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November 22nd, 2017

Plus Fascinating Shoe Information

Today is a busy day for me, so I am procrastinating. I should be out buying an upholstery needle and a spare folding table, but instead I will tell you about the stump I cut yesterday.

The huge oak that fell on my chicken house is long gone, but the stump lingered until yesterday. It was intimidating. I didn’t think my tractor could pick it up, and it was thicker than my 20″ chainsaw is long. Also, it was down on the ground were cutting it would be difficult. Yesterday I decided to give it a shot.

I had to cut from both sides, and cutting from the bottom was not possible, so there was no way to fix it so it would not split at the bottom. I cut for around 10 minutes, and finally, the free part dropped.

I took my handy-dandy timberjack, and with a lot of effort, I managed to start the log moving away from the rest of the stump. This is when I discovered the split. The log had split at the bottom, and there was still a strap of wood attaching it to the stump. I opened the kerf up so I could get at the strap, and I cut it with the tip of the saw.

Once the log was free, I moved it a couple of feet so the tractor forks could get at it, and I put the tines on the ground beside it. I used the timberjack to roll it onto the forks. Not easy, which told me the log was really heavy.

When I got it onto the forks, I hopped on the tractor and cranked the tines upward. The log moved, much to my relief. It rolled back toward the tractor. I then lifted the forks, and the log was free of the ground.

It’s a big relief to know I can move things this heavy, because I have a lot of them.

I took the tractor down to the gate by the highway, and I drove through the gate. Cars were whizzing by at maybe 70. I had planned to drive down the right-of-way and dump the log maybe 50 yards from the gate, but I would have been driving into traffic, and it made me nervous. There isn’t a lot of traffic here, but I picked the busiest time of the day, and such traffic as we have really moves.

I settled for dumping the log by the driveway. In the photo, it’s at the base of the pile by the road.

The county has given people until November 27 to get everything to the side of the road. It’s not looking good. Let me rephrase: it’s impossible. But I can move a few really annoying things into their lap, and it will be worth the effort.

When I was done, I tried something crazy. I put the front end loader down on the dirt above the stump, and I pushed. The stump rocked back. That surprised me. I was trying to rock it back into its hole. I didn’t succeed, but I made a big difference.

Now that I have put in some hours in two different pairs of work boots, I have drawn a conclusion. I like Danners better than Keens. My Keens give great protection, and unlike the Danners, they came with toe caps that prevent cuts to the leather, but the factory insoles are like concrete. They felt better when I bought them, but I suppose I have compacted them. I looked into aftermarket insoles, but Keen’s site says the Braddock boot is not compatible with them. I don’t know how that can be true. Keen makes insoles, though. I sent Keen a message asking whether their own insoles would work.

I am sorely tempted to get a shorter version of the Danners I bought. These boots are wonderful. The toes are vulnerable to cuts, but I solved the problem by applying KG Toe Guard to them. The Danners are selling for a little over a hundred bucks right now, which is crazy. Maybe the toe issue offended other consumers, and Danner is trying to unload the boots and discontinue them.

My Keens are American. My Danners are from somewhere else. Wild guess: China. People say to avoid foreign Danners, but my experience with them has been great, and at a hundred bucks, it’s hard to go wrong. If they last half as long, so what? They cost half as much.

When I’m rolling heavy logs, I’m very grateful for safety toes. Yesterday I imagined that severed stump rolling back on my toe. It weighs hundreds of pounds. It would not have done my toes any good. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it would have pressed my foot into the ground and then broken my leg.

Logging is not for the stupid. You have to think of all the physical possibilities in advance. Otherwise, you learn about them on the fly, very suddenly.

Wood seems to rot very quickly here. Maybe my problems aren’t as bad as they seem. Maybe my fallen trees will disappear in a couple of years if I get them on the ground and kill them with diesel. When I visited this place in the summer, there was a fallen log that looked fairly solid, and it’s disintegrating now.

I have to order some blackberry briars, and I have to make some decisions about new hedges. The sellers installed maybe six different kinds of hedge. Too busy. I need one bulletproof hedge species. A number of the existing hedges are looking crappy; I suppose hedge plants don’t last forever. It’s time to remove a section and plant something new. I figure I can do this about four times a year, and by next winter, the house will look a lot better.

The sellers put some truly worthless plants by the workshop. The shop has a porch with pillars, and each pillar has its own disappointing ornamental plant. I think I should do blackberries on each end and leave the middle pillar alone. Or maybe it would be best to do some kind of ground cover all the way across.

Blueberries do very well here, so I’ll need those, too. I can also grow kiwifruit and raspberries.

If you want ten or twenty tons of free firewood, and you want to cut it yourself, let me know. I’m the guy to see. Otherwise, I’ll just sit here and root for the termites.

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Happy Obligatory Fall Meal with People who are not Your First Choices

November 21st, 2017

Hurry up, Friday

Thanksgiving is nearly here.

Yay. Whee.

My attitude toward holiday cooking is not good at all. I rarely cook these days. If you don’t count the soup I make and freeze in portions for breakfast, I have cooked less than once a week for quite some time, and when I do cook, it’s usually for myself. I quit cooking for my dad. The work was just too much.

I used to cook for everyone I knew. Eventually, I got tired of it. Guests wore me out. They didn’t help much with shopping or cooking. Some guests showed up late or not at all. Some left early, as soon as they were full. Very few helped clean up. And how often did they invite me over for food? Not very.

One day, I heard the obvious notion rattling around in my mind: it is not normal for a single man to bust his hump cooking for 8 people in his own house. Entertaining is for married people. I quit cooking, except for rare occasions. Unfortunately, Thanksgiving is mandatory, so I can’t get out of it. We could go to a restaurant, but that would be so depressing, it would be worse than cooking at home. If I were alone, I could skip it entirely and think nothing of it, but I’m not alone.

Thanksgiving is a major undertaking for one person. Even a modest meal takes two days to prepare, unless you serve instant mashed potatoes and a canned ham. You have to do a lot of shopping. You have to store the food for several days before you prepare it. Then you have to clean the house and set the table, and afterward, you have to clean the kitchen and table area. It’s a nightmare.

If you’re married, you can divide tasks with the wife. If you have kids, you may be able to enslave them to some degree. If you have a big family, you may have parents, sisters, and brothers who will help. My mother is dead. My grandparents are all dead. My relatives in Kentucky don’t invite me or my dad to holiday meals. I don’t know if they’re afraid my sister will show up, or if they have some mysterious problem with me. My sister made them suffer a lot, but I have always dealt honestly with them.

Meals with my dad are not that great. His table manners are a problem. You have to look at your plate while you eat unless you want to see what he’s chewing. He stuffs himself, which is off-putting. You have to watch him to keep him from putting his fork or his dirty hands in common dishes, rendering them offensive to everyone else. He spills food on himself. He says, “lotta food,” maybe five times per meal. Because of dementia, he asks the same questions over and over, trying to start a conversation. If I bring up a better topic, he is likely to dismiss it immediately, as if I were stupid to bring it up. He gets upset because we don’t talk, but he makes it very difficult.

He likes to nag me about getting married and giving him grandchildren. He tells me how old I am. Sometimes he starts reminiscing about old times, which is very disturbing. I forgive him for the negative contributions he made to my childhood, and I never bring them up, but I won’t sit still while he talks about how happy I was. I correct him. I say things like, “My childhood was horrible, and I hate talking about it. Every day I thank God I’m an adult.” Then he gets angry with me.

When he’s done eating, there is food spilled on the table and floor, and I have to take care of it. And he likes to put spit on his finger and rub tables and counters with it, to remove smudges and so on. Often, the smudges are really flecks in the granite. He thinks they’re bits of food. He leaves a film of dried spit on things, and I have to go behind him with counter cleaner and alcohol.

His manners upset guests. They work together with me to contain the damage. “You don’t have to serve yourself; let me get that for you. Move so I can wipe that up. Let me get you more napkins.”

Thanksgiving should be a time to relax and enjoy life with people whose company you enjoy, but to me, it’s a huge chore I can’t wait to get behind me.

Another problem: the nice people next door invited us to eat with them. I had to weasel out of that. I don’t want to seem unfriendly (although I am), but I don’t like involving my dad in new relationships. When I’m with him, I’m uncomfortable and very restrained. I’m on duty, as a caretaker. My personality is muted. And he offends people. He told my friend Mike he looked like a fruit in his pink shirt, and he also looked over and announced, “You’re losing all your hair.” He said some troubling things to my friend Amanda when she cared for him over a weekend. It’s not a dementia thing, either. He was always like that.

My dad likes to talk about how serious I am, and he criticizes me for not talking. He says these things in front of people, and they probably believe it. If you come from a sick, dysfunctional family, it’s always best to minimize your family’s exposure to your friends and love interests. You need to be around people who will let you grow, not people who will try to keep you deformed and small.

He has made some effort to improve over the last few years, but dementia patients can’t alter their behavior all that well. He is stuck with his bad habits and flaws because he waited too long to admit they existed.

Amanda has no one to help her with Thanksgiving, so I invited her to come and bring her kids and her dysfunctional mom. We will take work off of each other, and both of us will benefit from the presence of a non-gaslighting, helpful adult. When Amanda’s mom puts her down, I’ll be around to remind Amanda how ridiculous and pathetic her mom’s perceptions are. If my dad empties his nose on the porch in front of everyone, Amanda will be there to step around the mucus and sympathize with me.

The presence of Amanda and her kids will make the ordeal considerably easier to bear, and it may be that my presence will cramp her mom’s style and put her on her best behavior.

When you look after a dementia patient, you have to limit your exposure. You can’t sit in the room with the patient all day, listening to them say the same things over and over. That’s especially true when the patient makes a point of saying annoying things which he knows are annoying, or when the patient keeps arguing about the same things, no matter how obvious it is that he’s wrong.

You can’t cruficy yourself because the patient isn’t entertained 24/7. You have to say, “Sometimes people plan their lives poorly, and when they do, a certain amount of suffering is unavoidable and just and not to be blamed on others.” It’s okay if a difficult patient experiences some boredom and loneliness. People who are not demented experience those things, and no one gets upset about it. It’s part of life. There is no law that says you’re entitled to constant entertainment simply because you’re demented.

I get bored occasionally. Sometimes, for a few minutes, I’m lonely. No one makes a federal case out of it. No one comes running to wipe my nose, and I’m fine. I know my dad would be happier if I sat beside him all day stepping and fetching and making balloon animals or whatever. I would be happier, too, if someone else gave up his or her life to keep me entertained and do my bidding. Doesn’t make it a good idea.

My approach is to ration the time I spend with my dad. I make sure we go out to eat three or four times a week. I check on him. I also make sure I have adequate time alone, to wind down. After bagging ten pounds of wet, reeking diapers and taking them to the dump, you really need time to wash carefully, sit down alone or with friends, and decompress. That’s especially true when the person who wears the diapers has broken through the Diaper Genie bag and has continued pushing filthy diapers into the Diaper Genie anyway.

You have to look after your parents when they need help, unless they’re absolutely unbearable. You don’t have to be a martyr or an enabler.

The stage of dementia my dad is in right now is said to last up to two years, and he is maybe six months into it. The next stage is much worse. Vascular dementia patients typically live about 5 years after they manifest symptoms, and things started going bad for him in about 2015. If my dad lives long enough, the following things will happen to him: we will get an attendant to come here and help him for a few hours a day, and then in the next stage, he will forget who I am and how to get dressed. He will have to go to a facility. At that point, he will have maybe two more years of life left. I want him to be happy while he’s here and reasonably lucid, but it won’t be long until I have to put other people in charge. At that point, I’ll have to get used to the fact that I have nearly no ability to provide him with company or amusement. I’ll have to trust strangers and be at peace with it.

I remember visiting his mother with him, after she moved to a nursing home. The whole place smelled like feces, even though it was clean. You can only do so much to reduce the smell of diapers. An old woman with a blank look on her face was using her feet to pull herself around in a wheelchair. She made unintelligible sounds. My dad leaned over and whispered, “If I ever have to go to a place like this, just kill me.”

I think about that sometimes. Unless he passes unexpectedly, he’s going to have to go to just such a place. Will he hate it as much as he thought? People’s desires and priorities change with their circumstances. No one is going to kill him, so he may have to face a move to a home. I shouldn’t assume too much; nurses and other healthcare providers kill people all the time to get them out of the way, so maybe one day when my back is turned, someone will play God.

The other day he asked me if he was losing his mind. He’s in denial almost all the time, so that surprised me. I didn’t say yes, which would have been true, but I was honest. I told him the condition he has gets worse, not better. I didn’t know what else to say. Pills are available, but his doctor recommended not using them, and he doesn’t want them.

Tomorrow I plan to bone the turkey and prepare cornbread for stuffing. I may cook yams so they’ll be ready to finish preparing on Thursday. I still don’t have a real dining table, so I need to get a second plastic folding table.

The food will be incredible, and Amanda and I will enjoy the kind of bonding friends from dysfunctional families are famous for. Hopefully her kids will be insulated from the holiday misery their father’s wretched behavior has the potential to cause. It will be at least seven years until he is allowed to see them again. That time needs to be dedicated to healing.

When the meal is done, I plan to make Amanda take as much of the leftovers as possible. My dad will complain, but Thanksgiving leftovers make for a big mess during the following week, and my dad tends to keep them until they are rotten. Also, they’re fattening.

If you are lucky enough to have quality Thanksgiving gatherings, enjoy them while you can. I enjoyed a lot of great holidays in Kentucky when I was a kid. I’m glad I have those times to remember. In the meantime, I will grit my teeth and deal with this obligation.


PBS Enters the Groping Wars

November 20th, 2017

Plus Retro Joy

It looks like Charlie Rose is all done. A Drudge-linked story says he is accused of serial groping.

I was reading about it and Googling around, and somehow I landed on Charles Kuralt. Remember him? He was a CBS reporter who got tired of covering hard news. He got the network to give him an RV, and he drove around America’s back roads for decades, doing human interest stories.

Charles Kuralt, who died before he could be accused of fondling anyone, is a lot more interesting than Charlie Rose. I’m glad I got sidetracked.

As soon as I started reading about Kuralt, I asked the obvious question: are there DVD’s? Yes, there are. There are at least three DVD compendiums of “On the Road” segments.

I am considering buying a set, but I’m afraid to. I’m afraid it will make me too sad to live. Also, I feel like if I watch Kuralt zip through the decades, as soon as I finish, the world will come to an end. Somehow I feel that the earth will plunge instantly into violence and chaos, demons will be set free on every continent, the clouds will part, and Charles Kuralt and Charles Schulz will appear in the heavens, beckoning me upward out of this tiresome mess.

Kuralt was a class act. Makes me wish I had an RV.


Every Storm Starts With One Drop of Rain

November 20th, 2017

New Franken Accuser

We have seen the last of Al Franken. Probably.

The thing serial gropers/rapists/molesters never seem to think about is the folks who invariably follow up on the first abuse account. Most men never abuse anyone, but those who do are generally repeat offenders. If there is something so incredibly wrong with you that you think you have the right to put your hands on women, you will do it over and over until something (like a tweet and creepy photo) changes your mind.

Franken posed for a horrendous photo, in which he gleefully, proudly cupped his hands over the breasts of a sleeping Leeann Tweeden. Then he apologized (not really) and refused to resign. He went off and hid in Minnesota, using the imminent holiday for cover, just as Bill Clinton used weekends to kill negative news stories about himself. Unfortunately for Franken, before he managed to scurry into the shade, another accuser popped up. A married woman says he squeezed her buttock while posing for a photo with her in 2010.

The Tweeden photo stirred up a certain amount of throat-clearing among liberals. The far-left comedy show Saturday Night Live went after Franken (gently) this weekend, saying, ‚ÄúSure, this was taken before Franken ran for public office, but it was also taken after he was a sophomore in high school.” The writer of the Weekend Update item noted Franken’s age at the time of the offense: 55. They were trying to acknowledge Franken without really hurting his chances of staying in the Senate (as evinced by their immediate deflection to criticism of Donald Trump, who groped women consensually). Nonetheless, their jabs leave marks.

Franken is a disagreeable, aggressive, egotistical person of limited talent, and now it has become obvious that he has a serious maturity problem, as well as a surprising wealth of hostility toward women.

I think I understand him. He is a pillar of the black humor community. I was part of that trend, myself. I’ve made all sorts of disgusting, offensive jokes during my life. Under the influence of idiots like Franken, I worked diligently to soil my own heart, and it worked. I became jaded and cruel. Franken is probably fairly dead inside, as a result of giving himself over to black humor. His thought life must be a lot like “The Aristocrats.” My own thought life was ghastly until a few years back. I knew of no reason to limit it.

The Franken story is not uplifting, but at least we won’t have to worry about another Franken term or a Franken presidency. Thank God for that.

Is it must me, or are most of the famous abusers men who would have a hard time getting women without fame and power?

When I look at people like Brett Ratner, James Toback, Harvey Weinstein, Louis C.K., and Al Franken, the impression I get is that they were not babe magnets in high school. That, combined with excessively powerful sex drives, could explain their cruelty to women. “You wouldn’t go near me back then, but now you will submit or else.” That’s my guess. I think they’re punishing all women, to get even with the girls who refused to have sex with them in high school.

We’re not hearing a whole lot of abuse stories that revolve around handsome men.

It makes you wonder what dark fantasies bubble beneath the surface in high school chess clubs all across America.

Al Franken is 5’6″ tall. He was a math nerd and wrestler in high school. He wears thick glasses. He looks the way he looks. He succeeded late in life. Girls weren’t threatening to set themselves on fire if he didn’t take them to the prom.

Franken will probably try to rebound from the second accusation, like a weighted inflatable boxing toy coming back for another whack, but it is likely that he will be met on the way up with another fist to the face. That’s how these things work. Think of Kevin Spacey. He got accused. He put out a self-praising statement intended to put him on the side of the offended. Then, “BANG! BANG! BANG!,” the new accusers piled on. His career is dead, and he may end up in prison. I doubt Franken will take as many hits, but it would be odd if he didn’t take enough to keep him on the canvas.

If conservatives are conspiring against Franken (why wouldn’t they?), they may have their follow-up punch cued up already. Smart oppo merchants think like terrorist bombers, who follow bombs up with other bombs that target rescuers. First you hit Franken, and then when he thinks he’s clear, you hit him and his supporters again.

Look at James O’Keefe. He puts out a video. The left responds with a stack of hopeful lies. Then he puts out another video, to make them look even worse.

Liberals are slut-shaming Leeann Tweeden now. They found a photo of her with her hand on a man’s behind, and they found another shot of her with one leg wrapped around a man. Tweeden is not a classy woman. She appeared in Playboy Magazine. But isn’t it revealing, watching liberals resort to a practice they condemn? They invented the ridiculous term “slut-shaming.” It infuriates them when other people criticize slutty women, but look at them go.

Isn’t this what they call “putting the victim on trial”?

Maybe they need to criticize the rest of us for “perv-shaming.” Instead of “Slut Walks,” which figure prominently among the signs of the Apocalypse, they can have “Perv Walks.” We’ll all dress up in C.K. beards and Cosby sweaters and walk up and down major traffic arteries, offering women Quaaludes. Then everyone will be immune to zombie harassment eruptions.

Franken will be gone in a week, or he will not go at all. Let’s see if he can hold on.


Wish You Weren’t Here

November 19th, 2017

Enemies are More Powerful Than Friends

I had the funniest revelation today. I realized I think more about the people I cut out of my life than the people I miss. The satisfaction I get from the absence of jerks greatly outweighs the suffering I feel when I think about people I care for, who are not around.

I guess that makes sense. Pain tends to be sharper and more intense than pleasure. The drive to eliminate pain is much stronger than the drive to obtain pleasure. When an idiot makes you suffer all the time, it’s hard to stop thinking about it. When someone is good to you and brings you happiness, it’s easy to think about other things.


I cut the entire population of Dade County loose when I moved, and I feel great about it. I never think, “Wow, it would be great to visit South Beach/go fishing off Miami/have a Cuban sandwich/whatever.” It has been 15 years since I deliberately interacted with anyone I went to high school with. The longer I stay here, the more I hate Miami, and the more I wish I had left sooner! I wish I had never lived there at all. Miami was a curse to me. I’m going to have to go back more than once, and I hate the very thought of it.

There’s a Cuban restaurant near me, and I feel a pain in my stomach every time I see it.

I’m not saying there is no one there I would like to see, but I can count them on the fingers of one hand.

I do not miss my sister. She made me suffer all the time, even when she was not around, and I thank God often for her absence. I pray it continues. She made my dad miserable, and he made his unhappiness my problem, so good riddance.

I don’t miss the pastors of my former churches. They were cult leaders. They thought of me as a rebellious slave. They were not the brightest people on earth. They had no humility. They could not take advice. They wrecked marriages and friendships in order to keep their cults safe from dissent. I hope I never see any of them again.

Many of the people I went to church with were hopeless hypocrites. They were way out on the left. Jesus was the farthest thing from liberal. He hated jealousy, which is the foundation of leftism. He hated sexual sin. He hated homosexuality and abortion. I knew dozens of people who were under the spell of morons like Jesse Jackson and Maxine Waters. They will never grow, and trying to educate them was like trying to forge horseshoes with my face. I have warm feelings for them, but I can do without the frustration.

I had some very disappointing law school friends. To them, I say, “ta ta.” There are a couple of people I would not mind visiting, but I’m thrilled to know I will never see the users again. I cut off a couple of my closest college friends. Dead weight. Buh-bye.

People have limited potential to increase your happiness, but their potential to make you want to die knows no bounds. If you don’t believe that, marry a crazy vindictive woman who is great in bed. Having friends is much less important than getting rid of your enemies. That’s very sad, but it’s a fact.

Jesus spent a lot of time casting out demons and telling people to separate themselves from the world, but we don’t see him arranging marriages or putting friends together.

I’m always disappointed when I learn a person has lots of friends. It tells me they’re in denial. They’re gullible. No one has more than a few friends. If you think the 4000 people who call you “friend” on Facebook love you, you are hopelessly naive. If you have one friend, you’re luckier than most people. If you have five, you’re rich.

I’ll be disappointed if God doesn’t bring more nice people in my life, but what would really hurt would be if he stopped straining out the jerks. May they forget my name and lose my number.


Who’s Afraid? Me

November 18th, 2017

If This is Consciousness, Knock me Out

I just finished Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. This is the second-to-last book in my painful slog through the Columbia College Literature Humanities Syllabus (as modified by yours truly).

I should have finished this book in ten days, but it took weeks. The reason is clear. I got so bored with Lit. Hum. books, I got to the point where I only read them in one room of the house, if you get my drift. It’s not a place where I spend a lot of time, so my pace was glacial.

I’m sure you don’t want to read Virginia Woolf, but just in case you’re insane, let me point out that this blog post contains spoilers. Not that it’s possible to spoil this book. That would be like ruining the intestinal flu.

There is a philosopher (i.e. person who has decided to waste his existence) named Ramsay. He has a wife named…I forgot her name. They have 8 kids. The wife is incredibly beautiful, even though the book starts when she is 50 and presumably fairly well stretched out and saggy in all respects (8 kids). They have a house on an island. For some reason, practically everyone they know hangs out at the house. It is not clear whether they help pay for groceries.

Ramsay is very selfish. He feels bad about his life, as he should, so from time to time he interrupts what his wife is doing so he can share his self-pity with her and get some sympathy. He says snotty things to people for no clear reason. Everyone always has to do what he wants to do.

Mrs. Ramsay is stupid. She spends her time pondering about things like the lengths of socks. She does not know what a square root is.

Mrs. Ramsay dies, and the house falls apart. Then Mr. Ramsay has it fixed. Some of the remaining members of the family (2 kids have died at this point, perhaps to avoid appearing in the second half of the book) go back to the house with their dad and some of the entourage. Mr. Ramsay and two of his kids make some peasants row them across the bay to a lighthouse.

The end.

I just saved you 8 dollars.

There is no plot. There are no characters. Everyone is pretty much the same. No one ever says anything funny or interesting. There are ZERO laughs in the book. There are no clever lines you will want to memorize or underline.

Why? Why does this book exist?

It astounds me that anyone could enjoy this book or think it worthy of publication, especially after reading good books. Think of 1984, Catch-22, or even The Catcher in the Rye. Read one of those, and then try to force your way through To the Lighthouse. The difference is day and night.

Is it affirmative action at work? “Come on, guys, we have to find a woman to publish. People are starting to talk.” Surely not. There are some decent female writers out there. Surely female talent is not so rare that the publication of Virginia Woolf’s meanderings is in any way justified.

I’m a smart guy. I’m not the problem here. If this book was good, I would have seen something in it. It’s just not. It’s horrendous.

Virginia Woolf was mentally ill, so maybe that explains the book’s badness. She put rocks in her pockets and walked out into a river to die. The book is packed with internal monologues, and it was written by a tortured individual who was borderline insane. Maybe it’s bad because people with Ms. Woolf’s type of mental illness have boring, chaotic inner narratives. Virginia Woolf may have assumed the rest of us thought the same way she did. A writer can’t connect unless he has something in common with the reader, and apart from breathing oxygen, I have nothing at all in common with Ms. Woolf. I have a sense of humor. I am smart. I like books with plots and characters. I like books that have themes. I could go on.

It’s sad that people encouraged her.

Am I wrong? Are most human beings this boring, inside? My inner monologues are highly entertaining and full of relatively intelligent notions. If I had Mrs. Ramsay’s inner voice, I’d have to smoke meth to stay awake.

James Joyce was also a stream-of-consciousness perpetrator who wrote inner monologues, and his were as boring as Woolf’s. Maybe this is how most people think. I don’t know. I’ve never been in anyone else’s head. Why would you write the boring thoughts of a boring person, especially if the person were fictitious? Wouldn’t it make more sense to write interesting thoughts? Just my take on the matter. But then I always wonder why manufacturers design ugly cars, when good-looking cars cost the same to produce.

The book isn’t all bad. It has the shining virtue of being shorter than other bad books Columbia has inflicted on its students. I took that into consideration when I chose to include it in my list. The Lit. Hum. syllabus varies from year to year, so I felt entitled to make changes.

I am finally free to move on to Lord of the Flies, which should be entertaining, if only because of the violence. Sad that it comes down to that. I doubt the book will teach me much about life. My understanding is that it’s about kids who commit atrocities on each other in the absence of adults. I know about that. I have an older sister.

I used to enjoy literature, but then I chose books that sounded good to me, not pretentious crap recommended by grey-souled academics who live in denial. The Lit. Hum. experience is almost enough to turn me off literature entirely. I do like Shakespeare, though, and there are a few other things I would like to re-read. St. Exupery. Dumas. Orwell, the secular prophet. I might even go through Ayn Rand’s comic-book novels again before I die. Virginia Woolf…no. It is a complete waste of effort.

If you’re buying presents for friends who like to read, scratch Ms. Woolf off the list. Her work is too appallingly dull even for regifting.


Animal World

November 17th, 2017

Shock Humor has Shocking Consequences

Frankengate is not going away, and Bill Clinton may be dragged down in its wake.

Al Franken, a married man, posed for a photo of himself groping (or pretending to grope, like there’s a big difference) a sleeping woman, and the photographer made the cruel photo part of a souvenir CD. Liberals have had a day to decide whether Al Franken goes under the bus, and it looks like he’s going. Valerie Jarrett, one of the most unpleasant far-left bigwigs alive, went after Franken on the web. If Jarrett is willing to do that, people who are more moderate are sure to follow.

Is it principle? Probably not. Democrats want the Senate seat Roy Moore is trying to land. If they excuse Franken, they help Moore. If they torpedo Franken, they get to look righteous, and the worst thing that can happen is that they will get a new Democrat Senator for Minnesota. Democrats tend to jump at the short-end money. Franken can be replaced, Clinton is retired, Clinton’s wife is a drag on the party, and the Alabama Senate seat means a lot to them. They’re not thinking about the many Democrats who will be eaten by sex scandals in the near future. They are happily burning their ships on the beach, with no thought of the future need for redemption.

How do I know those soon-to-be-eaten Democrats exist? Because I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. There is a huge backlog of undiscovered harassment and rape cases out there. Count on it.

The Senate is going to have an ethics investigation. I would love to see Al Franken lose his seat, but I have to ask: does it make sense to investigate a member of Congress for actions performed before he took office? Murders, sure. But workplace harassment from a professional comedian and known jerk? I’m not sure. Minnesotans knew they were electing someone immature and inclined toward indecency, so I don’t know if they would want Franken removed.

Franken is part of the SNL/National Lampoon/Harvard Lampoon/Second City black humor movement. He rose to moderate fame among people who used the crutch of shock humor to become successful. You know them. Franken, Chevy Chase, Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis, John Belushi, John Hughes, Doug Kenney, Brian Doyle-Murray, John Landis, and the rest of the crew. You can’t expect such a person to respect time-honored morals. He made his living tearing them down.

I was heavily influenced by the black humor movement. I was a sensitive, inoffensive kid, and the world abused me, so my brilliant response was to become like my abusers. I fell under the spell of black humor.

In 1978, the misguided misanthropes at The National Lampoon changed the face of movie comedy. They created a film called Animal House. It’s about a fraternity full of losers, criminals, drug abusers, sex fiends, and sadists. If you haven’t seen it, good for you, but you must live in a burrow. The “heroes” of animal house made everyone else on campus miserable. They were as offensive as possible, and they punished a college for offering them an opportunity to better themselves and become affluent. Somehow, we were supposed to sympathize. And we did. That’s the incredible thing.

I had no common sense at all in 1977. I was the product of an abusive, dysfunctional family. I was a star underachiever. The world rejected me, probably for good reason. Naturally, I thought Animal House was extremely clever. I admired the staff of The National Lampoon.

Somehow, I got admitted to an Ivy League college, and like a lot of the idiots around me, I thought the purpose of my existence was to emulate John Belushi and Tim Matheson. I thought they were great role models. I spent a whole lot of time drunk. I performed a lot of pranks. I had no respect for most instructors. I thought the school’s administrators, who were simply trying to keep the place running smoothly, were just flying monkeys. Things went about as well as you would expect. When I was caught firing rockets out of a dorm window in the middle of the night, the deans decided I needed some time off.

I don’t know if I would have made it in the absence of bad role models. My family was poisonous. They made me miserable. They raised me very badly and did not prepare me to succeed at anything. But the black humor movement certainly did not help.

I failed. The movement succeeded. Stripes, Ghostbusters, Porky’s, Neighbors, Modern Problems, Caddyshack…movie humor changed permanently. Unlike me, Al Franken survived without repenting. His star waxed. It’s remarkable that he made it to Congress without anyone important saying, “Do we really want a shock comedian in Congress?”

Anyhow, he made it, and now, somehow, we’re surprised to see that a problem in his past brought him down.

I loved the Hornblower TV series, and I remember a powerful line uttered by the protagonist: “Each of us has a maggot in our past which will happily devour our future.” Franken finally met his maggot. Millions of other men are waiting to meet theirs. Zombie crises are waiting to pop out of the grave and pull people in.

Franken’s story is scary. If I had succeeded as a humorist, I might be right where he is today. I would think of myself as a crusader for righteousness, while propagating evil. Posing for a photo like the one Franken posed for would seem hilarious to me. I would be too jaded to see the problem.

Franken probably thinks he’s a fine human being. When you succeed, you are less likely to question yourself. He probably thinks he’s the victim of a right-wing operation, and maybe he is, but he should be blaming himself, not the enemies who threw his own filth back at him.

I don’t want to go out like that. I keep praying for God to judge and correct me privately so I don’t have to be humiliated publicly. I haven’t raped anyone or exposed myself to a coworker, but I am not in a position to cast the first stone.

Churches don’t talk much about repentance or accepting blame. They talk a lot about money. Some talk about “social justice.” Some are obsessed with getting us to condone sexual perversion. They don’t think about the primary purpose of life: we are supposed to become like God in our hearts. Accepting blame is the key. Until you admit fault, the door to freedom will remain locked, and you will continue to beat your head against it to no constructive end.

When did Jesus come? After John came and preached repentance. What does that tell you?

This stuff is important. God won’t necessarily chase you down and tell you what to do. You need to go after him, and if no one is teaching you, how will you know what to do?

I know a kid who is being bullied in school. It makes me think of my own childhood. Bad people defeated me all the time, and I had no idea what to do. I accepted it as my lot. God did not come to me and help.

You can’t tell your kids God will look after them, unless you have some reason to believe it. If the groundwork isn’t there, God may do little or nothing for them.

When I was a kid, I was tormented by demons all the time. They gave me nightmares, including nightmares that continued when I was awake. I felt their presence. I saw one. I had no one to defend me. Foul spirits visited me all the time, but I never heard from God. He didn’t come into my room to comfort me. He never spoke to me in an audible voice, saying, “Your parents let you down. They haven’t taught you. But I love you, so here I am to do their job.” I never got a visit from God until I was 24 years old! I could have died before that. I could have gone to prison. All sorts of bad things could have happened.

Am I criticizing God? Of course not. I’m pointing out that God doesn’t help everyone automatically. You have to look for him. He will let you suffer and die if you don’t make a move, and it will be your fault, not his.

This ruined world is very, very far from heaven. It is not God’s main concern. This world is one level above hell, and hell’s stink has soaked through the ceiling, into our midst. God is far away, in a clean and orderly place, surrounded by righteous beings. We can’t expect him to spend all his time here, in a place that stinks, any more than we can expect free people to spend their lives in filthy prisons. God is rejected here. He is contemned and insulted. He is under no obligation to live here. The crucifixion was a gift. He didn’t owe us anything.

God will let your children be abused, unless you get to know him. He will not prevent them from being raped or killed. We chose to ruin this world, and now we and our children have to live with the consequences. If you want things to work, you have to get with God’s program. There is a limit to what he will do for you when you’re out of his will. He already came to this disgusting placed and let us torture him to death. What more should we expect?

I don’t like this planet. I hate Miami because it’s a sleazy place full of vile people, and I’m very glad I’m in Ocala now, but it’s still part of the earth. The more I learn about God, the more I dislike the earth, and the more eager I am to leave. If a being as evil as I am hates this place, imagine how God feels.

Satan didn’t create hell. God did. Satan doesn’t put people in hell. God does. God is love, but he is also justice. You have to keep that in mind. There is a lot at stake, and you may not get help unless you apply.

God’s justice is no joke. It is the hardest rock in existence.

American values are revolting and toxic. We sin so much, we can’t recognize sin when we see it. We have no idea what righteousness looks like. All this is true, but we still have the brass to say things like, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” Who are these good people? I don’t know any. The earth is a ghetto full of fatherless ignoramuses. No one has taught us how to live, so we flounder in failure and foolishness.

When you call yourself good, you tell God, “Stop helping me,” and he obeys. You’re taking the cake out of the oven before it’s done.

I don’t want to provoke God by rejoicing in the downfall of people like Franken and Harvey Weinstein. Their problems are not gifts to me. They are warnings regarding my own faults.

My advice is to deemphasize asking God for favors. Start asking him to help you confess to him and repent. Remember that your primary obligation is to be changed. God created us in order to reproduce. Pride is like thalidomide. It keeps us stunted.

When we change, we’re not doing God a favor. He doesn’t need anything from us. He doesn’t need us, period. It’s all for us. It’s all selfish. You will never make him owe you.

I guess I’ll sit back and see who falls next. I hope it’s not me.

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Somewhere O’Reilly is Smiling

November 16th, 2017

Killing Stuart Smalley

Al Franken. Why am I not surprised?

I guess if you read my blog, you probably saw the story already. I attract conservatives, and the story was mentioned on The Drudge Report, a conservative site. If you haven’t seen it, I’ll bring you up to speed. Former glamour model Leeann Tweeden produced a photo of a leering Al Franken, mugging for the camera as he gropes her chest. To make things worse, Tweeden is asleep in the photo. It was taken during a USO tour.

Franken posed with his hands over Tweeden’s breasts. It’s not clear whether he is making contact (it appears that his right hand did not), but what he is doing, were the victim conscious, would fully qualify as assault in a criminal court. Assault does not require physical contact. Whether it would be a misdemeanor or a felony, I can’t say. I would guess that in many jurisdictions, the sexual nature of the assault would move it into the felony category.

Tweeden also says Franken grabbed her and forced his lips against hers and pushed his tongue into her mouth. That’s battery.

Were Franken a Republican, I would say he was all washed up. No Republican could recover from this. But Democrats get away with things. Even now, I’m sure excuses are being manufactured. Tweeden is being accused. Maybe Whoopi Goldberg is telling someone, “It wasn’t a GROPE grope.”

I’m checking Internet comments, and yes, liberals are saying what Franken did was fine. They say his hands aren’t touching Tweeden’s breasts in the photo. Funny, they don’t mention the tongue attack. And how would they feel if Franken held his hands over their mothers’ breasts? Would it still be okay?

Not to pile on with those who blame Tweeden, but I have to say that this photo tells me I didn’t think about one aspect of the sexual harassment hysteria. It didn’t occur to me that past offenses would be dredged up and weaponized for political purposes. It looks like that’s what’s happening here.

I should have anticipated it, and I should have made the connection after reading about Roy Moore, but Moore’s story, like those surrounding Clinton, seems like it would have come out eventually, even without the help of political operatives. The Moore litany seems very legitimate, even if Democrats are taking advantage of it, and even if the liberal journalists propagating the tales chose their timing deliberately in order to take the Senate away from Republicans. Tweeden’s story, though valid, seems more calculated and opportunistic. One gets the impression that someone called her and said, “Hey, remember that story you told me about Al Franken? Do you have the photo?” I don’t think we’d be hearing about it but for the current “me too” frenzy.

I’m just guessing, and regardless of the reason Tweeden spoke up, she has every right to toss Franken in the frying pan.

One of the sleaziest things about the picture is that Tweeden was not aware that it had been taken, until she received a souvenir CD of the USO trip. She found out about the picture when she looked at the CD. Nice. Imagine how that feels. And where were the other men on the plane when this happened? Did Franken drug them and put them in the lavatory? Why didn’t someone do something?

The CD was given to her by the photographer. Where was his brain when he took the photo, decided to include it in the album, and then decided to send it to the victim? Photographers have to worry about ethics. It’s an important part of the job. Looks like someone didn’t get the memo.

Photographers tend to be a little creepy. When I was in high school we had a photography buff named Lloyd. When we had pep rallies in the assembly hall, Lloyd would get down on his knees in front of the stage, and when the girls jumped up in their short skirts and spread their legs, Lloyd would point the camera upward and shoot photos. For some reason, no one ever stopped him. He must have had a huge collection of pictures. He probably still has them. If you carry a camera and you like women, you can get away with a lot. Photography attracts freaks.

The feminist excuses will be a real spectacle. Right now, all over the US, women who claim to stand up for their sisters are sitting around tables coming up with rationalizations to help Franken, and they are looking for excuses to crucify Tweeden.

They can’t call her a slut, referring to her Playboy appearance. These days, “slut” is a compliment. Thanks to feminists. So much for saying she asked for it.

Who will suffer most in the purge? Democrats or Republicans? Democrats behave somewhat worse, but the press covers up for them, so maybe Republicans will take the most heat.

It’s remarkable how Satan works. He ramped up sexual temptation over the last half-century. He taught women to be entitled, brainless temptresses who shame anyone who tries to correct them. He made sexually provocative photos more widely available than ever before. Then he sprang the trap, and now the people who are caught in it–mostly men–are being removed from positions of leadership.

The sex drive is just about impossible to control completely. Even the angels are susceptible. The Bible tells us angels fell because they lusted after women. What hope is there for Al Franken or Jimmy Swaggart if an angel can’t resist temptation?

Things will get worse. Instead of helping, women will become more provocative. Men and boys will continue to fall. The world needs male leaders, but they can’t lead if they’re constantly taken down by a force they can’t overcome.

Guess I’ll look at the Internet later and see what Al has to say. I suspect it will be an attack on Tweeden instead of an apology.

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Wood Removal Progress

November 15th, 2017

Facing my Tractor Fears

Today I overcame one of my big fears. I drove the tractor on the right-of-way by my farm, parallel to the road, leaning over, with a big log on the front end loader. And I did not roll the tractor and die.

Marion County and FEMA are sending trucks to carry off Irma debris, and it’s a huge gift to citizens. I can’t even guess what it would cost to pay a tree service to haul tons of wood off my land. Free is preferable. The problem is that it’s not easy to get trees cut and moved. I’m alone, I didn’t have the right tools or access to the whole farm until some time after the storm, and the only place where I can put the trees and count on having them picked up is along a scary ditch.

The free pickups will not last forever, and I am way behind.

My property consists of two adjoining lots that abut a highway. One lot is at the top of a hill. When cars approach that lot, they are approaching a high place. They can’t see past it. The area by the road is fairly flat, and it would be a great place to put wood, but I would have to drive the tractor right beside the road in a place where drivers doing 70 would be very surprised to see me.

The other lot is easy for approaching drivers to see, but it has a lot of growth on the right-of-way, and the ditch is not as flat. This is the safest place to put things, but I was putting it off because of the ditch’s slope.

Somebody in the government surprised me by coming by with some kind of machine (which I never saw) and cutting back the brush by the road. That’s a huge help. Now I can go up and down the lot with the tractor well off the road. The trees and shrubs don’t obstruct my path. With the obstructions gone, the only things preventing me from dumping trees were cowardice and laziness.

Today I drove the Kubota down to the end of the lot and moved a few big logs down the ditch and dumped them. It wasn’t bad at all. I kept the bucket low so the tractor’s center of gravity would be down by the ground, and I moved carefully. Everything worked out well.

If I really work at it, I may be able to get rid of a third of my big logs before the government bails on me. A third is better than nothing.

After I moved the logs, I went back to the area by the house and picked up a 12-foot-long trunk. I wanted to see if the Kubota could lift it. No problem. I took it to the gate between the house and the burn pile, and I raised it so I could get through the gate. Then I lowered it again and took it out by the pile. My friend Mike was here over the weekend, and he played with the tractor. He dumped a lot of wood not far from the pile. I decided to add the trunk.

I lifted the trunk, because you have to have the loader up high in order to lower the forks and drop things. Then I dropped the trunk. The rear wheels of the tractor either left the ground or tried to, and the tractor tilted to the left. This all happened very quickly, and then the trunk fell clear and the tractor righted itself.

This was not quite what I was hoping to see.

For a fraction of a second, I wondered whether I was in the process of rolling the tractor over. On myself. My new lesson: avoid dropping heavy objects quickly. I don’t think I’ll need to repeat the lesson. It made a pretty deep impression on me.

Maybe I should start using the safety belt. I don’t want to overreact, but it’s just possible that I need to start buckling it.

The weather here is very nice now. Working outdoors is much easier than it was a month ago. Sadly, there is more dust, because the ground is dry. But I’ll take dust over mosquitoes, sweat, and heat stroke.

I can’t burn anything in this weather. The other day I was near the burn pile, and I used my plumber’s torch to light the grass by my feet. It did not go out. The fire started spreading. Once I was sure it was not going to die down on its own, I stamped it out. My experiment told me what I needed to know. No burning until it starts raining again. Everthing I can’t put by the road will have to sit and molder.

I’m getting better at taking care of this place. I may conceivably develop the necessary skills before the farm disintegrates from neglect. I have chain saws, two leaf blowers, a string trimmer, and a lithium-ion hedge trimmer that has to be seen to be believed. I’ve learned how to kill unwanted plants with diesel. I’m starting to understand how badly the previous owners chose ornamental plants, and what I need to do to fix it. I’ve even boned up on good choices for tree planting. I’m thinking chestnuts, black walnuts, peaches, and maybe a persimmon.

I feel nervous about killing and burning a bunch of plants and trees the sellers clearly worked hard to put here, but it has to be done. I have like eight different types of shrubs around the house. I need to cut back to one or two. I have the ugliest, most oddly situated magnolia trees on earth. They need to be cut down. I have 70-foot live oaks 50 feet from my house, killing the grass and threatening to fall on me. They have to go.

I have three citrus trees, and I’m pretty sure every one has citrus greening. The fruit are disgusting. And what fruit they are. Navel oranges! The Ford Granada of oranges. No juice, no flavor, and hard to peel. Tiny grapefruit. Ponderosa lemons.

A ponderosa lemon is a ridiculous lemon-like fruit which is nearly as big as a grapefruit. People call them lemons, but they have no taste other than tasting sour. In Miami, damaged citrus trees are famous for dying back to trunks which sprout ponderosas. I guess they’re used for root stock. Anyway, it’s a pathetic fruit. I suppose you could use them to add acidity to food.

There are a lot of great citrus fruits to choose from. Best of all, hands down: the tangelo, also known as the minneola or honeybell. It’s like a giant orange that tastes a hundred times better, and you can peel them with your fingers. Another winner: the tangerine. But if you have tangelos, tangerines are somewhat superfluous. Pummelos are great. A pummelo is a gigantic, dry-fleshed grapefruit which is very sweet. Persian limes are good. If you’ve never had a lime grown in a backyard, you have no idea how good Persian limes are supposed to be. Key limes are good for cooking. Kaffir limes produce leaves you can cook with. Ruby red grapefruit are great for juice or eating with a spoon.

Why anyone would pick the trees currently dying in my side yard is a mystery.

I need to have a county agent come out and confirm that they’re sick. Then down they come. Sad, but citrus is being eradicated all over the world, and it’s best to get it over with and plant something else.

There is a new greening-resistant fruit called a Sugar Belle. It’s sort of like a tangelo, but I think it’s more acidic. I may see if I can get a couple of trees. They’re patented, so you probably can’t pick one up at Home Depot.

If you didn’t know citrus was being wiped out by a plague, sorry to break it to you. Enjoy it while you can. The plague is global, so eventually citrus will be hard to find.

I plan to cut some of the hopeless shrubs around this place and put in blackberries and raspberries. I should get on that immediately.

Years from now, right before I die, this should be a very nicely landscaped farm.

I’ll try to post photos next time. Hopefully no gore.

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November 14th, 2017

My Behind is Moving Up in the World

I have passed another giant milestone. My couch has arrived.

For the last two months, I’ve been sitting on a molded Adirondack chair from Home Depot. I’ve been trying to conserve cash and be responsible, so furniture has not been a top priority. I ordered a couch for the downstairs area, thinking my dad would get tired of chairs, but it was damaged when Amazon delivered it, so I refused it. He said he didn’t care whether he had a couch or not. I haven’t made much effort to try again. A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a second couch for the upstairs room, and now I have it.

This is wonderful. I have fabric. I have cushions. I have two throw pillows. In two days, I’ll have a quilted couch protector I can throw on when the birds come to visit. Can life possibly get any better?

Actually, it can get better. I broke down and ordered a recliner. I needed it. I can’t have male friends visit without a second piece of furniture. I don’t want to look like Barry Obama in the famous college couch picture, in which he and another male were seated right up against each other, with the whole far end of the couch vacant. That just isn’t done. Obama is gay, if one of his private letters is to be believed, but I am not. I do not share furniture with men unless I have no choice. It’s like starting a conversation with a stranger at a urinal.


I’ve learned that furniture is complicated. The bad cheap stuff looks almost exactly like the good expensive stuff, so you have to do research. Actually, that’s not true. The really cheap stuff looks cheap. But the stuff that’s one level up from really cheap can look very much like good furniture.

The first couch I ordered was an Ashley something or other. It’s a $500 couch, more or less. As I understand it, $500 is pretty much the dividing line between good cheap and bad cheap. Tons of people on Amazon loved the couch I ordered, so I figured it was a safe choice. It had some kind of fake leather upholstery, and that was important, given that a dementia sufferer would be using it. Sometimes you need a washable couch.

Amazon promised free delivery, to the inside of my house. They sent one person, alone, to carry a couch. He could not get it through the door. Then he pointed out a big forklift hole in the fabric under the couch. I sent it back.

While the couch was here, I noticed that the bottom was particle board. That’s not acceptable. I can deal with plywood or pine. Particle board is an insult. And it looks like head cheese.

Maybe that couch was okay, but I decided to move up one level on the next order. I went with Broyhill. My understanding is that there is total crap, crap, near-crap, and then, one stratum up, adequate furniture. Broyhill is considered adequate. That was fine for me and my man refuge.

I’m sitting on the couch now. My rear end is in ecstasy. I had forgotten what cushions felt like. The couch appears to be well-made. It looks nice. It has two great-looking pillows. The wooden feet were assembled skillfully from bits of real hardwood. The fabric is tasteful but not luxurious. Seems okay to me. If I wanted a 20-year couch that would impress shallow visitors, I would have spent three grand, but you can do okay for a lot less.

Once I had the couch, the need for the recliner was painfully obvious.

Here is the lowdown on recliners: anything under $500 is dubious. You can get something pretty nice for $1000. Really good ones cost considerably more. I believe I have that right.

Recliners tend to fall apart mechanically, especially when they belong to big balls of lard who weigh over 250 pounds. The cheap ones are more likely to fail. I think.

People criticize La-Z-Boy a lot, so I was reluctant to dive in. I found some great sale prices on recliners from better companies, but they weren’t hard core recliner companies. Would you buy a BMW water heater? I wouldn’t. I wanted a recliner-company recliner. I’m sure a Hooker Furniture recliner will last forever, but do they know how to make them mooshy and decadent, as they should be? I don’t know.

I found out that Barcalounger has a premium line they call “Vintage.” They claim they use better parts. I decided to check them out. For some reason, retailer prices vary wildly. A modest La-Z-Boy which I would not trust runs about $700. Barcalounger Vintage recliners sell for over a thousand. Usually. If you look around, you will find sites that sell them for $700-$800. You won’t be able to find every color you want, but on the other hand, the available colors won’t be crazy. It’s not like buying the orange Pinto no one else would take.

I don’t understand it at all. I found a Barcalounger Vintage for $750 on one site, and it was selling for over $1000 on other sites. I found a number of different models selling cheap.

I almost bought a Barcalounger Presidential. You have to Google this thing. It’s completely over the top. It’s all leather and nails. It has a tufted, winged back about five feet across. It’s so manly, it’s hilarious. At the last minute I decided not to get it, because I didn’t think that kind of upholstery would be sufficiently decadent. I went with a model that has leather arms and fabric cushions.

I know that sounds weird, and it’s not as tasteful as all-leather. But when you look at it, it screams “COMFORT!” You can tell a man designed it. “I don’t care if it looks funny. Shut up! Why aren’t you getting me a beer?” Turn Al Bundy loose in a furniture store, and he will make a bee line for this chair every time.

Because I have parrots, I’m going to have to use furniture protectors, and I read that they slide around on leather. Fabric will keep them where they should be, and it will be mighty cozy on cool nights.

It’s a power recliner. Reclining manually is just too hard. Not sure what happens if the power goes out or the motor dies. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

There are super-expensive recliners which are probably much better, but they would be overkill in an upstairs bonus room, and anyway, a chair like that would make my couch look bad.

I think it will be great.

I chose a recliner because I don’t want to fill up the floor. It occurred to me that a recliner contains its own disappearing ottoman, so it saves space. I will still need one for the couch.

Now I need an end table, a TV stand, and a table lamp. Or maybe I’ll just get a Home Depot torchiere. I don’t know if I’ll get a coffee table. They take up a lot of room. Couple of nice collapsible tables might make more sense. Like TV trays, only less crappy.

I considered getting a leather armchair and ottoman, because a leather ottoman would outlast a fabric ottoman that matches my couch. Oh well. I’ll just have to try not to maul the ottoman with my boots.

I wonder how Turks feel when they find out people call footstools “ottomans.”

I continue scouring Craigslist for breakfast tables. If I don’t find one, I’ll have to tell my friends Thanksgiving dinner is off. I bought a new couch because I don’t trust used cushions. When it comes to non-upholstered furniture, used is the only way to go. You can wash the baby pee and whatever else off of it.

By the way, if you buy a sleeper sofa, you’re stupid. I don’t mean that in a mean way. I’m just trying to help you get in touch with reality. I thought about a sleeper, but they’re heavy, they’re expensive, they’re uncomfortable, and they’re obsolete. For $150, you can get a wonderful air mattress that inflates and deflates itself, and which feels better than a real bed. Do not buy a sleeper bed. It’s a bonehead play.

This is very nice. I feel great. I have missed upholstery.

My mother never had nice furniture. My dad would not spring for it, even though he made good money. She bought estate stuff and things that were on sale at outlets. The only new couches we ever had were pretty bad. This one is considerably better, in my opinion.

Maybe some day I’ll hang a picture on a wall. It could happen.

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May I Cole You Down on the Panny Sty?

November 13th, 2017

Sometimes Consent Doesn’t Help

Louis C.K.

Seriously? Louis C.K.?

Why, in the midst of the harassment apocalypse, are we not seeing the obvious names? Eddie Murphy. David Lee Roth. Frank Sinatra. Andrew “Dice” Clay. Sean Penn. Chris Penn. Russell Crowe. Kanye West. I’m pulling names out of a hat, here. I’m just thinking of celebrities you would pretty much expect to expose themselves or try to rape women. How did we end up with a real-life list that included Kevin Spacey and Dustin Hoffman, and not all that many well-known jerks?

Bill Cosby has always been a jerk. Ben Affleck has been fairly jerky. A number of the others don’t have that reputation.

I always thought C.K. was depressing and unfunny (except for the cult film Pootie Tang), but he never came across as an agressive pervert or bully.

More surprising than the multiple accusations: the confession. He says all of the stories are true. When I read that, I felt like giving him partial credit for manning up, but the more I think about it, the more I think his confession is just another sexual performance. I strongly suspect he got off sexually by admitting guilt.

Louis C.K. didn’t say, “I’m so ashamed I want to die. It is humiliating for people to know that I, a grown man, exposed my genitals to my coworkers. I can barely stand to discuss it. Please leave me alone with my pain.” He described what he did as showing women his principle organ of copulation, and he didn’t use a medical term to describe that particular item. He used a slang term. It was as if he was choosing the most arousing term he could. Like a man having phone sex. When you have phone sex, you don’t say, “I want to disrobe and engage in relations with you.” You use dirty language to heighten the excitement. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Shut up. Anyway, the confession reads a little bit like phone sex. I think writing it turned him on.

At least one female celeb tweeter is rejecting his statement. As she correctly notes, it was not a real apology. He just wrote about what he did and then said he was going to be quiet and listen to responses, as if he were asking for suggestions on improving a fallen souffle. I guess the lack of shame bothers her, as it does me.

Louis C.K. says the disparity of power between him and the women he abused made it unfair for him to ask if he could show them his member, as he describes his much-more-energetic actions. The tacit implication seems to be that there are circumstances under which it is perfectly fine to ask women you’re not married to if you can show that object to them and then gratify yourselve with it while they watch.

Am I out of touch? Is it normal, when you’re hanging around with female acquaintances who are your social and professional equals, to strip completely naked, grab yourself, and go to work in front of them? C.K. Seems to think his problem is that he doesn’t know the “right” way to do that. Is there a right way? Even if a man is not a Christian, I would think that even normal godless American morals would rule C.K.’s behavior out. Am I wrong? Is this something I should have been back before I turned back to God? Is this why I did so badly with women?

I’m a bad person. I have a lot of sexual sins on my record. I have done some crass and even gross things. Nonetheless, I feel that what C.K. did was insane and freakish. If a man did this to consenting women, I would think it was creepy and abnormal. I would think it was indicative of mental illness and a complete lack of social skills, such as you might expect in a person who was severely autistic.

Deep in our hearts, we all have shameful thoughts and desires (or maybe it’s just me), but most of us know they’re not healthy. C.K.’s bizarre statement makes me wonder if he’s a sociopath. They say sociopaths lack normal human emotions (like shame), but they learn to imitate them in order to get along with the rest of us. Maybe C.K. does not understand why his revolting actions disturb people. It’s not just the lack of consent, although that’s the main problem. It’s the fact that he would want to do what he did, with women he was not even dating, in the first place. Fantasizing about it…fine. There are some thoughts we can’t help having. But actually doing it? That’s a couple of standard deviations outside the pale.

“Excuse me; thanks for inviting me to your garage sale. Hey, would it be okay if I stripped naked right now and engaged in a frenzy of Onanism in front of you, or would you prefer I didn’t? I don’t want to do it if it offends you, so just say the word, and I’ll let it drop. No? Okay. Glad things didn’t get weird! Would you take five bucks for this tackle box?”

That would not be okay, even if the victim were a female billionaire with nothing to fear from C.K.

The other thing that surprises me is C.K.’s power. Former power. I think of this guy as a minor comedian. One tier below Ricky Gervais, who is two or three tiers below Woody Allen. In fact, C.K. had a relatively minor role in a Gervais movie that didn’t do all that well. Apparently, I’m wrong. They say people fear C.K., and I don’t just mean they fear he will turn their social events into soul-blistering traumas that will result in their having to have their carpets and furniture professionally cleaned. I mean he’s so successful, he can kill careers. He sells out Madison Square Garden. If he’s that powerful, how powerful is Jimmy Kimmel, a real household name with a huge TV franchise? He must be a sort of demigod.

Who’s next? Steve Buscemi? Michael J. Fox?

This thing is going to keep going forever. The gold will not run out, because male and female abusers have been filling the mine for eons. Kirk Douglas is a hundred years old, and there are stories about him which may still erupt, so that tells you about the shelf life of tales of abuse. We may be hearing about Ashton Kutcher and Ryan Gosling forty years from now.

I hope the disclosures will not convince us the actions and words of the abusers are normal. C.K. seems to feel that way already. If he pulls the rest of us around to his way of thinking, America will be even more disgusting than it is now.


26 Hours of Pain to Go

November 11th, 2017

Snorkeling in the Sewer

Last night I blogged about my horrifying visit to Miami. I am here to do some work on a condo and bring home some things the movers left here. I think I went a little overboard in my post. Visiting Miami is more traumatic than you would think. Once you get away, the thought of going back is nauseating.

I may delete that post. I was carried away.

The county is still messed up from Hurricane Irma. That surprises me. I went through a number of storms with tropical-storm-force winds here, and they weren’t a big deal. I suppose Irma’s tropical-storm-force winds were a little stronger.

There are a lot of mangled trees beside the roads, and I saw a FEMA truck roll by. These trucks have huge trailers, and they have cranes and claws to pick up trees. They’re still here, two months after the blow.

Our properties did’t suffer much, but the post-storm work bonanza made it very hard to hire people to fix things. I was quoted $2000 to paint a small condo and replace several $60 doors. I am hoping I can do 80% of the work today, in a few hours. Hope I’m not underestimating the job, but I used to paint that condo for my parents, and it was a half-day ordeal back then.

I can’t stand being around the people here. Waiting in line at McDonald’s was very unpleasant. Everyone was rude and/or ghetto. When I say “ghetto,” I don’t mean they were economically disadvantaged or that all people from poor neighborhoods are trashy. I mean they had that angry vibe you get from people in rap videos. I’ve known lots of great people who lived in bad areas, but they rose above their environment.

The “me first” school of roadway navigation has already gotten to me. I’ve had people cut in front of me more times than I can remember. No one has given me the finger yet, but I have a whole day to wait for that to happen.

In Miami, the motto is, “Get the other guy before he gets you.” If you think I’m making that up, let me tell you that I’ve known hundreds of Cubans, and I’ve heard them express that sentiment more than once. It’s the opposite of, “Go the extra mile.” When two people go the extra mile, each does his own work plus a little bit of the other one’s job, and the net result is that everyone is better off than they would be had everyone done only what he had to. When you do things the Miami way, one person does a little, the other does a little, and you end up with a big responsibility gap. When it’s over, at least one party has been mistreated and let down, and the things that needed to be done are unfinished.

In Ocala, a storm came, and my neighbors sneaked onto my property to remove a tree that had fallen across my driveway. That’s the difference between Ocala and Miami.

God, I can’t wait to go back. I feel something related to claustrophobia. I want to move out from under it.

The sad thing is that Miamians think they have it good. Most of them stay here all their lives, and they have no idea how decent people behave. If you’ve never eaten anything but dog food, you can’t imagine steak. Miamians get very angry if you knock the place, but they have no idea what they’re talking about.

There is such a thing as a person who can’t be blessed. In fact, that describes most people, since most people reject Jesus and go to hell. You can’t be blessed unless you are willing to acknowledge the need to be blessed. You will reject or discard every good thing offered to you. Miami-lovers reject better ways of life. You can’t get them to move. That’s a good thing, because if they moved to places like Ocala, they would ruin things for everyone else.

Miami is a demonic stronghold. A big percentage of the people here literally worship demons. They practice Cuban voodoo, Haitian voodoo, and other types of voodoo from other islands and Latin American nations. This place must be under a cloud of powerful demons. No wonder it’s so nasty. You would have to be nuts to want to live here.

A lot of people love evil, so Miami fits them very well. People tend to end up where they belong, on earth and in the hereafter.

Ocala is better than Miami. What’s better than a place like Ocala? Heaven. As nice as Ocala is, it’s still a flawed area on a cursed planet full of pain, decay, terror, and despair. I used to think how wonderful it would be to leave Miami for Ocala. I was right, but I’m still on earth. These days I think how wonderful it will be to die and be done with this miserable planet. No aging. No disease. No idiots. No reading glasses. No polarization; in heaven, no one thinks debate is healthy. Debate is a manifestation of God’s curse on the earth. Christians should agree on everything. Our disagreements expose our poor connection to the Holy Spirit, who resolves all disputes. God tells everyone the same things. Period.

I have to go to Home Depot now. I hope this effort pans out. I wish I could leave Miami right now.

If you live in a big city with a lot of creepy people, you need to move. Unless it suits you. Then by all means, stay. Don’t ruin the nice places by moving there.


Hope I’m not a Pillar of Salt

November 10th, 2017

The Stink of Miami Surrounds Me Again

I am in Miami. I can’t believe it. I feel dirty. The air smells like fungus. The people have the manners of rats.

I had to come down here to look after a rental property. I am staying in a house we have to sell. I thought my friend Mike would be with me, but I had to drive down alone. Another friend of mine is house-sitting, so I won’t be alone all weekend.

Tomorrow I have to get up and try to get a condominium painted. After that, I plan to do my best to pack up a significant fraction of the many items the movers failed to…move.

While the time to drive to Miami was drawing near, I started to think of a series of scenes from Schindler’s List. Schindler thought he was moving his Jewish charges to safety in Czechoslovakia, but there was a railroad screwup, and the women ended up on a train to Auschwitz. I keep thinking about that. Of course, I would rather drive to Miami every day than be put in a death camp, but while the degree of discomfort is not comparable, the quality of the sensation is surely similar. I thought I had escaped this! Here I am, back in the place I hate.

In Ocala, I go to restaurants. It’s wonderful. Yes, you have to weed out the many slow and dirty places, but the people’s manners…it’s better than going for a massage. Everyone is polite. Everyone seems happy to see you. It’s hard to get in and out of restaurants because people get tangled up, trying to hold the door for each other.

Because it was late when I got into the house, tonight I decided to go to the Wendy’s from hell, at the intersection of South Dixie Highway and Red Road in Coral Gables. I have been visiting this snakepit on rare occasions since the 1980’s. It’s the reason I stopped going to Wendy’s. They ignore you. They snap at you. They usually get your order wrong. One genius at the drive-thru asked me what I DIDN’T want on my sandwich. I knew what I was in for, but I was willing to go anyway, because I was in a hurry.

A little lady who spoke poor English asked me what I wanted while looking at someone else and standing two feet from the register. She was doing some job or other, and I guess she just figured she would remember what I ordered. After living in Ocala for two months, I fully expected to be called “sweetheart” or “honey,” but I didn’t even get “sir.” As for “thank you,” well, if you think there was any chance of that, you haven’t been to Miami. She looked like a scared rat, and she worked like she was trying to finish and leave before ICE raided the place.

While she was taking my order, a familiar smell wafted over me. A bittersweet reunion was about to occur. It was my old friend, the one-eyed bum who goes into Taco Rico and screams until they let him fill his filthy cup with soda! We didn’t hug or anything. He and the counter lady had an exchange which I did not understand, and like the benighted workers at Taco Rico, she waited on him instead of calling the cops. I got to enjoy his pungent bouquet the whole time I was waiting for my order. Just the thing to sharpen the old appetite.

While I was waiting, I looked at the restaurant. In the old days, they used to decorate it nicely, even though it was a horrible place to eat. It used to look like a typical Wendy’s, with decor meeting the standards handed down from headquarters. Now it looks like it was furnished from the dump. The tables and chairs are cheap, and for some reason, there is a huge empty space with no furniture. On a Friday night that should have been busy, they had ten customers, including the bum.

I keep thinking this must be a corporate store, owned by Wendy’s itself. It must be a social experiment. My theory is that they find the most off-putting, obnoxious employees they can, from the worst neighborhoods imaginable, and then give them jobs in order to puff up their philanthropic credentials. I can’t think of any other reason why this place is permitted to exist.

Anyway, it was the cherry on the top of my Miami evening.


Tomorrow I’ll get up, do whatever I can to the condo, and come back and pack. I’ll put whatever I can in my truck, and on Sunday, I…am…out.

Eventually I’ll return with a U-Haul and pick up every useful item which remains.

I am going to get this town out of my life. Count on that.

I prayed in tongues the whole way here. My jaws are sore from it. I feel like I didn’t do it enough.

Now I will inflate my bed and try to sleep. I am counting the seconds until I can leave.

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Prophet and Loss

November 7th, 2017

Celebrities Openly Insult God on Twitter

This is just a quick post to document my amazement at the way leftists are succeeding in demonizing Christians and turning Christianity into the religion of hate.

A liberal atheist named Devin Kelley killed a large number of innocent people attending a church service. One victim was an 18-month-old baby. As always, people around the world responded by saying they were praying for the victims. Guess how leftists are responding. I’ll save you the trouble. They’re abusing Christians (and other people who believe in God) for praying.

Former (let’s be honest) actor Wil Wheaton put up a profane Twitter post claiming prayer doesn’t work, essentially attacking Christianity and Christians at a time when sane people would be showing us sympathy and some sort of solidarity. Keith Olbermann, the soul of compassion and quiet reason, said Paul Ryan should shove his prayers up his rear end. I guess we know where this liberal blasphemer stands on the God issue. Wheaton and Olbermann are not alone. Lots of other bigots are chiming in.

Isn’t this remarkable? Christians are murdered, and while the wounds are still open, how do leftists respond? By tormenting Christians! Maybe they should respond to the news about gay predator Kevin Spacey by castigating teenage boys.

What times we live in. It won’t be long before a big percentage of Americans start treating the Bible the way they treat the Confederate flag. They’ll throw fits and file lawsuits, claiming the sight of a Bible makes them feel threatened.

There is no point in lying about it; the Bible is anti-homosexuality. If being against homosexuality is hate, then Christianity is just as bad as belonging to the Klan or the Nazi party. If we, as a people, decide homosexuality is a good thing, then there is no honest way for us to approve of the God of Christians.

We are in the process of turning a corner, and around that corner lies a region in which God is generally considered evil.

Once we fall into the abyss of pervasive and open hatred of God, what reason will he have to continue looking out for us? He does look out for us, by the way. This is a fallen world, in which every person above the age of accountability deserves to be in hell. The world is full of pain and misfortune, but if God were not merciful and proactive, it would be much worse. If things seem bad now, wait till he abandons us completely. When that happens, we’ll understand how patient he used to be.

Leftists need to come out and admit it: they hate Christianity. They love homosexuality, and anything that gets in the way of that love must, in their view, be abolished. Leftists are too gutless to speak the truth. Eventually, they’ll realize they have more earthly power than we do, and then they’ll say what they really think.

The body of Christ is just like Israel and Jewry. There are problems the left thinks will go away if we cease to exist. Jews have to be killed in order for the left’s dream of a world without Jewry-related tension to exist. Christians could be considered somewhat luckier. It’s possible for us to renounce our faith and accept damnation, so it’s not necessary to exterminate all of us. Only the tough nuts who won’t crack will have to be done away with.

What I write will sound crazy to many people, but I would have sounded crazy in 2007 if I had said celebrities would soon be saying filthy, anti-Christian things to Christians in the wake of a massacre of Christians. What sounds crazy one day is taken for granted the next.

Can the people who are saying these disgusting things hold onto their coveted jobs now that they’ve exposed themselves? I don’t see why not. The journalism and entertainment industries are against God. I doubt Keith Olbermann will have any career problems (beyond those he already has) as a result of telling Paul Ryan to shove prayers–a human being’s sacred communications with God–up his anus. It’s not as Olbermann he did anything really bad. It’s not like he quietly went to a Bible-believing church on his own time or did a commercial for Chick-fil-A. It’s not like he tried to get a job at a tech company after saying he didn’t support gay marriage.

A prophet is a person who sounds crazy until his words come true. Satan gets a lot of mileage out of that truth. He can do a lot to a truthful person before everyone else realizes that person was right. Look whom religious Jews revere: a bunch of people they themselves murdered.

I’m not calling myself a prophet, but like a prophet, I’m predicting things that are going to come to pass, and the things I say would enrage the people I’m speaking honestly about, if they read my blog.

This world is completely nuts. America is so corrupted and deceived, it’s barely worth it to remain alive here. Christians have to keep moving to smaller and smaller areas and getting farther away from mainstream employment in order to avoid persecution. Maybe one day we’ll all be in one big pen in Montana, working for Chick-fil-A and Hobby Lobby while we wait to be gassed. We’ll be like the body thetans of Scientology, waiting for Xenu to nuke us into the next life.

I don’t think we’ll ever be concentrated in one little area. I was deliberately being absurd. But now that I write it, it doesn’t look as improbable as it did when I conceived the idea. Genocide tends to funnel and concentrate people.

I’m so glad I have someplace better to go. By the time they’re crazy enough, mad enough, and powerful enough to come after me, I will be happy to surrender so I can finally leave.



November 6th, 2017

Liberal Murderer’s Facebook Page Evaporates Instantly

Question: why did Facebook immediately delete the page of Devin Patrick Kelley, the Texas church killer? They have allowed the pages of other murderers to stay online. I know that because I’ve dug up those pages out of curiosity.

Possible answer: they did it because the murderer was a leftist lowlife whom they did not want to help expose. Here are some things he endorsed or named as causes on social media sites: atheism, CNN, a psychic medium, environmentalism, animal rights, “Arts and Culture,” and “Civil Rights and Social Action.”

How many conservatives are proud atheists? Not a big percentage. How many would “like” CNN on Facebook? Pretty much none. Are conservatives known for their interest in the occult? No. They are known for their opposition to it. Animal rights are a huge concern to leftists. Conservatives don’t play them up much; we keep it in proper perspective. We’re not the ones trying to ban goldfish ownership. Environmentalism…in its current extreme form, this is one of the things we hate the most.

To many leftists, “Civil Rights and Social Action” means rioting, harming people and businesses while using “social justice” as an excuse, and stealing things from stores whose employees can’t cope with violent mobs. It would be very odd for a conservative to list “Civil Rights and Social Action” as one of his big concerns in life.

We have not read anything indicating that Kelley “liked” any conservative pages or causes.

So why did Facebook move so quickly to get rid of Kelley’s page? Did Kelley say bad things about Trump? We already know he disparaged Christians.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Kelley’s wife deleted the page. I’m relying on reports from the MSM, and we all know their record for veracity and fact-checking.

One thing is certain. The MSM hive has been digging furiously for information linking Kelley to conservatism, Trump, Christianity, and white supremacy. When they don’t find it, what will they do? My best guess: they will let this story die fairly quickly instead of capitalizing on the bloodshed to attack our civil rights as strongly as possible.

Remember the black BLM mass murderer who shot a bunch of cops in 2016? I do; barely. We never hear about him these days, but we still hear a lot about the Sandy Hook massacre, which was performed four years EARLIER by the son of a white gun rights enthusiast.

This story is not good material for the MSM anti-civil-rights machine. The killer was very clearly not conservative. He was clearly not a Christian. He liked the occult, which is more or less owned by leftists. He was apparently a liberal nut. And he was killed not by the police, but by a private citizen who did not turn the situation into a “shooting gallery” or make things worse. Kelley was killed by hero Stephen Willeford, a plumber. Willeford did not shoot haphazardly and kill the innocent. The coward Kelley was wearing body armor as he shot women and children, so Willeford used a rifle to shoot between the armor panels and send a round tearing through Kelley’s guts. That’s not cop-grade shooting. That’s the real thing. And another hero, Johnnie Langedorff, helped him pursue the mortally wounded murderer.

When did the cops show up? We don’t even know. They were so late they weren’t a factor. And that’s TYPICAL. Cops only show up to help at a tiny percentage of active crime scenes. God bless the cops, but 90% of their work is sweeping up and collecting evidence.

Good guys with guns DO make a difference, over and over, every day. Some gun owners shoot after the violence starts, but most discourage crimes passively. Their presence scares criminals and keeps them away. It’s too bad we can’t measure the number of crimes gun owners prevent simply by existing, but criminals think about us a lot when they make their plans, and they work to avoid us.

Leftists will push for more gun laws. Problem: it appears that liberal Kelley was already precluded from possessing firearms. Like many cowards, he was a domestic violence offender. He beat his wife and baby. He was discharged from the Air Force over it. Background checks are performed by the feds, and the Air Force is part of the federal government. Uncle Sam blew it.

It’s starting to look like this was an Antifa-inspired massacre, and since Antifa is an ad hoc movement which does not have official membership rolls, that would very nearly make it an Antifa massacre. The killer wore black. He was clearly strongly opposed to conservative values. He shot up a church, and Antifa has a history of hostility toward Christianity; they used force to shut down a speaker at a church in Canada. If he wasn’t Antifa, he was basically on their side.

I saw a great meme today. It said that 90% of gun violence would go away if liberals gave up their guns. That’s true or nearly true. The vast, vast majority of violent criminals are leftists. Yet somehow conservative white Christian males are the big threat. In reality, if people like me were disarmed, the people who habitually murder, steal, and rape would keep their guns, and crime would skyrocket.

The idiot in our latest story probably thought what he was doing was “civil disobedience.” Antifa and BLM are in love with civil disobedience, and they’re too stupid to realize that rioting and other forms of violence don’t fit under that heading. It’s civil disobedience if you hold a sit-in. Putting on masks and throwing bottles at the cops is just battery and attempted murder. Burning things is just arson. The modern left is too stupid and violent to work or coexist with. The only answer is to move away from their gangrenous strongholds. You can’t get along in places like Baltimore and Berkeley. You can only live with abuse or get out.

I think this story will not stink as long as the Las Vegas shooting. It’s just not as appetizing to the gun control vultures. I will watch with interest over the next few days.