from stalwart feminist legislators, who were kind enough to take a break from demanding equal workplace representation of women in the coal mining and sanitation engineering fields, the enlightened leftist of The View showed support for the bill by wearing paper X’s pinned to their lapels and declared they would here forth eschew the letter “Y,” as it is a symbol of misogyny.

When asked whether the letter would be deleted from the English alphabet or simply replaced with a similar sounding vowel, such as “women” to “womyn,” the ladies were at a loss.

As would be expected, the National Rifle Association Institute for Legislative Action plans to mount a vigorous opposition and eventual legal battle, should the bill become law.

“The Y-gene/violence connection isn’t settled science and is bad basis for law,” tweeted the NRA-ILA account, shortly before its blue “Verified” check was rescinded and the account suspended for promoting hate speech.

History is clearly on the side of the bill’s supporters. During the beginning of the 20th century, Turkey found its Armenian population to be quite disruptive and took away their guns. As a result, when was the last time anyone heard a peep out of Armenians that didn’t involve a parade or a restaurant opening?

1gun4Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, Hitler, Pinochet, et al., not having the benefit of a living Constitution that changes meaning with the times, had to go about the distasteful task of persecuting and murdering their troublesome minorities to maintain political control the old fashioned way.

The Sexual Violence Toward Women Prevention Act of 2016 will protect American women against violent men with dangerous guns by preventing them from possessing them in the first place; just like the Volstead Act and the Comprehensive Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act of 1970 were such rousing successes.

 

This article was originally written for and appeared in the Libertarian Party of Florida newsletter The Quill. Editor Raquel Okyay graciously granted permission to re-publish.

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you content, behind the scenes access, and goodies not available on the main site.

Sacrificing Our Daughters


1combat2An unintended consequence of opening military combat jobs to women is Selective Service. That’s right. The draft is back in the news. Say what you want about the patriarchy, but our grandfathers would never have sent their women to fight.

Previous generations would sooner have sent high schoolers and pensioners into combat before sending the women folk.

In the push to deny even the most basic of differences between men and women, the military, browbeaten by its feminized, feminist civilian leadership, has decided to allow women into one of the few remaining refuges of masculinity; combat arms.

01TriggerwarningLiberals in general, and feminists in particular, having turned universities into thought minefields, where dimly lit Safe Spaces playing videos of puppies protect the fragile self-esteem of the precious, individual snowflakes in their care and anything less than enthusiastic, vocal support for the wage gap myth, the Black Lives Matter nonsense, and the believe in the patriarchal hegemony holding down all but white CIS-males, is considered mind rape. The current trend in universities’ North Korean-style of enforced social order has been to declare that silence is violence.

This is the same mentality that has turned entire office buildings into vast wastelands littered with the hulks of beaten men, who spend half their free moments wondering where all the fun at work went and the other half calculating whether they can afford to strike off into business for themselves.

These poor bastards are petrified an offhand comment made a decade ago will land them at the center of a Human Resources beef.

Rather than struggle under the tyranny of third-wave feminism, men with the skills and contacts to do so, have steered their careers toward industries where feminists, both male and female, tend to fare poorly. However, the inability to survive has not kept feminists from trying to insinuate themselves and take over.

1combat3Police and fire departments, oil drilling rigs, construction sites, and the infantry were, at least until the perpetual adolescents currently graduating college entered the workforce, occupational refuges for men more concerned with results than feelings.

If a chick can pull her weight, that’s fine, but there’s no chivalry downrange.

I’ve worked in all-male environments, and aside from the physical dangers associated with the work itself, I never felt safer. We had only the vaguest idea the Human Resources Department existed because once hired, we never heard from them. Despite language that made sailors blush, sophomoric humor, vicious practical jokes, and homoerotic grab-assery, not a single complaint was lodged.

Pecking orders were established, and conflicts were resolved without lawsuits or sensitivity training. Believe it or not, all-male societies function remarkably well, when left alone.

Men learn how to overlook each other’s annoying habits and get along. We learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses to the point it is completely acceptable to joke about masturbatory schedules and abilities to stink up a bathroom.

Nothing is sacred among men living and working in remote, dangerous circumstances.

Men behave differently with women around. Mostly, it’s because experience has taught us they are the ones who create problems over farts and four-letter words.

And there is something else that experience has taught; women are simply not as strong, fast, or resistant to injury as men. Of course, I’m talking about the mythical “on average.” You have to when looking at large groups. Exceptions certainly exist (they are called “outliers”), but pointing them out does not invalidate the data.

It just shows an unwillingness to accept reality.

1Combat1The average height for an American woman is sixty-five inches (5’5″). The average height for an American man is seventy inches (5’10”). There are some women, and a few men, under five foot. There are a few men, and virtually no women, taller than six and a half feet. The vast majority of both groups is clustered around the average for their respective sex. The exact same thing happens when you talk about any measurable characteristic.

If you can’t wrap your mind around the difference between an average derived from a huge sample and the relatively small number of women you personally know, you might want to stop reading now because you’re about to become really upset.

There are a ton of studies conducted by multiple militaries that come to similar conclusions like:

  • Mixed-gender combat units have lower survivability, reduced lethality, and reduced deployability.
  • The average fit man weighs twenty-three percent more, has fifty percent more muscle mass, and carries ten percent less body fat than the average fit woman. Exactly how the average fit woman compares to the average ISIS jihadi was not studied, but my guess would be that it’s not favorable to her.
  • Men have thicker skulls, stronger necks, and bigger, denser bones than women. If you’ve ever been near something that went “ka-boom,” you appreciate that thicker skull and denser bones.

There are more conclusions, but you can look them up yourself. The hodgepodge above is a collection of several. The general trend is a degradation in effectiveness and a skyrocketing injury rate from stress fractures, compressed vertebrate, PTSD; just every type of injury you can name. Not to mention the less readily measurable morale and discipline headaches from drama, sex, and pregnancies that have traditionally plagued mixed-gender units.

However, as mentioned about the nature of averages, there are exceptions.

If that top two or three percent of physically fit and sufficiently aggressive women want to try their hands at humping a combat load and getting up close and personal with bad guys, they’re welcome to give it a shot. That’s a debate for another day.

However, keep in mind that Haji don’t buy into the feminism. He’s a little behind the times, and you’ll be lucky to be raped to death once he figures out you are the proud possessor of a vagina.

Despite the old sexist canard about women’s superiority to men in all things by virtue of their ability to withstand the pain of child birth, I would point out that squeezing another human being out of yours is not entirely impressive considering about half the world’s population is capable of the same feat with bodies designed to do that specific function. A function, I might add, that is not a part of the order of battle in any military that ever existed.

1combat5Maybe I’m old fashioned or thoroughly enmeshed in the patriarchy, but I don’t think a civilized society willingly sends their women to fight. Yes, yes, I know. World War Two Russia, Israel, Peshmerga, etc., etc.

These are also groups facing the extreme circumstances of fighting for their very survival against fanatics and facing a severe shortage of manpower compared to the threat they face. Not to mention, the percentage of front line combatants that are women tends to be paltry. We’re talking that two or three percentage points at the far end of the curve I mentioned earlier.

1combat4

Ultimately, we must decide as a nation what is best for our society; whether or not men will continue to be the protectors they traditionally have been. It’s not that women can’t do it, but men are better suited to the task.

This reality has been lost to many. It is especially lost on a generation largely spoiled by lack of privation, loss, and danger. Even considering registering women for Selective Service is yet another symptom of men who abdicate that and many other roles in what can only be described as generational cowardice.

When did we become less brave than our women?

Forcing young women, who will eventually take their place as keepers of culture, stewards of civility, and creators of life, to face the possibility of ground combat by mandating registration with Selective Service will destroy our civilization.

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you content, behind the scenes access, and goodies not available on the main site.

Donkey Basketball


1donkeyball1My children are convinced I’m an inveterate liar. Since all but the youngest have been disabused of their belief in Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, passing off whoppers has become more difficult. The ten-year-old is the only one left that believes. At least, I think she still believes in them. If she doesn’t, that little girl put a lot of effort into maintaining the façade this past Christmas. And she tends to make herself scare when butcher rabbits.

As an adult, the idea of a fairy with a dentine fetish leaving cash in exchange for teeth is odd. What does she do with them? Are they the raw material for a finished product? Souvenir shark-tooth necklaces are something I can understand, but children’s teeth are entirely too small and not near scary enough.

An old, fat man in a red suit with the ability to conduct background checks on children makes me cringe both at the extent of Big Brother’s intrusion into our personal lives, but also, the cyber-security shortcomings of the system containing that information.

Old Saint Nick is either a government intelligence agency unto himself or the head Anonymous hacker.

Considering everyone at my place has seen the inside of a rabbit and none of them have asked where the eggs are produced, I guess it’s safe to conclude that wild rabbits pooping out chocolates is the first bit of childhood to go by the wayside.

For all the fantasy children believe in, the one bit of childhood reminiscing that always earns me a sideways glance is recounting the annual tradition at my high school of Donkey Basketball. They never believe me, and are particularly incredulous when told I hold what is believed to be the highest single-game score, at six points.

1donkeyball4As you can imagine, they tended to be rather low-scoring affairs. Shooting baskets from donkey-back is one of those things you can’t really practice without a donkey. Free throws while perched atop a friend’s shoulders is a poor simulation.

Clearly, my children are too busy searching out Disney and pornography on the internet because a two-word Google search for “donkey basketball” will provide an overwhelming amount of evidence that it exists.

Oh, and by the way, the usual suspects of animal rights loonies are apoplectic that donkey basketball continues to be a tradition. Of course, these are the some sorts who think people who eat meat and wear leather are barbarians. I’ve dealt with a few of them before, and they believe my ilk, who hunt, trap, and raise our own protein for conversion into individual-sized portions, are absolute monsters.

1donkeyball3Nowadays, it seems that protective equipment is required, but there wasn’t a helmet or elbow pad to be had when I was balanced along the back of an Equus asinus. Donkeys being donkeys, they don’t need the protective equipment. The real danger is to the players, but animal rights folks are possessed of such self-loathing for human beings that they place themselves at the end of the list of things that are important.

To them, child sex trafficking and ISIS operatives hiding among Syrian refugees are less important issues than someone leaving their dog in the tuck while running to the ATM.

I hate to break it to the self-appointed animal lovers, but those of us who keep animals, whether for commercial sale, personal use, or somewhere in between, tend to take pretty good care of our animals, if for no better reason than to protect the investment of time, money, and resources. My wife spoils the shit out of all our animals. They probably eat better than the average homeless person, and I’m convinced, better than eighty percent of people in the non-Western world.

We can debate the morality of factory farms and point out individual cases of abuse or neglect, but ultimately, they are used as tactics to proselyte to the ignorant.

Selective editing and presentation of horrific, worst-case examples as the norm leave the gullible, inexperienced public-at-large, whose contact with the food they consume limited to a trip to Kroger’s, with the impression that all animals are sentient, self-aware creatures that could cure cancer, return us to the moon, and develop advanced civilizations, if only we gave them access to a free college education.

Speaking as someone who keeps chickens, I can tell you there is no intelligent life in the hen house, Captain. Luckily, they are delicious and crap out eggs, so I gladly put up with their stupidity.

photo 2Even though I’m the dealer of death on my farm, I don’t take joy in the activity. It’s just part of the process that I carry out as quickly and with as little fanfare as possible. If any deaths bother me, it’s the ones that were not scheduled.

We lost three rabbits recently due to (as near as we could tell) a respiratory infection. Two were put down out of kindness and the third died while we were hunting down antibiotics. The good news is that after a couple weeks of isolation in a warm location, the rest of the litter is doing fine.

Why my wife insists on using the tub in the master bathroom as a Homestead Intensive Care Unit is beyond me, but every animal that have gone it sick came out well, so I’m not going to complain. It’s going to be a real mess in there, if we ever get a cow.

Worse than losing an animal to disease or sickness, is when the life is lost through inexperience. I once accidentally killed my daughter’s favorite chicken, but there was no amount of doctoring that would have saved her.

The most recent loss was yesterday. I have my suspicions as to the how and why, and will deal harshly with the inattentive, lackadaisical young man responsible. Death by mishap is one thing. Death by stupidity is another.

John WayneJohn Wayne was a Golden Laced Wyndotte given to us by a buddy down the road, who was culling out excess roosters. I was very fond of the fella. He earned his call-sign the old fashioned way.

We have a Head Hen, who is kind of a twat. John Wayne took one strutting lap around the chicken run, she met him going the other way, and they had about a ten-second discussion regarding who was in charge. Through the dust and feathers, I called the fight in his favor.

It kind of reminded me of the spanking scene in “McLintock.”

While driving to town with my wife and lamenting the loss of my favorite bird, we saw a banner hung between two poles on the lawn of our local high school that proclaimed, “Donkey Basketball Sign-Up Next Week.”

Go suck a lemon, PETA.

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you content, behind the scenes access, and goodies not available on the main site.