Category: Guy Stuff

Things that make men go “Oooooh!”

Both Desirable

Gratuitous Chick Pics, Toys

I see that Queen’s Gambit  hottie Anya Taylor-Joy is modeling Jaeger-LeCoultre watches now:

…but I have to say, her beauty is a strange one, because:

Anyway, here are a few more reference pics so you can make up your own mind:

And the more errr descriptive ones:

But that’s not really what I want to talk about here today.  Rather, I want to talk about Jaeger-LeCoultre watches, of which I’ve never owned a single one but I’d love to because they are just flat-out classy:

Of course, they do produce watches for more errr  modern tastes:

…and frankly, I think they’re both pig-ugly — aimed no doubt at the Russian Billionaire’s Son Set or else Arab sheiks, neither of which are known for their refined taste.

Hell, I’d take one of Jaeger’s second-hand and (very much-) older watches over either of those “modern” ones:

…just as I’d take Gina over Anya:

But you all knew that.

Rock, Meet Hard Place

Advice, Guy Stuff, Lifestyle

Via Reader Mike L. I get this bit of news:

In Missouri, where abortion is illegal, Planned Parenthood sees surge in vasectomies

Doesn’t surprise me.

I had mine done in 1997, some time after my 43rd birthday, and have never looked back.  Frankly, I think that any man who doesn’t have it done by age 45 is asking for trouble, whether or not abortion is legal.  (If your Missus has had her tubes tied or her factory is otherwise disabled, then fine — but be aware that as long as the little swimmers are still there, you can still become a Daddy regardless of the recipient thereof.  I shudder just at the thought.)

And let’s not forget that nowadays you can be stuck with child support payments even if you’re not the daddy — but having had your tubes tied, such an eventuality is highly unlikely if not impossible.

I must admit that back in the times when I did this kind of thing on an ad-hoc basis, it was a real comfort to know that the old production pole had been turned into a joystick.

Sssshhhh Don’t Tell ‘Em

Disaster, Guy Stuff, SHTF

“When civilization falls apart, the rifle I want is an AK-47.”  We all know that famous quote, but an even better one is:  “When civilization falls, you’d better know how to survive in Nature”, as Richard Moss describes the fate of the “social elites” who don’t:

They would soon realize that their clever turns of phrase, condescending smirks, allegiance to “diversity,” abortion, and rejection of God would mean nothing before the fury of nature and nature’s God. Their fatal conceits would vanish in terrified moments as nature delivered its cruel blows. Their high-minded rhetoric, progressive orthodoxy, navel-gazing, and self-absorption would dissolve before the acid rain of Gaia’s indifferent wrath.

All good stuff.  Of course, I don’t have much of that knowledge either — or at least, it’s been largely forgotten — but I have friends who do, and I would arrive at their doorstep with tons of food, guns and ammo —  to help guard them and their loved ones against the inevitable hordes of goblins who would try to prey on them.

The East/West Coast types?  Best leave them in their ignorance.

Waste Of Time

Guy Stuff

Prompted by several men of my acquaintance, I succumbed to the hype and watched the Reacher  show on Amazon’s “Prime” channel yesterday — yeah, unto the entire first season so nobody could accuse me of missing the good part or the ending, or whatever.

What.  Bullshit.

Apart from an insanely-ridiculous plot with more holes than a mesh facemark, the entire premise of the show (stolen wholesale from the Then Came Bronson  TV series of 1969-70, only with ultra- violence added) is at about comic-book level, i.e. aimed at the nine-year-old boy mentality.

Loner comes to town, finds rampant injustice, fights against it (literally), kills everyone, wins in the end.  Clint Eastwood’s Pale Rider  did it better and more convincingly, in two hours.

I am getting so sick of people fighting in movies, landing what would be crippling blows in real life, only to jump back into the fray and land equally-devastating blows on the opponent.

Pro tip:  when someone is head-butted in the face, the result is a broken nose, broken jaw, broken cheekbone (or all the above), and temporary befuddlement if not outright unconsciousness.  In almost every fight scene in this foul waste of time, the fighters would land not one, but several head-butts on each other, with seemingly no ill effects on either.  Even worse, after the fight was over, nobody showed any ill-effects — no bruising, no fractures, nada.

In one risible fight, Our Hero Reacher gets hit not once but seven times in the ribs with a crowbar.  I hate to spoil the secret, but one blow in the ribs with a crowbar is Game Over — broken ribs, punctured lungs, organ damage — and trying to block the blow with a forearm ends with a broken arm.  And worse, when we see him later (in a predictable sex scene which made me howl with laughter, so awkwardly was it staged), there were absolutely no signs of him having been in mortal combat but a few minutes earlier.

I also think the Desert Eagle was loaded with .22 LR bullets, so little did it recoil.  Please.

Finally, the casting.  Uh huh:  a 6’5″ musclebound protagonist with a steely stare?  Shrimpy dwarf Tom Cruise was more convincing in the movie version, because at least he could hide in a crowd if he had to.   This man-mountain would stand out on Muscle Beach in L.A.

One-dimensional:  the character, the plot, the bad guys, everything.  Oh, and answer me this:  mid-summer in a small town in Georgia, and nobody’s perspiring outdoors?

This show is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever seen on TV, and any future series is going to be roundly ignored, with prejudice.

Want

Guy Stuff

I’m not often envious of what other people do or have, but I’ll make an exception for this guy and his toy:

We used to have a 30′ Scalextric track layout in the basement of our Chicago suburban home, but in subsequent homes we never had the space available to set it up again.  And unlike Our Hero, we only had a few cars, which we’d race against each other by class, so to speak:

 

 

Great fun.