Doom & Gloom. Not them. My battery.
Two performances only 44 years apart. There was the first time. And then there was the second time. It’s all just Rolling Stones. New songs both times.
This post is just for Dave. Everybody else should just watch the Glastonbury concert. Dave is a hard case.
Scotland the Brave
Just a nod of recognition. End of a 77 year drought for the Wimbledon toffs of the Old England Club. Last time a Brit won Wimbledon, my long dead dad was fourteen. So congratulations seem, uh, polite. But it was a Scot what done it. In the usual Scottish way, with lots of heart stopping, nerve wracking, and seemingly disastrous moments.
Kind of like an average day with Raebert.
Did WHAT?! No fookin’ way!
It’s okay, though. He went right back to sleep.
Pink sneakers are cool.
Apparently. The Internet is alight with the shoes of Wendy Davis, who became a liberal hero by filibustering a Texas bill that would have stopped abortions 20 weeks into pregnancy. What a woman.
She has nice tits too.
Oops. Shouldn’t have mentioned her tits. The mainstream media that has already lionized her choice of filibuster footwear…
Having seen what he called “probably the most famous shoes in politics,” was Zeleny ready to move on to more serious questions? Nope. He had to verify the color of the shoes, asking Davis if they were indeed pink. She replied, “I would call it a pink, or a salmon pink, yeah.”
Having confirmed that the shoes were pink, Zeleny still wasn’t done with them: “But you’re also a runner. I mean, these are legitimate running shoes.” Keep in mind that this man is a senior Washington correspondent, not a style editor
…is now in a huff at the possibility that the MSM foot fetish might be sexist. So they probably wouldn’t like anyone mentioning her tits, either, however nice.
There’s a difference between liking Wendy Davis’s shoes and liking Wendy Davis because of her shoes. What is that difference? I know, let’s call it sexism…
[T]his is a phenomenon unique to women in leadership positions—that media stories about our intellects and accomplishments are often literally dressed down with descriptions about our clothing. In groundbreaking research, the Women’s Media Center and Celinda Lake showed that media commentary about what women candidates are wearing has a detrimental impact on their candidacy. In other words, the media simply noting what women are wearing—let alone critiquing or judging it—hurts the prospects of women in leadership.
Yeah. Obviously the biggest part of the story. If you’re a liberal. Some female psychopath with nice tits and pink sneakers lobbies for hours for the right to kill babies and noticing her shoes is sexism. Right.
I AM making a point here. Liberals are supposed to be the smart ones, the best educated, the most tolerant, the most perceptive about nuance. Right? So why are they all semiconscious idiots imprisoned in the present tense of their own tiny lives. Didn’t Hillary’s daughter graduate from Stanford?
Chelsea Clinton: My great-grandparents didn’t have access to Planned Parenthood’s crucial services
It’s one thing to support family planning while being glad on some level that a distant ancestor couldn’t plan you into oblivion and another to pander to Planned Parenthood in the same breath that you’re talking about what an inspiration your grandmother, who otherwise wouldn’t have existed, was to you. It’s like getting your mom a Mother’s Day card that ends with “Sorry your parents didn’t have a choice whether to have you.” Um, happy Mother’s Day.
I’m not inclined to give the benefit of the doubt they always give at Hotair. It’s almost a fetish with them to bend over and hold their ankles in the name of fairness to liberal propaganda. Are we really supposed to think Chelsea would support her dead grandma’s right to preempt her existence? Or that it’s even occurred to this spoiled millennial bitch that her existence could have been preempted? Well, why not? To me it’s the same kind of myopic liberal consciousness that never sees the big picture for all the little pictures they get from their well connected contacts. Screw Chelsea. Comments like hers are at least tangentially related to this story and picture.
Kids with wire hangers. Their mothers are barbarian whores. No matter what you say.
I know. Let’s do a search for wire hangers. And we could follow it up by showing the little tykes what hangers are used for in preventing little lives like theirs. We could do it with crayons and poster paper and anatomically correct drawings. We could even do a Google search for “tools used to penetrate the cervix and puncture babies in mommy tummies.” Kids love computer graphics. Like that idea? No. Probably not. You liberals prefer a search for pink sneakers. Which isn’t a bad description of who you are at base.
Pink is the color of closet communists, who really do believe that people are just units in a vast encompassing state. Sneakers are the ones who hide their brutal motives beneath political jargon, oxymoronic euphemisms, and incredibly vicious invective. Pro-choice? Whose choice? And your opponents are anti-woman? Really? And what if YOUR opponents think you’re sick fucks for using toddlers as (wire hanger?) puppets in promoting the abortion rights their mothers just barely didn’t exercise against them?
Something to put it all in perspective:
But dress it up as they might, the truth remained ghastly: What Wendy and her team of protesters were trying to do was block a bill that would have made it illegal to deliberately kill an unborn child after 20 weeks of pregnancy. And that is a disgrace.
The New Yorker’s Amy Davidson wrote that, during the filibuster, Davis explained “how a pregnancy unfolded — all points on which, she noted, her male colleagues seemed vague.” Perhaps Davis is right that many of her fellow human beings know embarrassingly little about how they grew. I’d venture, though, that this is to her advantage: It is precisely the knowledge of how babies develop that informs my revulsion at their execution.
We might recap: By the time that a baby has been in utero for one month, blood is pumping around the body. In the second month, facial features develop, including the growth of ears, eyes, arms, legs, toes, and fingers. At six weeks, the baby’s brain, spinal cord, and central nervous system are all pretty well formed — in outline at least. By the two-month mark, sensory organs begin to develop and bone replaces cartilage.
Three months in, arms, hands, fingers, feet, and toes are fully formed, and the baby can grab with its fists as well as open and close its mouth. Teeth are on their way, as are reproductive organs. In month four, the baby is fully formed, and eyelids, eyebrows, eyelashes, nails, and hair develop. At this point, a baby can suck his thumb, yawn, hiccup, stretch, and make faces. At 18 weeks, the baby can move around, and experience REM sleep, including dreams. At 20 weeks, some studies show, it can recognize its mother’s voice.
You liberals. Your education consists entirely of SAT crib sheets. Your tolerance consists entirely of approving people who approve your narcissist desires. And as for nuance, your moral stature doesn’t even rise to the level of rats, who persistently fight to preserve their young.
Enjoy your pink sneakers. Wear them every day, all the time, so the rest of us might know you when you walk our way. Pardon us if we walk away.
And, oh yeah. Screw you and the tits you rode in on. Women are a sex, not a religion. They’re not an excuse for anything, let alone legalized torture and murder. If you can’t remember that, you’re even dumber than I know you are.
Oh. I almost forgot. The “liberals” at MSM outlets USA Today, the Chicago Tribune, and the Los Angeles refused to run this print ad.
They don’t want us to imagine taking this “fetus” apart, limb by limb.
Liberals. You’re monsters. If you had any education or moral perception, you wouldn’t even be able to look in the mirror. Keep wearing those pink sneakers. We’ll know what you can never learn.
My wife and I watched the 1968 “Rolling Stones Circus” tonight on PBS. We’ve learned never to watch PBS except during pledge drives, when they’re forced to pretend they’re not a half century behind the times. But every so often, 50 years behind the times is the right amount.
Rolling Stones – Sympathy for the Devil by oggys
The first half of the show was dated and slow. Jethro Tull looking like Jethro Tull and the Who looking like geeks. Lennon dissed Jagger, handing him an empty dinner plate to dispose of. Jagger was humble about it. Then the Stones took the stage. The geezers at PBS insisted that this was the best live Stones performance ever.
Bullshit. But it’s historically significant as the moment the Stones took the crown from the Beatles. Lennon was done. Yoko performed with him. Just as the Stones launched their self-proclaimed reign as the “Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World.”
Which, apparently, they still are a half century later given this and this. But you’re allowed to decide for yourself here. And if you want a point of comparison, compare the video above to what happens at Glastonbury 23 minutes and 40 seconds in. Maybe the lyric “many a long year” will sound different. Suit yourself.
Me, I don’t need to see them anymore. Because I can listen whenever I want. I still have total sense memory. Do you?
Does he have lot of sense memory? Yeah. But what’s the point? His nose is a pitiful nubbin.
People keep looking for the next Reagan. She’s already here.
I’m not waiting. The future of America is no longer about winning the next election. I no longer care about electoral math. I’m back with my punks. It’s about leaving a record, for the ones who will come later. (Lake, help me with a chapter and verse citation.)
Five months into the second Obama term, I am officially and unequivocally endorsing Sarah Palin for the presidency of the United States. It’s not a protest vote. She’s ready. None of her leading opponents has any experience at all, unless you count Joe Biden’s fake legal and political career or Hillary’s oddly transgender cuckold career as First Lady and the stooge of Benghazi — always, always screwed with never a clue about what was really going on. Meaning what? She’s the piano-legged dud we thought she was way back when Bill denied an affair with Gennifer Flowers. She got smarter somehow along the way? uh, no. Still an over-educated fool, perpetually the last to know anything.
Palin is different. Where Hillary is studied, coached, and dull, Palin is lightning. She doesn’t lecture her audiences; she electrifies them. Her ongoing political commentary has always been witty, to the point, and true. When attacked, she strikes back as venomously as a rattlesnake. Her political endorsements and followups have been more effective than those of multi-term U.S. senators. What nobody wants to acknowledge. She’s a natural.
So it’s time for her to leave the Republican Party and make her own party. Even if she loses, the results are the best possible hope for the future of this doomed country. Don’t forget that Goldwater’s crushing defeat paved the way for Reagan’s landslide. At some point, women — the tsunami of American traitors to the whole concept of individual liberty framed by the constitution — will eventually be disgusted by the totalitarian compulsion to tar an honorable mother of five as a whore, an idiot, a tool of special interests, and the inbred halfwit cow who calved a retard in proof of the ideological inferiority of all conservative values.
Bring it on. I didn’t think anyone could withstand such constant, unrelenting, sexually sadistic abuse. But I was wrong. Palin can. She’s the ultimate feminist nightmare. The woman who’s so self-confident she just doesn’t care how hard you try to demean her. To her it’s just proof of how limp your dick is (or how dried up your snatch). She takes the punishment and keeps taking it until it’s time to make a deadly point. Reminds me of Ali in Zaire, leaning against the ropes for round after round after round while the supposedly smartest pundits keep predicting his imminent doom, until, oops, he wins by a knockout.
Wake up, lefty Viagrans! She does not care. Talk about hate-fucking (yeah, you Maher)? Palin could hate-fuck you to death and show up pristinely beautiful at the next Tea Party rally in the hometown of your alma mater. Right. She’d kill the crowd even in Ithaca, New York.
Here’s the truth. She wouldn’t attract so much horrifyingly sexist abuse if she weren’t so dangerous a leader of the conservative opposition. Why she needs to be the leader of the next generation of Americans who don’t wish to be victims. Nobody else has that credential.
Remember. I’m the first to say she’s the one we need. It will take everyone else much much longer.
Hey. Give it a shot. Tell me who else can fight for us like Boudica. Nobody but this extraordinary woman.
P.S. Lake came through. As usual. Here’s a YouTube link to the chapter he quoted. If I had more belief in WordPress, I’d make the video show up here. Can’t do it. If you can, tell me how.
Happy Independence Day, everyone. Not trying to be ironic. It just sounds like that.
The reading:
She was the one.
We interrupt our general lamentation to bring you specific grief. One of the three fledges at the Franklin Institute we posted about before flew into a window and died today.
Sometimes things just suck.
But Peanut is okay.
Clockwise from top: Big, Bigger, and Go Screw Yourself.
When everything is really falling apart, it’s a clarifying experience. We can’t save the republic. What’s left is giving a good account of ourselves during the downfall.
Why I can now commit to a three party system. The three can now be, and should be permanently branded as, 1) the Party of Big Government, 2) the Party of Even Bigger Government, and 3) the Party of Screw the Government and the Horse it Rode in on.
Pick your affiliations.
Feel free to discuss.
She was the biggest in the world then.
No, not the usual sort. Not the kind you automatically remember. More the WTF kind, suddenly recalled by accident, by date and a declining skill at arithmetic. So here goes…
It was 50 years ago today that I boarded the Cunard liner Queen Elizabeth in New York bound for Cherbourg, France. (No, not QE2. The real one.)
I was a week away from being 10 years old. I remember arriving at the dock and wondering where the water was. All I could see was an endless black wall. Oh. That was the side of the largest ocean liner ever built. I kid you not. The ultimate missing the forest for the one really big tree moment.
The America I left that day is gone. Long and completely gone. Contrary to what you may have been taught, it was in many ways a lovely place. What with political correctness, the NSA, and the general collapse of Christian civilization, I can’t speak of that place without putting myself on a list today.
But if anyone’s curious, I might be induced to risk a description…
Though I suspect most of you already think you know. Which is the chief liability of being an Internet dilettante. You know all kinds of stuff you heard of once, in passing, and almost everything you know just ain’t so.
P.S. So Tim called my bluff. He wants a description. I’ll work on one specific to this entry, but in the interim I offer this post from my own blog archives a decade ago. Skip down to the boldfaced subhead titled “Dear Philosoraptor.” Read it, respond, and then I’ll know how to frame a more relevant reminiscence. Is that fair?
It’s bad when someone is hurt.
We do the every day and we are happy. The every day changes and we are not happy. The Boss is cross and breakfast is not when breakfast is or the dinner or anything else. Mommy sleeps and is still and the Boss stops us from touching her. We are sitting on our haunches and the Boss says lie down. There are no treats. There is the every day you know and today is every day until the every day is the no day again.
Wag. Lie down. Lie down get up lie down. Grrr. Mommy is less still and she sleeps more. The Boss is more tired and he sleeps not so much. He does not touch so much. We touch if we can.
We do the every day. Every day. We are happy. Wag. We lie down.
Deerhound people know that deerhounds aren’t really like greyhounds.
My wife wants me to write an ad for this site at MADA, which is the Middle Atlantic Deerhound Association. I’ve been flummoxed, to be honest. Somehow I see lots of Obama stickers on Volvo and Subaru SUVs.
This is a deerhound site but not really. And I’m thinking that the political content here is not going to sit well with a lot of the people who devote chunks of their lives to deerhounds.
I mean, not every post even contains a deerhound photograph, let alone topic.
In fact, I think a lot depends on what people, including you faithful readers, think deerhounds are.
For example, All deerhounds DO look alike. Watch the linked video to see how true that is. Much more than greyhounds do. And greyhounds are a big part of how most of us arrived at deerhounds. We started with greyhound rescues, pure and simple. Why I’m thinking the deerhound crowd won’t like Deerhound Diary. The story of greyhounds is the story of Oppression by the Man, including tattoos in the ears. Canine Holocaust in service to the capitalist enterprise of dog racing.
I’ve been there too. We still have Molly, and I’m still grieving for Patrick, Andrew, and Sonny. We’ve done the transfers from foster parents to us in mall parking lots, and there’s nothing like the feeling you get the first time a track greyhound can climb the stairs to your bedroom.
When I confessed my fascination with deerhounds, my wife repeated what she had heard, that deerhounds are simply bigger, hairier greyhounds, and just as comfortably dumb. As she had dutifully learned from the pervasive sighthound propaganda.
But now we’ve had two. The first was Psmith. Who changed all the rules. Monstrously destructive as a puppy, which he was for three years, then progressively a kind of mystic Scot, remote, gravely affectionate, and kind. We lost him prematurely, at the age of six, to the bloat.
Losing him hurt so much I was prepared to go without another. My wife knew better. She found another breeder, another litter, and went through an admission process worse than what applicants to Stanford and Harvard go through. The result was Raebert.
Who looks, predictably, almost exactly like Psmith but bigger, and couldn’t be any more different in terms of personality and character.
Why there’s this site. He’s the smartest dog I ever had, and I’ve had two scarily smart German Shepherds. His breeder was smug when she told us, “my deerhounds aren’t dumb.” Jesus. What an understatement. Life with Raebert is a constant battle of wits, and he wins almost as much as I do. But he wins in the end anyway. I’ll explain more of that as we go, but what I’m thinking about right now is the assumption embedded in the astonishing “how much they all look alike” meme.
They’re all utter individuals. As are we. Which is a thing I’m thinking the progressives, for all their avowed tolerance, keep forgetting. All conservatives are bigoted idiots. All black people must be loyal liberal Democrats or they’re Uncle Toms. All women must be hard left feminists or they hate their own sex. All deerhounds are friendly dopes we need to protect because they can’t protect anybody. Which does nothing to explain THIS image:
Fast on the draw…
Deerhounds may be greyhounds in some respects, but they are also Scots and very far away from greyhound couch potato propaganda, which greyhounds also are in my experience. Deerhounds can be smart, brave, cunning, manipulative, piercingly understanding, not to mention mischievous jokers, and they are one of the best proofs of the infinite diversity of creation I have ever witnessed. We also love each other as only two total sonsofbitches can.
Raebert was never trained to shake hands. HE initiates. He needs to hold hands.
That would be my pitch to MADA. And come to think of it, to all of you. This site begs to differ. And at times our eyes turn to blue fire, relict of the heather.
Guessing my wife won’t think this is a good ad…
What exactly is it we think a direwolf was?
You know. One more Scottish danger.
Raebert? Maybe. I’ve seen that in him. The ultimate of ultimates. If you’ve never seen it, good luck to you. I spend my time trying to understand the savagery in all of us. Maybe you should spend some time trying to understand me.