Know what? I’m sick of liberals and progressives. I hate them. I HATE them. Not shy about using that word. Robert Whitcomb? I hate YOU. Stinking, smarmy, learned, asshole lefty twits of the world, I really really do hate you.

News? The lefties are all pissed off that there’s a lame site called “Slap Hillary.” Really? Like anyone would care to slap that flat chested little wide hipped Yale hippo who trailed behind her slimy husband to try winning the presidency of the United States.

But. The lefties have been slapping Sarah for years. Which included the porn photo above. That’s okay. Apparently.

Screw them. It doesn’t matter how dirty they want to get. They’ll never win. Basic facts liberals can’t live with. Nobody wants to screw Hillary. Everybody wants to screw Sarah Palin. The difference between mediocrity and beauty.

In honor of my southpaw wife.

The day of days.

I’ll be born in a month or so.

Had to share this. I know the child’s mother. She’ll be having her baby sometime in September.

Why the left is doomed to lose its desperate defense against the banning of “late-term abortion.” People know that those are babies in there, not inconvenient cellular baggage. Fully 65 percent of women oppose abortions after 20 weeks of pregnancy. And the better the imaging technology gets, the more that number of weeks will get rolled back.

Eventually, the term “progressive” will become synonymous with “nihilist.” Can’t happen soon enough for me.

I’ll show you me, eventually. In the interim I’ll show you celebrities my age.

Bond. Old Bond.

William Fat Petersen.

Almost as smart as Robert. Name of Malkovich.

Colm Meaney. I’m Irish! Sleep with me!

Young women should rest easy. Old guys are just old guys. Maybe not harmless but utterly dismissible. Herewith me:

Older than dirt. I still remember carburetors.

1953. It was a big year. Look it up. No wonder everyone looks old. Of course, not everybody has a portrait in the closet whose job it is to keep getting older while somebody doesn’t. Wish I had that arrangement still. If only I could remember what the deal was…

What a peaceful boy… as of 2 pm today.

This one-dog wrecking crew has destroyed our whole household routine, not to mention much of the household itself.

Most sighthounds like to hang with one another. Why they usually have a room of their own, in this case the two-couch haven called The Breezeway. Our house also had the unique advantage of what we called the “dog room,” a walled-off subsection of the garage where they could both eat and have unobstructed access to their own yard for running and playing in.

Since the missus went back to work after her immobile period, Raebert has destroyed practically everything that stands between him and the upstairs where he now insists he belongs. Here’s the door to the dog room:

Nothing stops me.

We used to be able to close the door to the dog room while leaving the door to the dog yard open, thus preventing the cats from spilling into the dangerous outside world. But Raebert destroyed the dog room altogether, not just the wall into the garage:

Total destruction.

You see, he has to get from the yard, through the dog room, through the garage, into the breezeway, where there is a hefty child’s gate with a complicated latch. And, yes, he solved that latch a long time ago but we put a locking bicycle cable on it and he seemed to accept that he couldn’t defeat it (even though he stole the first key and hid it under the sofa).

Child’s play.

Now he’s got the bit in his teeth, so to speak. He can open the gate in two minutes flat. He refuses to be outside longer than it takes to pee and poop, uh, about two minutes. He can go 12 hours or more without peeing, he can go without eating for days, and he has taken up residence in the upstairs (the only place he will eat), watching over me and waiting for mommy to return. He’s on a mission.

Did I say countermeasures? We tried to shore up the hole in the garage wall. Does it look convincing?

Holes in the wall screened over.

We also installed a baby gate in the upstairs hall, which works great because he has no desire to go downstairs.

They’re so much smarter than me. What am I to do? (uh, ignore the shape of the shadow.)

Battle of wits? More like an ambush…

But we’re hopeful. We’ve asked the FBI and the NSA for their expert help. They always know what to do, right?

P.S. Yes to both questions. He really is gigantic. And we love him to death.

P.P.S. If you prefer the pure positives of deerhounds, here’s a site I recommend heartily.

First time they got it right in a long time.

Funny how things work. We’ve been watching The Bridge, starring Diane Kruger as a high-functioning autistic detective from El Paso trying to solve a serial killer case that originates in Juarez, Mexico. Like The Killing, the inspiration for the series is Scandinavian, which means it’s dark, slow, and indirect. Also like The Killing, the partner protagonists are mismatched. Kruger is punctilious about the law and (grossly) inept in all her social interactions. Her partner is a personable ladies man from Juarez who is a good cop but corrupt (only to a point) in both his personal and professional life.

So my wife and I were both wondering about Diane Kruger because of what can be termed “The Rain Man Effect.” You know. Dustin Hoffman wins an Oscar for Midnight Cowboy because of all the nervous tics and limps and other stylized crap that screams Academy Award. Just like his turn with Tom Cruise in Rain Man. The missus asked me, “Can Diane Kruger really act, or is she just parading eccentric mannerisms in hopes of an acting award?”

Why I watched a Netflix flick called “Inhale.” Starring Diane Kruger and Dermot Mulroney. Imagine my surprise to discover that most of the action takes place in, ta da, Juarez, Mexico.

Every bit as Scandy dark as The Bridge, but with a difference. This time it’s not dark for the sake of dark but for a deeply moral purpose and theme I haven’t seen expressed on film in, well, years.

I won’t tell you much more because I don’t want to spoil your experience. It’s about fathers and mothers and children. Throughout, it seems like a deepening downward spiral. But watch it anyway and stay with it.

If you want to comment afterwards, just be sure to label whether your comments contain spoilers or not. Everyone in the U.S. today should see this movie.

btw, Diane Kruger can act. But Dermot Mulroney does all the heavy lifting…

Listen to me…

I do what I do. Every day. I’m not always nice. I’m not mean. I’m just me.

Thoughtful…

I’m also willing to stand up for what and who I care about. Some people call that destructive. I call it being Raebert.

Life is not all sweetness and light.

Which I am. Every day. You try being Raebert. You probably wouldn’t be nice at all.

I could do this all day. I don’t.

It’s so much easier to growl your way to what you want than just make it somehow happen. I make it somehow happen.

Why not dead?

Two sources, via Drudge. First, the U.K. Mail:

The riddle of the ‘angel priest’: Holy man appeared from nowhere to pray with trapped girl and rescuers in traffic accident, told them she would be OK and then vanished…

Katie Lentz was hit head-on by a drunk driver on Sunday morning on an isolated stretch of Missouri highway…

Emergency workers battled for over an hour to rescue her but they couldn’t free her from the car wreck…

Lentz requested a moment of prayer and a priest appeared – even though the road was blocked off…

He prayed and told the rescuers that Lentz would now be freed – and she was…

They turned to thank him – but he was gone…

Also, from USA Today:

Emergency workers and community members in eastern Missouri are not sure what to make of a mystery priest who showed up at a critical accident scene Sunday morning and whose prayer seemed to change life-threatening events for the positive.

Even odder, the black-garbed priest does not appear in any of the nearly 70 photos of the scene of the accident in which a 19-year-old girl almost died. No one knows the priest and he vanished without a word, said Raymond Reed, fire chief of New London, Mo.

“I think it’s a miracle,” Reed said. “I would say whether it was an angel that was sent to us in the form of a priest or a priest that became our angel, I don’t know. Either way, I’m good with it.”

I’m good with it too, miracle or not.

So bad. Almost a crisis.

I know you think we’re being cute with all our talk about living with the world’s smartest deerhound. We talk about a battle of wits, and you nod your heads because your terriers and retrievers are also incredibly demanding.

I understand. But truth is, you got no idea. My wife broke her arm, see, and Raebert started standing guard. He had to be where we were, which sundered the sighthound pack pact. He aligned his daily rhythms more and more to ours, then decided he should be in charge of ours too. He decided that bedtime was 8:15 pm, and he was really quite exact about it. He’d mill at the closed door of the media room until we gave in, then he’d stalk into the bedroom. Except that he’d emerge from time to time later, rebukingly. Time to go to bed.

We got used to that. Pretty funny, right? My wife got better enough to go to work. When Raebert put the hammer down. He didn’t want her to go back to work. She was supposed to be in His care. So he began a hunger strike. He wouldn’t get up in the morning. He wouldn’t go down to pee or eat his breakfast. When we insisted by tightening his collar and leading him downstairs, he objected at the doorway, on the landing, and at the door to the outside.

He’s stronger than we are. But when we managed to shove him out the door of the dog room, he retaliated by trashing his food stand and bowl, and then by attacking the room in the garage we had always called the dog room where for years we had fed greyhounds and deerhounds. He destroyed it. Utterly. Sheetrock, pegboard, insulation, all on the floor, the doorframe ravaged to the point of collapse. He built himself a hole that enabled him to get from the dog yard, through the dog room, into the garage, and then into the breezeway where sighthounds have lived happily for years. Then he blew past our tricks to keep the dog gate closed and ran upstairs where he insisted on being.

He’s very pleased with himself. When he gets upstairs he’s quiet as a lamb. It’s just his job to be here, watching over me and waiting for mommy to come home.

Battle of wits? He’s winning. At the moment we’re feeding him upstairs on a brocade chair. Breakfast and dinner. He can hold his pee and poop forever. He weighs 110 pounds. Upright, he’s seven feet tall. He will not change his mind about anything ever.

I rule.

Just so you know.