Month: October 2019

Tripping Up

Mocking Furriners

So BritPrince Rufus Castratus and his wife Caring-Slut head off to Africa to do Noble Things, said things including but not limited to hugging Black chilluns, waving their own baby around, and giving inspiring speeches to Third-World Yoot, telling them not to despair but to strive to achieve the kinds of things otherwise only available to people born into noble families, or married into them, or to those of inherited wealth.

The problem, though, is that the African Adventure was supposed to be a giant PR stunt to assuage the storm of opprobrium which burst out when the Royal Ginger addressed a climate-scold conference, telling everyone to lower their carbon footprint, when in fact he’d swanned over to the conference on a series of filthy, polluting private jets.

And the African Adventure certainly started out that way for them;  adoring crowds at every stop, lickspittle Press reports and millions of cute baby pics everywhere.

Except…

Because of royalty (his) and celebrity (hers), a certain amount of security would be needed because Africa, and (forgive the unconscious racism) there is no such thing as an “armored SUV” anywhere on the Darkie Continent except as owned by various criminal thugs of the Mugabe stripe who (quite sensibly) were not going to hand over their armored vehicles and leave themselves vulnerable to, well, the rest of Africa.

So the BritGov arranged for a few of these rhino-trucks to be flown over to Darkest Africa, creating in their wake a carbon footprint equivalent to the Krakatoa eruption (some slight exaggeration, but that’s the leitmotif  of the International Climate Fear Set, isn’t it?).  Needless to say, all the Perpetually Indignants are beside themselves with fury.

I kinda feel sorry for His Gingerness.  He’s tried so hard to Do The Right Thing (as defined by his Hollywood slutwife):  announced that they’re only going to have two children because social responsibility;  given up birdshooting, boozing, foxhunting, eating meat, carousing and all the other stuff which made him lovable, and gone pretty much Full Woke (and we all know what perils lie there).

And that’s the problem right there.  If you’re going to set yourselves up as the Duke and Duchess of Wokeshire, you’re always going to fuck up disastrously in some way or another no matter what you do, just because of the nature of your job (such as it is) and the minefield that is wokedom.

Stop to eat some local delicacy at a roadside vendor?  Don’t you know that the animal which gave up its testicles for you is on the U.N. Endangered Species List?
Attend a tribal dance festival, put on some of the dancers’ duds and join in the dance?  OMG that cultural appropriation is SO disrespectful!
Watch your cousin ride in some equestrian competition?  Don’t you KNOW how much the horses suffer?
And so on.

There’s a simple solution to all of this for old Harry:

  • ditch the slutwife, keep the kid (and I have some support for this)
  • start doing again all the things he used to enjoy before the Mulatto Actress Infatuation (boozing, bonking blondes, birdshooting, driving fast cars, doing all four of those things at the same time,  etc.)
  • tell the whiny wokescolds to fuck off — he’s a Royal, FFS, and he doesn’t need anyone’s approval to do anything

But he’s never going to go there, is he?  Because in terms of becoming King of Britishland, his brother (and his  expanding brood) has relegated Rufus pretty much to the 2nd XI, inheritance-wise;  and without being the Woke Prince, therefore, all he would have left to do is open supermarkets, attend formal balls, go to church with Granny, and hand out the trophies at the Upper Twittering Boys Athletics competition.

Just like all the other minor royals, in other words.

But at least he’d get his balls back.

En Passant

Culture, Literature

In an otherwise-unmemorable piece on woke-scolds ending Comedy As We Know It, NRO mouthpiece Jay Nordlinger says this:

I received a note from my old friend Larry Shackley, a longtime NR reader and a great admirer of P. G. Wodehouse. In fact, Larry is reading through the complete Wodehouse — complete — right now.

…as though this were somehow unusual.  Maybe it is, for Murkins who — for shame — don’t know who Pelham Grenville Wodehouse was.

To call P.G. Wodehouse one of the most-read humorist writers of the 20th century is to understate the thing — he is quite possibly the greatest humorist writer, ever.  Here’s a personal indicator.

When I left South Africa in 1986, I brought with me three suitcases of clothes, my cameras and a few other things I couldn’t bear to part with.  I brought only two books with me (from a library of well over a thousand), and those were The World of Psmith (a compendium of three books) and The Jeeves Omnibus (another compendium).  Both were written by P.G. Wodehouse.  I reasoned — correctly as it turned out, in those pre-Amazon times —  that I wouldn’t be able to find them here.

And there was just no way I was going to live in a house without Wodehouse.

Now, a lot of people don’t “get” Wodehouse because most of his situations are concerned with utterly trivial concerns — trivial maybe to us, nowadays, and certainly only non-trivial to the English upper classes circa 1928.  (One story involves the “theft” of a wonderful cook by one titled twerp from another titled household.)  But that doesn’t stop the brilliant writing from making one burst out with uncontrollable laughter occasionally.

And it should be said that Wodehouse himself was very much a fervent socialist — his take on the peccadilloes of the English upper classes is almost invariably satirical — yet his satire is not the bitter waspishness of Private Eye  magazine, but gentle and almost indulgent.  Look at these idiots, he seems to say, see how foolish and inconsequential they are.  One of my favorite lines from the Bertie Wooster stories comes when Bertie is beset with looming trouble and catastrophe, and says to his long-suffering “gentleman’s gentleman” Jeeves as he is being dressed for dinner:

“At a time like this, Jeeves, I wonder whether the length of one’s trousers actually matters,” and receives the gentle rebuke:
“There is never  a time, sir, when the length of one’s trousers doesn’t matter.”

Wodehouse left England for a career as a Hollywood scriptwriter, only to become embroiled in the Cold War-McCarthyism of the Fifties.  How ironic, then, that he, the one-time socialist, should write of that time:

“Humorists have been scared out of the business by the touchiness now prevailing in every section of the community. Wherever you look, on every shoulder there is a chip, in every eye a cold glitter warning you, if you know what is good for you, not to start anything.”

What was practiced on the socialists of that era is being repeated with even more venom and coldness by the P.C. (and mostly socialist) tribe of today.

Anyway, enough of that.  I think I’ll marmalade a slice of toast, and go and read A Pelican At Blandings, featuring the wonderfully-named Galahad Threepwood of whom it was said (and I paraphrase) that he was so ardent a party animal that he hadn’t slept till age fifty.  And if anyone should think that I resemble Galahad’s elder brother Clarence, the Earl of Emsworth, who looks with utter bewilderment on the modern world and prefers to retreat to his library and read — well, you’d be absolutely correct.

Literary Freedom

Funny Stuff

Apparently the Brits have got their panties all in a knot over a book.   It’s called My Little Book Of All The Brexiteers I Want To Stab, and of course the fury is because Amazon offered it for sale.

Even though the “hate speech” bullshit is most often used by the Left against conservatives, on this occasion it’s Brexiteers using the liberal fascists’ cancel culture rule against the Remainers.  But that doesn’t make it right, now, does it?

Let’s play a little game here, seeing as the Left seems not to mind calling for Trump, Scalise, Clarence Thomas et al. to be assassinated.  I’m not going to play the “One Shot” game because quite frankly, we need more than one shot to eliminate most of the Leftist / Never Trumper assholes which infest our body politic.

Instead, we’ll use a popular motif on this here website:

Send me an email (NOT in Comments) in which you assign each of your favorite hang-worthy assholes a number, ranked from 1-15 in descending  order of hangworthyness (i.e. #1=worst, #15=least objectionable), e.g. 1:  Eric Swalwell, 2: Elizabeth Warren, 3: Paul Ryan, 4: Nancy Pelosi, 5: Beto etc etc all the way to 15: Wayne LaPierre.  Nominate anyone you want (except me;  compared to the pustules which infest society at the moment, I’m barely worth noticing).  I’ll tabulate the responses over the weekend and post the results sometime next week.  Emails arriving after Sunday won’t be tabulated.

Hatin’ On The Feds

Gummint

Wah wah wah the FedGov alphabet agencies, after despising us and treating ordinary citizens like criminals and scum for decades, are suddenly waking up to the fact that we hate them back, and they’re all butt-hurt about it:

Many arms of government are unpopular with large swathes of the American population, and people are not shy about expressing their contempt.
For those of us who want a smaller, much less intrusive government, that should be viewed as a trend to nurture and encourage. And what a trend it is.

Remember a few years back when Martha Stewart was tossed in jail for lying to a federal agent?  They’d tried for years to get her on tax evasion charges, and failed dismally.  So when they couldn’t get her for that, they lied to her about some information they claimed to have, and demanded a statement.  When she couldn’t remember the details and relied on faulty memory, they nailed her for it — and it was all because she was a high-profile target (which they love because it brings attention to their untiring efforts to keep the country safe [eyecross] ).  So the feds can lie to you, about anything, but get one detail wrong and they can bend you over the desk.  That’s why they don’t record interviews — unlike local police forces, which have to — which means that there’s no evidence that they lied or tried otherwise to entrap you.  (Which is why President Trump refused to be interviewed by the Robert Mueller Gestapo, by the way, when those assholes wouldn’t give him written questions to answer — hint:  paper trail.)

And of course, the feds, be they the FBI, IRS or any of the other alphabet soup minions can have it both ways if they don’t  want to prosecute, by asking softball or irrelevant questions of the accused, then just ignoring any which might have been incriminating.  Which is why Hillary “Illegal Private Email Server” Clinton isn’t wearing orange overalls as we speak.

Let’s not even mention  Ruby Ridge or Waco.

So yeah:  put me in the camp of those who don’t trust, believe or support most federal agencies… anymore.

And that’s the important point, here.  For years — decades — after I came over as an immigrant, I always thought that these agencies were on the side of the right, and that justice was their goal in protecting us from criminals.  Silly me, it isn’t.  As the past decade has proved, they’re little different from the criminal enterprises they purport to be saving us from.  When agents start talking about their targets’ families, and how their  job prospects or college careers could be affected by their parents’ culpability, all I’m reminded of is that infamous Cosa Nostra phrase:  “Nice little business you have here.  Pity if something bad were to happen to it.”

Government agencies have been acting increasingly like petty gauleiters  and thugs, and now they wonder why people loathe and distrust them?

No More Trophies For You, Matey

Gummint, Hunting, Mocking Furriners

I usually email Mr. Free Market and / or The Englishman to tease them about the latest BritGov foolishness — it keeps me busy (because of the volume thereof) and I like getting the return emails, contents of which I cannot share because bloodthirsty / seditious / both.  Here’s but one example:

Mr. FM’s response to this idiocy, however, was different:

The government could ban trophy hunting souvenirs after a huge spike in the number of bloodsport mementos being brought back to the UK.
Animal welfare minister Zac Goldsmith said the sport ‘turns my stomach’ as he revealed there will be an urgent consultation over the controversial imports.
It comes after a strong public backlash to trophy hunting after the deaths of animals such as Cecil the lion in 2015, as well as elephants and leopards.

We’ll leave aside the necessity for a government “animal welfare minister” for the moment, and concentrate on Mr. FM’s response:

“Excellent.  Given the cost of taxidermy, not to mention the astronomical shipping costs, this ban will just leave me more money to buy tags to shoot more animals*.”

In other words:

Yeah, that’s going to work really well for the BritGov.  It’s a classic example of what happens when you want to legislate against something but know fuck-all about the subject.

*I should point out that in most parts of Africa, there are few limits as to how much game you want to shoot;  the degree of scarcity drives the price up or down.  If you want to shoot another one, you just pay the additional tag fee — which by the way, are nosebleed (see here for typical per-animal tags).