Suck it, whiners.
Thank you, Sheriff.
Today is the day Ol’ Remus at the Woodpile Report tapped out his pipe, grabbed a walking stick, knapsack full of potted meats and a fishing pole, and headed out of the cabin for the great Appalachian beyond. The Woodpile Report is no more, and it, and Ol’ Remus, will be missed.
I became aware of his online newsletter via Western Rifle Shooters Association about two years ago, and fell in love with it. As a Former Art Guy (FAG for short — apologies to Former Action Guys everywhere), the fact that he started the letter with painters of bygone and currently under appreciated eras and finished with black and white photographs of the humble greatness of what our country once was, were nice cultural touches, rare in the id-driven lickspittle of the Internet.
The shenanigans of Remus, Zeke, and Aby were always fun to read, as they reminded me of the conversations between the weathered men who congregate at dawn faithfully at the ice machines over coffee outside of the rural gas stations in my own town. These men are the unofficial mayors of the county and trade gossip, wisdom, and bad jokes liberally. They’d seen a few things in life and were well past the phase of getting emotional about anything, but were realistic about everything.
Remus’ commentary about the goings on in these United States was adroit, prescient, and entertaining. His list of sources and links expanded my knowledge base permanently. His style was genteel, honest, and direct. I eagerly awaited Monday mornings for Ol’ Remus’ latest insights and would find the thirty minutes I gave myself to read the Woodpile Report and associated links often extending to an hour or two. I’m still trying to wrap my head around Quantum Mechanics, though.
Ol’ Remus, wherever you are and wherever you go, good luck, good health, and good times to you, sir. Your insight will be missed, but your desire to leave the Internet to eat itself is certainly understandable. I hope you find productive days trotline fishing an Appalachian creek from a houseboat somewhere with a coal-fired stove and all the finest pipe tobacco a man can enjoy. Thanks for the great newsletter and good luck to you in your new endeavors.
Bravo zulu, sir.
I just phoned six friends and asked them what they will be doing on Monday.
They all said the same thing: working.
There is something else we share. We are all military veterans.
And there is a third thing we have in common. We are not employees of the federal government, state government, county government, municipal government, the Postal Service, the courts, banks, or S & Ls, and we don’t teach school.
If we did, we would be among the many millions of people who will spend Monday goofing off.
Which is why it is about time Congress revised the ridiculous terms of Veterans Day as a national holiday.
The purpose of Veterans Day is to honor all veterans.
So how does this country honor them?
By letting the veterans, the majority of whom work in the private sector, spend the day at their jobs so they can pay taxes that permit millions of non-veterans to get paid for doing nothing.
As my friend Harry put it:
“First I went through basic training. Then infantry school. Then I got on a crowded, stinking troop ship that took 23 days to get from San Francisco to Japan. We went through a storm that had 90 percent of the guys on the ship throwing up for a week.
“Then I rode a beat-up transport plane from Japan to Korea, and it almost went down in the drink. I think the pilot was drunk.
“When I got to Korea, I was lucky. The war ended seven months after I got there, and I didn’t kill anybody and nobody killed me.
“But it was still a miserable experience. Then when my tour was over, I got on another troop ship and it took 21 stinking days to cross the Pacific.
“When I got home on leave, one of the older guys at the neighborhood bar he was a World War II vet told me I was a —-head because we didn’t win, we only got a tie.
“So now on Veterans Day I get up in the morning and go down to the office and work.
“You know what my nephew does? He sleeps in. That’s because he works for the state.
“And do you know what he did during the Vietnam War? He ducked the draft by getting a job teaching at an inner-city school.
“Now, is that a raw deal or what?”
Of course that’s a raw deal. So I propose that the members of Congress revise Veterans Day to provide the following:
– All veterans and only veterans should have the day off from work. It doesn’t matter if they were combat heroes or stateside clerk-typists.
Anybody who went through basic training and was awakened before dawn by a red-neck drill sergeant who bellowed: “Drop your whatsis and grab your socks and fall out on the road,” is entitled.
– Those veterans who wish to march in parades, make speeches or listen to speeches can do so. But for those who don’t, all local gambling laws should be suspended for the day to permit vets to gather in taverns, pull a couple of tables together and spend the day playing poker, blackjack, craps, drinking and telling lewd lies about lewd experiences with lewd women. All bar prices should be rolled back to enlisted mens’ club prices, Officers can pay the going rate, the stiffs.
– All anti-smoking laws will be suspended for Veterans Day. The same hold for all misdemeanor laws pertaining to disorderly conduct, non-felonious brawling, leering, gawking and any other gross and disgusting public behavior that does not harm another individual.
– It will be a treasonable offense for any spouse or live-in girlfriend (or boyfriend, if it applies) to utter the dreaded words: “What time will you be home tonight?”
– Anyone caught posing as a veteran will be required to eat a triple portion of chipped beef on toast, with Spam on the side, and spend the day watching a chaplain present a color-slide presentation on the horrors of VD.
– Regardless of how high his office, no politician who had the opportunity to serve in the military, but didn’t, will be allowed to make a patriotic speech, appear on TV, or poke his nose out of his office for the entire day.
Any politician who defies this ban will be required to spend 12 hours wearing headphones and listening to tapes of President Clinton explaining his deferments.
Now, deal the cards and pass the tequila.
– Mike Royko
Champion Jack Dupree, “I just want to be free.”
An appeal to heaven.
OK, so I am in the middle of a cross-country road trip on my way out west to continue to minister to a stricken family member. On the way I stop in Oklahoma City to rest and recreate.
After checking into the hotel, I took a walk around an obvious economic development zone called “Bricktown” that is a mix of old brick warehouses redeveloped into new things, copycat new architecture full of more new things, and a minor league baseball stadium. The fracking business is yielding dividends, I guess. Fair enough.
In any case, eleven hours of driving makes a guy tired, red-eyed, and a little thirsty, and I wanted a cold beer or eight to take the edge off.
Seeing an original brick building with signs for Guinness, Bass, and Harp on the outside that make us call it “Ye Olde Pub” got me excited. I eagerly walked up the steps, opened the door and was pleased with the large and lively crowd inside, and this place was big.
Now this is where visions diverge. There looked to be a couple hundreds taps on a wall pouring quite an array of beers. As I scanned the room, nary a person had a pint in front of him, but a smattering of small glasses of beer, in what looked like brandy snifters, known as a “flight of beer” in front of him.
I was expecting to be able to walk into the joint and say “a pint of the black stuff governor,” or “a half and half, please sir,” or “make it a black and tan, senator,” and have something really tasty in front of my face pronto. That was not to be.
The bar was full of dudes with beards, skinny arms, and scarfs, and I overheard one of them hissing to his mates about one of his eight brandy snifters full of black goo, “The amount of malt in this one is criminal. Ugh. I shouldn’t EVEN have to pay for it.”
I’m pretty sure I had the look like someone had just farted in my face as I locked onto this dude. I think he felt the burn of my eyes because he looked up at me, took a pull off another snifter and swished his back to my face. At this point, I snapped out of it and turned my attention to the barkeeps, as I was still thirsty and dry.
Behind the bar were three, mid-twenties brunettes that were in shape and quite pleasant on the eyes. They were all curt, grumpy, and frenzied as they buzzed from tap to tap like hummingbirds, filling all of these little glasses with squirts to eight different kinds of specialty beers for Beardy McSpaghettiarms and his bar full of clones. This whole setup was obviously frustrating to them, as it was irritating to me, since I couldn’t get their attention to just pour a straight pint.
Now, in my past experience, when a dude wanted to try out a different beer, he manned up, ordered the pint, decided he liked it or didn’t in the first couple of sips, and would, (a) down it fast so he could get another one, or, (b) give it to his buddy, who would drink it while promising to get the next round. I found the experimental beer nights had a way of enhancing the evening’s effects quite nicely.
Nonetheless, I realized I was looking at an ode to the great prosperity of these United States, where things are so good that hot women pour lady-sized portions of 200 different crafty beers into cute glasses for bitchy men, and at the same time it was a marker for just how fucking annoying we have become as a culture.
After 20 minutes of being ignored by the courageous but overworked staff and overhearing about the “fruit tones” in various beers from the Van Dyke and scarf crowd, I took off and found a half-empty bar that had standard beers on six taps. I asked for a Mexican boilermaker (100% agave tequila shot and a can of cheap, messican beer), and flirted with the barmaid, who had time to flirt back, as it should be. I shot the shit with an ex minor league pitcher who blew out his right arm early in his career and his giggly, young lady cohort. I had a couple of rounds, a few laughs, and turned in for the night. It was nice to get back to place where the watering hole was less about the water and more about the people and the experience. Oh yeah, and my beer tasted like…beer.
Circle Jerks, “Coup d’etat.” Nice.
Coup D’Etat, Coup D’Etat
The government can’t stop a throng
Let us through.
New comes in.
Give me a bomb.
It’s a Coup D’Etat!
General Dictator gives the Law.
Get outta line,
Next neck on the block.
Armys marching through the streets.
Next run out the suffering.
A Push from the left
And a shout from the right.
All come out,
Let’s do it tonight.
Take the President and His wife,
Deliver the ransom
Or we take their lives.
Trash their embassy.
They are our enemies!!!
The president just smokes cigars,
Anyone he does not like,
He shoots or puts behind bars.
Yep, that’s how I feel. Soiled.
Yeah, I voted. In the North Carolina elections. It is the most depressing election I have ever voted in. The senate race is is nothing more than swapping out one mafia family for another. The only measurable difference between the two is that one thinks it’s going to take away my guns through illegal legislation, and the other won’t actively campaign to do it but will cravenly collapse to a withering attack from shrieking harpies who will go on the warpath after another one of their feminized, imbalanced sons shoots up a school. The rest of it is a tawdry mess of people who are running for office to find new ways to seize, steal, and spend their neighbors’ money and twist down the thumbscrews of the state on people they don’t like.
I voted to take senate control away from the DNC. That’s it. I didn’t vote “for” anything or anyone, because nobody ran a platform that had anything in it that I stand for.
The outcome of this election will see the following:
And the beat goes on.
Happy election day, everyone. Rah rah.
Getting some good (and funny) comments on the Appalachian Redoubt post thanks to Brother CA at WRSA giving me the front page treatment. As always, I am grateful for the highlight and humbled by the responses.
It seems like there is some interest in wool garments, so I thought I’d highlight a couple of purveyors of woolens. I have no financial interest in any of these places, but I just want to share info.
M1951 wool pants and shirts that are dirt cheap, but 50 years old and OG107 can be found at Army Surplus Warehouse for $20 and $16 each respectively plus shipping. These things are heavy, itchy, smell like mothballs, and are really, really, really warm. While you look like a pickle wearing them, you can buy five sets of them for the cost of a commercial set of wool pants and a shirt. If you do wear these together, for the love of God, DO NOT call yourself “Colonel” or use some kind of code name, like “Jellyroll.”
These surplus Italian wool blankets are heavy and do a bang up job of keeping you warm. They also stink of mothballs. Cheapest I found is $20 per. Buy these in bulk. I cut one in half and then cut a hole in the middle of the half and rocked a poncho, Man With No Name style. It makes you want to ask, “do you feel comfy, punk?” One of these is stashed in every vehicle in the family as part of their survival kits, as well.
Filson and Woolrich, make some choice kit, but most of the semi-affordable stuff is made by Chinese laborers enriching PLA generals, and their US made stuff is damn near a mortgage payment, but it’s pretty solid. I recommend trolling eBay or your local thrift store for used items, as they are significantly cheaper, like 1/2 to 2/3 cheaper than retail.
Those are just a couple off the top of my head. If anyone has other finds, feel free to post ‘em in comments.
This has been proven in a riveting documentary from thirty years ago, that has been deliberately buried by TPTB. I have found it.
Suicidal Tendencies, “Suicidal Failure.”
Fuck you Kaci Hickox. You are a disgrace to your profession. DO NO HARM. Remember? Asshole.
Father forgive me for I know not what I do
I tried everything but I’ll leave it up to you
I don’t want to live, I don’t know why
I don’t have no reasons, I just want to die
I’m a suicidal failure, I’ve got to get some help
I have suicidal tendencies but I can’t kill myself
I’m tired of this way of life, my patience has expried
I’m barely jsut 20 but my life I will retire
I went down to a rifle store, I bought myself a gun
I point it at my head but I couldn’t get the job done
I took all my mother’s sleeping pills
I jumped off a freeway bridge
I drank three kinds of poison
And drove my car off a ridge
I beat myself with a bat
Put a noose around my head
I overdosed on heroin
But I’m still not dead
Death may not be the answer
It can’t be all that great
But me I’m not into living
With life I can’t relate
By some masochistic reasoning I think that it will be fun
I want to start my second life now
So shoot me with your gun
I’m looking forward-suicidal
I’m really bored-suicidal
You wanna die-suicidal
At the game-suicidal
At my school-suicidal
At the bar-suicidal