It’s getting on top of me. The world’s going to hell at breakneck speed, and for the first time I feel powerless to prevent it happening. Read the headlines of today’s Instapundit — just the headlines, not the stories — and tell me why I should feel any other way.
This feeling has been growing for some time now, which is why these pages have featured so many scantily-clad women, news snippets with snarky commentary, cars and other such trivia.
The weekend’s two posts about the future of the car business sum the whole thing up, really: change, really bad change, is coming down the pike and there’s not a single thing that I or anyone else can do to stop it. Standing athwart the tide of history shouting “Stop!” is a completely pointless exercise when yours is the only voice against a cacophony of voices cheering the tide along as history plunges inexorably along towards the abyss of pointless chaos and Dark Ages II.
The barbarians aren’t just at the gates, they’ve chopped the gates up and are using them for firewood to burn up not only our rights, but all those things which give us some small measure of joy. Modern movies are total shit, modern cars are shapeless and emasculated, modern handguns are like the cars, indistinguishable from each other and underpowered by being chambered mostly for the rat-shit 9mm Paralympic.
The once-Stout Bulldog Brits are being told to cancel Christmas dinners and parties because of a virus that’s more akin to a bad cold — and they’re going to comply meekly, the gutless bastards. And speaking of gutless bastards, the Australians, once renowned as the most ferocious warriors in the world, are being arrested in parks and confined to house arrest, all for the heinous sin of not wearing a piece of useless paper over their faces — and they’re doing fuck all to resist it.
The only good news of the day is that liberal asshole Chris Wallace has left Fox News; except that Fox News has become more like NBC since the halcyon days of Roger Ailes, so even the good news is sprinkled with shit sugar.
I need a day off, maybe two.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the range, because that seems to be one of the few joys left. I’m going to shoot my Mauser’s 8mm ammo till my shoulder aches — I don’t care where the bullets land, I just want to shoot until I can’t anymore. Then I’m going next door to the pistol range, and I’m going to shoot my 1911 to pieces, or my wrist, whichever breaks first.
My only regret is that I can’t get to the range in a truck with a loud, gas-guzzling V8 engine.
