Your Rights End HERE

And the winner is ....

Well, they did elect a phony Indian Senator, so ....

Connecticut to offer driver's licenses for illegal immigrants ... estimated number of illegal immigrants in Connecticut in the tens of thousands.

Westboro Feminists

Liberal Culture

“ SHIRT CRIME This week TIME Magazine (yes, it is still out there, I was surprised, too) conducted a poll of the word people most wanted banished. Hilariously, “feminist” was winning by a substantial margin when TIME got a case of the heebie-jeebies and pulled “feminist” out of the contest when #Bossy feminists got upset: On Saturday, Time Magazine Managing Editor Nancy Gibbs added an apology to the news website’s poll asking readers what word they want to ban. At the time, the word “feminist” was winning the poll with over 50 percent of the vote. “Editor’s Note: TIME apologizes for the execution of this poll; the word ‘feminist’ should not have been included in a list of words to ban,” Gibbs wrote. “While we meant to invite debate about some ways the word was used this year, that nuance was lost, and we regret that its inclusion has become a distraction from the important debate over equality and justice.” But Big #Bossy did score a victory this week, one that they will probably find to be as Pyrrhic a victory as any won by Napoleon on the road to Moscow. On November 12, the European Space Agency probe, Philae, touched down on a comet called 67P (it has a longer name containing an inordinate number of consonants so I’m using the short name). This was a technical tour de force but what delighted the feminists was the sartorial splendor of project scientist, Dr. Matt Taylor, at the celebratory press conference. First on the scene was an “ecology” major who writes at The Atlantic who calls herself “Rose Eveleth.” “Rose” suddenly found out that someone had died and made her the official enforcer of fairness for women in STEM which just can’t happen around a shirt as glorious as that worn by Dr. Taylor. The whole article (Rose Eveleth and the #Bossy Westboro Feminists)  is worth reading; a real hoot. Looking at Rose Eveleth caused me to immediately recall this story. Sometime post Altamont Concert in December 1969, it became "liberal chic" to have the biker lads, especially Sonny Barger, show up at your soirée. I recall from one of the many books about Barger, how the Angels attended a benefit thrown by some upper west side society gal.  A middle aged matron tried to strike up a conversation with him. He, outfitted in urine and sweat soaked "colors, and swigging beer from a can; She, in the obligatory black cocktail dress, sipping Chablis.  After listening to her for a few minutes,  he stopped her and said, "You need someone to eat your pussy!"  The woman nearly fainted, but get this.  Some days later he gets a phone call from the women asking ... .  I forget whether he accommodated her. Rose Eveleth ”

NJ COPS SHUT DOWN GEEZER 10¢ BINGO

Police State          TEXT “ Is this the worst person in America?* [...] That former employee — nicknamed by me just now as the Elder Skelter — told New Jersey’s gaming commission that “illegal activity” was going down at Pleasant View — an underground bingo game with a 10-cent per card buy-in and a three-card maximum— New Jersey’s Legalized Games of Chance Control Commission made the decision to drop the hammer. Residents of Pleasant View Village can no longer play their beloved 10-cent games with non-residents, and they cannot play at all when the Meals on Wheels program is in the building three days a week. In fact, the Meals on Wheels program now requires a permit to allow bingo games while they are in the building. [FullStory] Just a guess, but with the collapse of the Atlantic City gambling industry, the Garden State is fife with Games of Chance Control Commission hangers-on desperate to protect their sinecure. It's what happens when bureaucrats are threatened with shrinkage.  *No.  That would be Barack Obama ”

Baa-Baa BAH!

Liberal Racialists

“Politically-correct liberals who see racism in everything -- including peanut butter and jelly sandwiches -- may celebrate the change. But, the Herald Sun added, many others called it "political correctness gone mad." “What ignorance," one reader told the Herald Sun. "The rhyme has nothing to do with race.”

origins and exploitation of rage, separatism and victimology;

Oh My

Subject: PLEASE read this and WATCH THE VIDEO! (and Fwd!) http://pjmedia.com/eddriscoll/2014/04/27/microclimates-of-totalitarianism/2/ Bill Whittle explains: How Marxism was divorced from economics and married to the culture; How "Critical Theory" came about; The real agenda behind "political correctness"; The origins and exploitation of rage, separatism and victimology; All this and more in 13 minutes of video! I implore you to watch the video and to spread it around! By the way, I found this PJMedia piece and the video through a link from the Comments page of Jack Cashill's article in today's American Thinker: http://www.americanthinker.com/2014/05/the_suffocating_neopuritanism_of_progressive_america.html ''Alexandra Pelosi’s HBO documentary Fall to Grace tracks the evolution of New Jersey’s disgraced, self-dubbed “gay-American,” former governor, Jim McGreevey. In one passing scene, McGreevey enters a church ostensibly more welcoming than the judgmental Catholic Church of his childhood. The message board on the church front reads -- and this is a close paraphrase -- “Lord help us overcome the sins of racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia.” Had the message board been bigger, the good pastor might have added nativism, Islamophobia, and xenophobia. In a postmodern world that prides itself on “non-judgmentalism,” these have emerged as the seven new deadly sins, and God help the man, woman, or child who commits one. Unlike the Catholic Church McGreevey abandoned, his newfound Neo-Puritanism is unforgiving. It shows sinners little mercy and offers them no path to absolution. Indeed, like Hawthorne’s Hester Prynne, the sinner is publicly branded with her sin.'' Cheers,  ST From my  iPAD, via skoonj

Old Navy-New Navy

Wooden Ships and Iron Men - My Navy vs. Today's Navy  O.K.  Now this is a long read, but if you're former Navy, or any military type from the 60s and 70s, you'll find a lot of resonance in it.  The guy's "voice" and style are so similar to mine that I wondered for a while if I'd written it and forgot about it. The home site has more stories for anyone interested. Ron "I Metzger in St. Louis" Before you get all up in my face 'bout what I'm 'bout to ramble on about, lemme first say that I know the human memory tends to heavily discriminate the stuff it stores, cataloguing things the way it wants to and reserving special places for certain select events, sounds, sights, smells, and scenes. And not only does it selectively edit things in and out, but it tends to embellish events with its individualized set of filters, ethics, morals, priorities, and tastes, magnifying some episodes and minimizing others. O.K. That said, I recently came across something that triggered memories of my early experiences in the Navy. 'Smatterafact, lotsa things do that as I get older. My holistic retrospect on my 24 years in the USN is quite positive, and I often willingly go back to relive what were my most exciting and satisfying times . . . all the way from a raw unranked boot in San Diego to the guy responsible for maintenance and repair of elex comm & crypto equipment for CincPac, SubPac, CinCPacFlt, Com7thFlt, and several other high-powered commands in Hawaii. Hair all shaved off. Personal effects confiscated. Clothes that didn't fit. Strangers yelling stuff at me I didn't fully understand. Food that tasted like stewed dirt. Beds that spoke of the hundreds who'd slept in 'em before. Marching in formation with guys wearing exactly the same clothes I had to wear, carrying an out-of-date rifle with which I had to master and demonstrate skills useful in no situation my fertile imagination could conceive. My entire personality dragged out, ridiculed, abused, and tossed on a scrap heap only to be replaced by one that knee-jerked instantly to commands and single-mindedly carried out lawful orders, even though no one had ever explained to me what exactly an unlawful order might have been. No longer was I a college boy pursuing liberal arts and intellectual growth but a cog in a 72-man machine dedicating every single waking moment to causing no demerits to the company during inspections, drills, skill training, or parades. Home was a narrow cot in an open-bay barracks featuring gang showers and rows of sinks, urinals, and commodes with no provisions for individuality, much less privacy. Lights out happened when the Company Commander decided we'd absorbed enough humiliation for that day, that our lockers were properly stowed, that our shoes were properly shined, our barrack was properly cleaned, and that we clearly understood that we were still useless raw meat that some unfortunate Chief Petty Officer would one day be burdened with molding into halfway decent sailors. Reveille was 0500, even before the seagulls which swooped down to pick up the lungers off the grinder were up yet. Formation was 20 minutes later, after shaving and dressing and fixing bunks and being reminded that the coming night would indeed be damned short if we screwed up ANYthing that day. Breakfast was hard-boiled eggs and beans and soggy toast one day, chipped-something-or-other on soggy toast the next, greasy fried mystery stuff with soggy toast the next, hamburger with tomato sauce on soggy toast the next, and all served with something vaguely white called "reconstituted milk" and a dark, vile, burnt-smelling but otherwise tasteless fluid some would-be comedian labeled "Coffee." One good thing, though . . . [Full Article] ”

Fred on Athen, AL

A Childhood in Athens No Sign of Socrates, Though “ This article by Fred Reed pretty much describes a place that no longer exists, but did, and should.  It is the America most of us grew up in (though many of us grew up in cities, and had a different range of regulation and lack of it).  This article pretty much illustrates what the Tea Party would like to bring about:  a nation of fewer regulations, and only those really necessary.  And of course with so few regulations, a lot of spending becomes irrelevant.  Wish I could go there today. - Skoonj It is common for aging men, worn by the long years of drink and skirt-chasing and strenuous dissolution in the fleshpots of Asia, or any available fleshpots, to remember their youth in roseate hues that never were. But, dammit, we really did go barefoot. And had BB guns. And the dog could go anywhere it damned well pleased, and come back when it chose. Athens, Alabama in 1957 was a small Southern town like countless others in Dixie with a statue of a Confederate soldier on the town square and little evidence of government of any kind, which was well since it didn’t need any. While the South had not fared well in its ardent resistance to Federal regulation a century earlier, still there was little meddling by Washington in my years there. The South’s martial displeasure with Federal intrusion was remembered, though: When I moved down from Virginia, I was to other kids “the damyank on the corner” until I learned to wrap words in a comfortable padding of syllables, as God commanded. On the square. While Southerners are the most patriotic and martial of Americans, they have the least use for Washington. In which I heartily concur. Although my father was a mathematician at Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, and perhaps entitled to social pretensions, he didn’t have any. Consequently I lived as a half-wild disciple of Tom Sawyer. So did most of the town’s boys. Come summer, we at first tentatively abandoned shoes. No one thought this odd, because it wasn’t.  Soon our soles toughened to leather and we walked everywhere, even on gravel, without ill effect. And nobody cared. Oh sweet age of nobody cared.  Child Protective Services didn’t show up, officious passive-aggressive snots, to carry my parents away. Today they would, droning censoriously of hygiene and worms and crippling cuts from broken glass and parental irresponsibility. Many of my friends lost feet to these perils. To this day you can see them rolling about in wheel chairs in their dozens. Foot-nekkid and fancy free, we went to the Limestone Drug Store on the town square, piled our ball gloves and BB guns inside the door, and read comic books for hours. The owner, a frizzzly redheaded man in his seventies whom we knew only as Cochie, liked little boys. Today this would be thought evidence of pedophilia and he would be required to undergo therapy and wear an ankle bracelet. Actually, Coochie just liked kids. And since it was his store, nobody at corporate got his panties in a knot because the comic books were read into virtual dust without ever being bought. The Federal government had not yet regulated small-town soda fountains to protect us. Still there, fifty-seven years later. Much changed inside but the current owners, whoever they are, had the decency to preserve the orignial soda fountain. The devastating plagues that swept the South in those years, mysteriously unrecorded, were doubtless the result of bare feet in Limestone Drug. BB guns, I said. We all had them. Most were the Red Ryder model, costing I think $4.95 in as-yet uninflated currency. Mine was the Daisy Eagle [Continued] With maybe one exception (nobody had a BB gun) Fred's remembrance of his childhood in Athens, Alabama is identical to mine in Chicago, Illinois (albeit on the very border of Des Plaines).  However, if you substitute a .22 rifle and 12ga shotgun for the BB gun, things are identical with my summers with grandparents in Indiana.   I'm betting I'm not alone. PS - Don't cut yourself on the satire ”