From Ireland…

The Irish taoiseach, Enda Kenny, here to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day, lectured La Douche Orange on immigration in L’Orange’s own house. Good for Kenny. Not that L’Orange paid much attention, nor, I imagine, did he give much thought to the fact that he has a golf course in Ireland. Still, nice to see someone giving it to him.

Like a lot of people in this country, my ancestors didn’t start here, and a few came from Ireland. On my mom’s side, the McNeils moved from Scotland to Ireland before immigrating to the US. The Hills, Robert and Violetta, were from County Dublin, and immigrated to the Pennsylvania colony in the 1760s. One of their daughters, Ruth, married my great grandfather Walter Bernard.

Once War for Independence (Slán, English pig dogs!) began, Violetta saw to it that troops in her area were fed and clothed (the DAR lists her as patriot, just as it does her son-in-law, who fought with a rifle).

Mr. Kenny spoke of “…millions out there who want to play their part for America — if you like, who want to make America great.” The Hills, and countless others made their way here to make a better life for themselves, and in the process, made a great country*.

L’Orange has no idea what makes a country great, or even, apparently, what makes a country run, and it is good when he and his fans are publicly reminded of this.

*  Many countless others were brought here against their will too…

Another List

It was on Twitter, or maybe Facebook, or, maybe, it was on a “You May Also Like” lists on a news site, or wherever. Anyway, earlier today, I saw yet another listicle of TOP Republicans that aren’t voting for Trump. To whomever keeps publishing this crap, please give me something I can really use, like, say, Top Cake Mixes that use the fewest eggs or the most bourbon, cuz, really, the ongoing lists of GOP worthies is worse than useless.

Worse than useless you say? Yes, I do, and I’ll even tell you why. The GOP, the Republican Party, only exists in the minds of the folks putting their names on these inane lists.

Once upon a time, Richard Nixon discovered how many voters he could pull in using his Southern Strategy™®. You know, pulling in all the old Democrats from the South who discovered LBJ had taken them for a ride he signed the Civil Rights legislation in the mid-Sixties. Well, they weren’t gonna stand for this desegregation mess, and Nixon saw the opportunity of a lifetime, and, well, he took it. And he was elected president. Twice. The second time, by near acclamation.

Then along comes Ronald Reagan in 1980, and while Ronnie wasn’t too fond of Nixon, he and his team saw no harm in trying the Southern Strategy again. And boy, did it ever work. Turns out, talking about Law ’n’ Order will bring ’em a runnin’!

Anyway, here we all are, lo these many years later, and, well, all the old Country Club Republicans are just about gone. You know, the ones that voted for Ike, and later Nixon, Ford, etc. Now you basically have a party full of folks that heard the Southern Strategy™® dog whistle and came running. They didn’t then nor now give a shit about the GOP heirarchy. They don’t care what any of them say, think, or do. They don’t read the National Review, care not a whit what the ghost of Bill Buckley would want them to do. They just know that Donald of Orange is gonna make America great again—they have no idea now, and he, even less. But Orange Donne’s gonna do it!

So yeah, I’m waiting for the cake listicle.

Sous les pavés, la plage!


Under the paving stones, the beach!

The phrase dates from 1968 student riots in Paris, and the paving stones pulled up and thrown at the police. Once the stones were pulled up, sand was found beneath. One can easily make the metaphor that freedom lurks beneath conformity; you just gotta find it.
Perhaps the Bernie Folks should go ahead and appropriate this one for themselves. The same feeling—almost—is in the air—and it is apt to end the same way.

To put it as gently as possible, elections, at all levels, go to the candidate that knows how to play the game. To put anyone else in office requires more than a ballot box, I’m afraid.
I tried to get the highest res picture of a Ouija Board that I could, for your dining and channeling pleasure. Channel whom, you ask? Good question. At this point, you might be considering Ben Franklin or John Adams or any of those other worthies who set all this in motion, lo these many years ago.

Elections go to the candidate that knows how to play the game.

Nice guess, but, sorry, no cigar. I’ve got someone else in mind, and, to go along with the title, he’s French! Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre. Mad Max! You say you want a revolution, well, Robespierre is just who yer gonna need to pull the revolution off. And, by revolution, I mean a revolution that’s gonna make the French Revolution look like a jardin fête that Marie Antoinette threw at Versailles prior to Max and company taking over.

The gentlemen that stage the revolution in this country, circa 1776, were well-versed in the writings of Locke, Hume, and Montesquieu, amongst many others…you know…the Enlightenment.

You, Dear American Revolutionary, circa 2016, should be well-versed in M. Robespierre. Whatever else Robespierre knew, he definitely knew how to take care of entrenched, entitled assholes. He didn’t just send them to bed sans dinner. He didn’t just send them to bed sans dessert. He sent them to the graveyard sans their fucking head.

To put it bluntly, we have gone past the point in this country where change can be effected at the ballot box. Most legislative bodies in this country are totally in the bag for Big Business. You want the change of which you speak? Welp, Max is your man—and he is anxiously awaiting to get back in the game!

Image ~ Betagalactosidase on Deviant Art


Print this and you and your friends can bring up M. Robespierre!



The Fall


May I, monsieur, offer my story without running the risk of intruding on your dinner? I mean, you did want to know what kind of life I lived? Right?

Well, it all started on a small—for a Con Agra establishment—farm in Rockingham County. I was raised on CA’s prime Big Breast Turkey Feed™—more like forced-fed, but let’s not go there. I was told there was blue skies outside the turkey coop, but I never got out the door, what with gobbling up delicious BBTF eleventy times a day.

Then one day, Farmer comes out and announces that Farmer Obama up the road just pardoned a turkey at the Big Farm. He then said he wouldn’t be pardoning any of us, HAHA! He did say to look on the bright side…even if we were pardoned, we’d be dead before Christmas. Something about modern turkeys being bred to eat, not to live. Anyway, it’s a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

But enough about me, what about you? You’re looking pretty rough there. You know the feeling…you’re starting to feel a little woozy, you’re starting to feel like your dinner is getting ready to make a quick exit…out the front and back of the, uh, coop, yeah, you know what I mean. No amount of Imodium can stop this… Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you, my old farm, Turkey Farm Nr. 340311 just got shut down…something about mutated Ebola-Cholera Turkey Transmutation 0C5547BB-1. Yeah, that’s it, let the turkey flow thru you.

We’ll be together real soon—we can go check out that blue sky they told me about.

A Night to Remember

If the present incarnation of the GOP resembled the old in any way save the name, we might be in for two years of talk of tax reform, immigration reform, that sort of thing. What we’ll get, along those lines, is tax reform where business pays even less and immigration reform along the lines of deport all the Mexicans to Mexico and all the Chinamen to China. ¡Reform!

That’s if we’re lucky.

What we’re likely to get is two years of what the GOP is now expert at delivering…

  • An amendment making Christianity the Official Religion™ of these here United States
  • An amendment making abortion illegal on Earth, Mars, and the outer rings of Saturn
  • A murder of Representatives filing bills to make every other day Bible Day
  • An amendment making Englush* the Official Language of these here United States
  • An amendment requiring Ebolas to have two forms of ID to vote
  • An amendment outlawing the Gays
  • An amendment abolishing evolushun and making Creationism official
  • A race ’tween the House and Senate to see how many times they can repeal Obummercare
  • A race ’tween the House and Senate to see how many things they can name for Ronald Reagan
  • A race to see how many times they can bring Donald Trump to full orgasm

On one of the Sunday TeeVee talk shows little Billy Kristol—no, not THAT Billy Crystal, the other one, Irving and Gert’s boy—gave utterance to his fear that if the GOP takes the Senate, they’ll actually have to govern. Well they did, and now they will. Except what they call governing, the rest call a Marx Brothers’ film, and tonight, ladies and gentleman, the part of Harpo and his magic horn will be portrayed by Mr. McConnell.

Now everybody—

P.S. Joni Ernst is going to be a blast. Michele Bachmann may be gone, but now we’ve got Joni, who appears to be even crazier.

* they may turn out their base, but they still can’t spell for shit.

Thus spake Milord

Screen Shot 2014-10-13 at 10.04.07 PM

After Thommy Tillis and another Jones Street Lard Bottom tried to delay the order of the court, Pat, Earl of Duke made this announcement Friday evening.

His Lordship said:

“The administration is moving forward with the execution of the court’s ruling and will continue to do so unless otherwise notified by the courts. Each agency will work through the implications of the court’s ruling regarding its operations.”

In the last 60 years, The Lord has lost count of the number of times that a state formerly belonging to the Confederarse States of America has had to cop to executing an order of the court. If you can’t get there on time, get there when you can.

When I was in school, one of the professors had a large whitewashed board in his office. In large plain type, the message was clear: Do Right Because it is Right. Just once, it would be nice to see one of these Confederarse* states do something right because it is right, not because they got a billet-doux from a Supreme that closed with It is so ordered.

Res ipsa loquitur.

* Yes, I know, there are states just as backward that never belonged to the Confederarcy; but you can bet that if a state claimed membership in that august league, they will still be trying to do that Confederarse thing.


“It’s a GOLDMINE in there,” said Mr. Buzz-Cut Blonde.

Getting off I-85 at the second southbound exit in South Carolina, I was behind a tractor trailer, and Mr. BCB was trying to get around me, as he figured he could beat me, AND the truck. The only thing at this exit was Love’s. Why he thought both the truck and me were going elsewhere, who knows. Once he saw the truck was turning towards Love’s, he put the brakes on.

We both pulled into the Love’s to get gas; I got out and started fill the car, he looked at the gas pump, and turned to go inside. He was wearing tight, off-white pants, and tried to pull his tee shirt down over his hindquarters. Odd, since I surmised the pants had been chosen to display the hindquarters for all the world to admire.

A few minutes later, I walked into building and there he stood, energy drink in hand, still yammering on the iPhone. I got a bottle of water and stood two behind him in line as he continued to tell his phone what opportunities there were to be had somewhere—the location no doubt established before Mr. BCB got off the Interstate. He never paused the conversation, even as he told the cashier what pump he was on, and handed her a card for the gas and drink.

Carefully balancing the drink and phone, he pulled his shirt down as far over his bum as he could. Maybe the tighty off-white whitey pants seemed like a good idea when he was dressing this morning, but clearly, modesty was getting the better of him now.

When I walked out to my car, he was, with one hand, putting gas in the tank, still talking to someone looking for a goldmine.



You may not be able to see his face because of the Tea-ShadesiPhone, but his knuckles will be white from holding the phone at the cockamamie angle required to get the just right look. He will babble about himself when questioned. He will not find you the least bit engaging. The Egomaniacal Narcissist looks right through you into the nearest mirror.

BEWARE! Anyone approaching the self-absorbed individual should take all necessary force immediately.

Good luck.

—The Chief