DogGs & DogGettes ~
Yesterday, while making $18.00 an hour to do so, I got further caught up on my Fred Reed reading. (If you don't know what I'm yakking about, click HERE.) And I found some mo' stuffs that I felt compelled to quote here. Believe me, there's plenty mo' where this came from. I'm just trying to whet yer appetite for FredOnEverything.org.
Again, I don't agree with Fred more than 93.86% of the time. So, don't make the mistake of making me out to be a Fred Reed whore, sycophant, and yes-man. But he's worth reading regularly, whether you agree with him 100% of the time, or just 0% of the time.
In May of 2018, the second year of Mrs. Clinton’s administration,
national puzzlement was high over the continuing wave of mass killings. A
week before, nineteen children had died in the Blaintree Kindergarten
massacre in San Francisco when Mohammed Shah Massoud, Faisal ibn Saud,
and Hussein al Rashid burst into the school and began firing.
As in the shooting three months earlier of thirteen in Washington by
Mohammed Faisal and Sala al Din Hussein, and in the preceding
fire-bombing of the Hancock Tower in Chicago by Farouk ibn Mohammed,
experts struggled to make sense of events. The head of Homeland
Security, Chupamela Sanchez-Jones, explained it succinctly: “It is
almost impossible to prevent attacks when they have nothing in common.
What do you look out for? What is the connection between killing
children, firebombing a restaurant, and flying aircraft into buildings?
There is none. It is baffling.”
Everyone of importance—the New York Times, MSNBC, NPR, the Huffington Post, Mother Jones, and Salon—agreed
that there was no obvious motive. Time and again for many years
attackers had come from nowhere and killed for no reason. There was no
pattern except the strange cry, “Allahu Akbar.”
Mrs. Clinton’s Secretary of Defense, Wilhelmina “Creepy” Crawley, offered an explanation.
“My staff at the Pentagon have determined that “Akbar” is a
combination of “AK,” automatic Kalashnikov, which I am told is a form of
gun, and BAR, Browning Automatic Rifle. This shows an unwholesome
fascination with guns. We are investigating links to the NRA:”
Logic indeed urged control of guns. In October of 2017, three
gunmen—Mohammed Massouf, Mohammed Ali ibn Hussein, and Abu Bakr ibn
Saud–had shot and killed fourteen people at Starbucks in Philadelphia.
They too had shouted about Browning Automatic Rifles.
Priscilla Latvi-Germond, Director the FBI, offered another
possibility. “We think the killers may be white-supremacists, perhaps
linked to the KKK.” When it was pointed out that few of the terrorists
were white, she said that this was evidence of a dangerous spread of
White Supremacism to people of color.
Allahu Akbar!: The View from 2018
Today, if a guy doesn’t fall apart in the most embarrassing manner
you can imagine, under the mildest stress, some earnest grief-counseling
geekess will tell him that men need to get in touch with their
feelings. (Men devoutly wish women would get out of touch with theirs.)
We have a different flavor of therapist for every contingency. See,
it’s multi-faceted, specialized, categorized patheticness. (That was
almost a word.) Look in the self-help section of any bookstore, and
you’ll find titles like, “The Agony of Limp Hair: A Guide to Recovery.”
So help me, I’ve seen “pet-loss grief therapy” on the lobotomy box. Your
cat croaks, so a dweebette appears, solicitous and consoling enough to
gag a maggot, to help you work through your grief.
Over a cat.
Now, you’d think an adult could survive cat loss without a support
group. Sure, Tabby was an agreeable animal and purred when cosseted.
Cats aren’t evil. They’re just useless. And now Tabby is gone forever —
in heaven, ignoring God. There’s a sense of loss, I guess, like when you
misplace your keys.
But — a grief therapist? To tell you not to spend too much time alone
at first, especially at night, and don’t dwell on things that were dear
to Tabby, like her ball of string, and her catnip mouse, and her
half-eaten roaches? And remember when you get a new kitten, don’t think
of it as a replacement for Tabby who is irreplaceable in your heart, but
rather et cetera ad nauseam and beyond.
They talk like this, so help me.
Stuff 'em down a well, I say. Shove Oprah on top, like a cork. And then go for barbecued ribs. And lots of beer. We’ll need it.
A Plague of Grief Therapy: Dweebesses, Geekettes, and Earnest Men In Panty Hose
We may be left with the Washington Post for sophomoric liberals, the New York Times for post-adolescent liberals, and the Washington Times, momentarily the nation’s flagship conservative publication, for the rest of humanity.
I said “momentarily” the conservative flagship, because there are
proliferating on the Web more and more Web-only publications, which
compete with the truck-farm pubs. [...]
From a writer’s point of view, the Web is better than moonshine and
grape juice. It is god’s truth that political correctness rules
ink-and-paper journalism. I’m on the Web because FredOnEverything
couldn’t get published in newspapers-not because it’s badly written but
because it isn’t real correct. Editors of newspapers like to think of
themselves as kick-ass guys who go against the grain and let the chips
fall where they may. Actually they’re scared of the readers, scared of
the advertisers, scared of blacks and feminists and their colleagues in
the newsroom and at the press club.
So, in the truck-farm world, to get published you need to go along,
write what you are supposed to write, and suck up to editors to get
limited space on the op page.
On the Web, the big boys no longer control the means of production or
distribution. Anyone can just publish. (The total cost of this column,
beyond writing it and doing a little html, is less than $400 a year.)
Promotion takes time and effort, sure. But you sink or swim according to
whether people want to read what you write. You can write a lousy
column forever in a newspaper, and most newspaper columnists do. On the
Web, people gotta like it or you can hang it up. But if they do like it,
you fly on your own.
What the Web is telling the established newspapers is, “It’s democracy, sweethearts. Get used to it.”
Duh…Huh? Disordered Thoughts Of A New Web Journalist
As for the Supreme Court of New Jersey, if there were a tax on brains,
they would get a rebate. [...] I worry about men in nighties.
Playing with Boy Scouts: Let Me Rub It To Make It Better
Sez me, beer has its virtue. Always has, always will. Fact is, this
world doesn’t amount to much unless you give it a little amplification
sometimes. You have to encourage it. The dross is there, but you can
find bits of gold. For starters, take good companions, a pitcher of malt
lubricant, add a good blues harmonica that sounds like broken hearts or
a cat fight, depending. Or a country band singing philosophy like,
“Life’s an Infomercial (Actual Results May Vary.)” Toss in a slab of
ribs and some really raunchy barbecued beans and a plate of fritters.
Now, that’s meaning. We don’t get a whole lot of it.
Tell you what. If you want to sit around your living room and drink
designer water with grimly nice people who avoid second-hand smoke and
dress carefully and have the personality of potted plants, it’s your
business. You’ll probably live longer, though I’m not sure why you’d
Brew, Fritters, and Two-Steppin’ — A Revisionist View Of Bars
And this one you just have to read for yourself, in its entirety:
That's one of the funniest pieces of writing I've come across in some time.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Welcome back, my friends, to the "Battle" that never ends.
We're so glad you could attend. Come inside! Come inside!
This is 'BATTLE OF THE BANDS' ('BOTB') where you listen to different recordings of the same song and vote for the one you like best. A new Battle gets posted on the 15th of each month and six days later, on the 21st, I place my own vote, tally 'em all up and announce the winner.
Friend? Foe? Stranger? No matter, ALL are welcome. So pull up a chair, pour yourself 24 oz. of 'DOG BITE High Gravity Lager' (or the poison of your choice) and turn it up to Eleven!
[NOTE: Links to the first year of 'BOTB' (#1 - #24) can be found at the very bottom of this page.]