ZARDOZ SPEAKS TO YOU, HIS CHOSEN ONES. WHILE THE BRUTALS WHO PLAGUE THE EARTH HAVE BEEN A CONSTANT BOTHER TO ZARDOZ, YOU, THE CHOSEN ONES HAVE NOT. YOU HAVE SNARKED WELL AT THEM. FOR THIS, ZARDOZ GIVES YOU THE GIFT OF THE LINK. GO FORTH AND COMMENT!
ZARDOZ HAS SPOKEN.
Like I mentioned before about a year ago, I give up beer for Lent. I do it every year. Not to worry, I’m not going to explain it again. I am just going to leave a link here, explaining the whole thing.
This is my review of Saison Dupont Avec Les Bons Vouex.
If you’ve been following long enough, this is not to be confused with regular old, Saison Dupont…which I reviewed here.
Incidentally, this one was even mentioned before. Bon Voeux is a French phrase meaning, “best wishes.” This beer was initially put to market during the 1970s and offered to the brewer’s most loyal customers. Am offering of sorts, for best wishes for the new year. I guess I am a bit late.
The biggest difference with this one over the standard is it is quite a bit more intense with the citrus notes. I might go so far as to say it has an almost lemon-like sourness. Like Nephilium, I will have to say the standard is better. Saison Dupont Avec Les Bons Voeux 3.5/5
I drink a ton of Saison, don’t I? Maybe I need to give it up for a while…
I will confess to a guilty pleasure: since moving west, SP and I have been on an old Western kick. And our current binge is old Hopalong Cassidy TV shows, mostly condensed versions of the 66 Hopalong Cassidy movies. In its day, these shows were insanely popular, the first major TV westerns, with every red-blooded American kid watching the show weekly, wanting Hoppy merchandise, and cajoling parents into buying stuff from the show’s sponsors. There’s a lot of interesting backstory as well, which I may expand into a full post. Teaser: entrepreneurship, heavy drinking, redemption, and brilliant marketing. At the end of every show, Hoppy’s portrayer, William Boyd, would deliver a message to the kids, usually along the lines of, “Hello, Little Pardners! Make sure you do your homework every day!” or “Your parents love you and care about you. Make sure you listen to everything they say and do your chores with a smile!” But of all of the end-of-show messages, this one is for sure our favorite:
Birthdays today are particularly auspicious and numerous, but I must single out libertarian theorist Murray Rothbard, brilliant author and social critic Tom Wolfe, and the immortal Lou Reed, who will always be with us.
On to the news!
Orange Man is doomed! America yawns.
The Pride of Minnesota continues to delight everyone.
Jews, that’s why they’re lame.
I fucking hate Twitter, but every once in a while, there’s a gem.
He really should have listened to Hoppy.
We really did get out just in time. Holy shit, this is going to be a spectacular crash and burn.
This sort of snark will not stop the presidential crusade of Jay Inslee. Whoever the fuck he is.
There’s no shortage of non-entities crowding the Team Blue field for 2020. Too bad that this threatens to overshadow the absolute comedy of Warren and Sanders. That said, if Team Blue somehow gets sensible and nominates the staunch anti-interventionist Gabbard, and Team L fails to nominate the amazingly delightful McAfee, I may vote Blue for the first time.
As someone who has always fucking hated malls, this gives me a frisson of Schadenfreude.
Old Guy Music time. And for whatever reason, I’ve been on a Sonny Terry/Brownie McGhee kick lately. And here’s a classic, introduced by the amazingly white and overly garrulous Pete Seeger.
Since the editors were still unable to find a suitable replacement, I, Winston’s Mom will continue to provide valuable analysis of the economic questions of the day.
In your face Heritage Foundation!
Drake, dear. I left half a box of Summer’s Eve in the back of your car. If you can be a peach and can drop it off later. KThxBi!
Lets start here.
That’s a shameful line of argument. In fact, whenever you see someone invoking Venezuela as a reason not to consider progressive policy ideas, you know right away that the person in question is uninformed, dishonest, or both. It basically shows that the speaker or writer isn’t willing to engage in serious discussion, preferring to scare people with a boogeyman of which he or she knows nothing.
I was working in Jersey once when a group of sailors stopped by the brothel I was working at tha time. My Madam said not to reuse the condom, we’ll all get the clap that way. I didn’t believe that the first time. Let me tell you something, we all got the clap after that.
The next time soomebody says, thats how you get the clap…you might just get the clap.
But what, exactly, does any of this have to do with the policy ideas of Elizabeth Warren, or Kamala Harris, or even a genuine radical like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez? Is anyone in U.S. politics, even those who call themselves socialists, proposing that we nationalize large parts of the private sector? Is there anything in the record of U.S. progressives suggesting that they are less fiscally responsible than the people who keep using voodoo economics to push massive tax cuts for the rich?
I wouldn’t trust any of these broads you mentioned to run a brothel. Everybody would get the clap.
Maybe you disagree with all these policy ideas. But if your first response, literally, is to scream “Venezuela,” you’re demonstrating both your unscrupulousness and your lack of any serious arguments for your position.
I don’t lack serious arguments. You lack serious arguments. VENEZUELA!!!! VENEZUELA!!! VENEZUELA!!!
But from now on, here’s my rule: anyone who tries to use Venezuela as a cudgel in U.S. political debate doesn’t deserve to be part of that debate.
Of course its relevant! I can’t even get a job in Venezuela you punk bitch. I hope Venezuela’s giant, wet snatch is rubbed in your face from now until the end of fucking time.
Hey guys, I’m not actually dead. It turns out that snow is not, in fact, fatal to Florida Man. I did need some help thawing out and getting up to normal function. Special thanks to the others who picked up for my deadbeat-can’t-even-text-to-say-I’m-not-doing-the-links ass. It’s been a heckuva a Friday on the site, and I was tempted to just skip links, but certain other contributors wield guilt like a scalpel. I was suitably shamed.
Only Florida Man would find himself in a fistfight over Tupac. For one thing, no where else has morons who thought Biggie was better.
Without “police level training” how will armed Ohio teachers learn to mag dump on the family chihuahua?
It’s almost as if regret in buying a home is tied to the debt-to-equity ratio of the age cohort. Nah, too simplistic. Let’s go with “most Millenials regret buying a house”.
Thankfully, I did not have to experience the fun of this video. Driving in (very) light snow was no more dangerous than driving in the rain in Central Florida.
1,703 words.
That is the amount CNN columnist, John Blake used to express what could have been expressed in four: Lynn Patton is a coon.
Progressives, typically academics, as well, often labor under the delusion that they can mask their slimy, bile-coated race-hatred with verbosity. Indeed, the laconic honesty of a simple racial or ethnic slur hurled in impotent rage seems refreshing to utterly craven attempt at slur through obscurantism.
What rankles the most, however, is that not only will Blake continue to build a career out of dehumanizing black and brown folk who don’t march in lockstep with his radical left-wing societal and political views, but he will continue to be well-compensated for serving as hatchet-man for the vastly majority-white CNN editorial board by running interference for one of their newest poster-children, Rashida Tlaib who, to the delight of progressive media,has helped to successfully bring Jeremy Corbyn ‘Wolf-Who-Cried-Boy’-style antisemitism to American politics. Blake represents just one member of a brigade of CNN’s house, ahem, ‘slaves’ that at the order of their paymasters rushed to spew racial grievance and divisiveness all over its Op-Ed page in a frantic attempt to steer their narrative out of its nosedive after Tlaib beclowned herself at Michael Cohen’s first appearance before the congressional committee by unwittingly insulting the (Democratic) chairman’s “best friend,” which prompted Elijah Cummings to speak eloquently against the identity politics trafficked by this newest crop of elected sea-monsters that make up the progressive wing of the Democratic Party.
And this dusty ass lookin’ motherfucker has the balls to call Patton a ‘token Negro’? This is all I have to say about that, and notice I took only 290 words to say what I could have said in two.
Some time ago I decided to switch from writing YA to the more lucrative genre of romance. If you’ve ever browsed the romance books on Amazon, you’ll know that shirtless billionaires are the in thing. Here’s a sampling of what you can expect from billionaire romances:
I’ve apparently immersed myself too much in the genre, because last night I dreamed myself into a billionaire romance of my own. But it wasn’t just any billionaire romance. It didn’t hit the tropes. It wasn’t written to market. No, I dreamed about what it would probably be like to marry an actual, real-life billionaire. Here is an excerpt of what I can remember from the dream:
My disembodied torso of a husband and I were asleep in our luxury suite; the master bedroom was as big as the house I grew up in. Ah, the life of a billionaire. We lay entangled together in the black satin sheets on the king-sized bed, as blissfully content as two people who are asleep can be. Suddenly, I was awakened by a smash against the window. I sat up, pulling off my black-satin eye mask with the embroidered kitty-cat face on it and adjusting the strap of my black satin negligee. Egg yolk dripped down one of our floor-to-ceiling muntined windows.
“Get out here, you bitch!” a woman’s voice shrieked from outside the window.
“Ah, shit,” I muttered under my breath.
“What are you screaming about?” my husband’s abs asked.
“It’s not me. One of your psycho exes is egging the house again.”
“Well, why the hell isn’t the robotic security guard escorting her off the property? Did you forget to turn the security system on before bed?”
“Since when is that my job?” I protested.
“Wednesdays are your day. Didn’t you look at the chore chart?” grumbled my husband’s pectorals.
Of course I hadn’t. When in my life had I ever remembered to look at the chore chart? There was a reason my mom had given up on giving me those things as a child. If I were a real romance heroine, I would have chastised myself here for being useless, but I’m not, so I didn’t feel particularly remorseful.
“Well, do something about it. I have a headache,” said my billionaire.
I was about to ask how he had a headache when he didn’t even have a head, but then I realized that he did, in fact, have a head, but the features on the face were obscured — like the heroines in Japanese dating sim games, only with carefully groomed stubble on the jaw. I could picture any face I wanted on that head. I could have put a really handsome face on him, but the Sargon of Akkad video I watched before bed said that women are attracted to powerful men more than handsome men, and he probably isn’t wrong (don’t ask me, the last time I dated a man was in 2008), so I decided it didn’t matter in the end what his face really looked like.
“You drank too much champagne at our luxurious party tonight,” I said sympathetically. Like a true billionaire, my husband was a big drinker of strong spirits and consumer of various psychedelic and hallucinogenic substances; I’m not a user of any of those things, but like a true libertarian, I don’t give a fuck what other people do, so his hangover was his problem. “I’ll take care of her.”
I stepped carefully off the raised dais that our bed was centered on went out to the veranda, gazing down at the Olsen twin lookalike standing on the massive lawns beneath our bedroom window. In the light of the full moon, I saw that her eye makeup was either smeared from tears, or maybe she was going for that smudged-eyeliner-raccoon-mask look.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I’m the one who should be up there right now, not you!” she screeched. “Why would he be interested in you? You’re a nobody! You must have lied to him about your background. He never would have married you if he’d known what you really are: an Italian!”
“I’m pretty sure he knew,” I said.
“You told him?” she asked incredulously.
“No, but he met my dad at the wedding and my dad is just one green hat shy of being a Luigi clone.”
Furious, she switched tactics. “What have you got that I haven’t got?!”
Growing bored with this conversation, I let the truth bomb fly: “I’m the only libertarian woman on the planet. I actively endorse his use of unpaid orphans to staff his business. I’m in favor of a 0% tax rate for billionaires. I don’t get embarrassed when he wears a monocle around the house. Also, I subscribe to PewDiePie.”
As she let out a feral shriek of rage, the android security guard came rolling up. He looked like the robot cop from Futurama, except with a better uniform because we have our standards. The guard hefted her over its shoulder and silently carried her away as she kicked and screamed.
I went back inside, adjusting the black satin robe over my black satin negligee. “I was handling her.”
“Not fast enough,” groaned my husband’s biceps as they tossed the smartphone he’d used to summon security back onto the nightstand.
“You know, hangovers are caused by dehydration,” I informed him sagely.
“You think I don’t know that? I’m a super genius. I know everything.” He pulled the pillows from my side of the bed and buried his head in them. Good, now I didn’t have to do anything about that smudgy, featureless face on his head.
“You want a Gatorade?” I offered.
“Absolutely not.”
“Are you going to punish me like Christian Grey for forgetting to turn the security system on?”
“That’s too much effort,” he said.
I looked at the bed. My side was now pillowless. “Should I sleep on the floor or something?”
“Just get some more pillows from the guest room and shut up.”
I smiled. I may not have been a true romance heroine, but I knew I’d gotten one of the good ones.
* * *
The next day, once he’d gotten over his hangover, he changed into a suit that was unbuttoned all the way down to his navel and we got into our self-driving limousine and went out to some airstrip or something to see a test on his new jet engine or flamethrower or whatever. All I know is that they were doing a ballistic test using a dead pig like on Mythbusters.
“That is the grossest thing I’ve ever seen,” I announced.
“It doesn’t bother me,” he said. “Back before I was a rich techno genius billionaire inventor, I used to work at a meat market in the humble Zanzibarbarian town where I grew up, making bacon for the one percent of the country that’s not Muslim. I’ve spent a lot of time around dead pigs.”
I snickered to myself, adjusting my hard hat and thinking about that joke from Rocky and Bullwinkle about the hog flogger. I’d have to show him the clip later, when all these workers weren’t around. It wasn’t a joke for polite society, but considering the fact that we’d fallen in love over memes and edgelord humor and were both registered in the National Database of Rich and Famous Nazis, I knew he’d appreciate it.
What was the point of this scene? I don’t know, it was a dream and dreams never make sense. But the hog flogger joke still makes me laugh even when I’m awake, so I figured I’d include it because like my dream husband, you’re all Nazis, too.
* * *
That’s all I remember from the dream, but I think we’ve got gold here. Next bestseller for the win.
STEVE SMITH SLOW GOING MORNING. HIM FIND WHISKY BARREL WHEN IT FALL OFF TRUCK THAT GET STUCK IN SNOW. STEVE SMITH TRY HELP DRIVER, BUT DRIVER RUN, SCREAMING. SO STEVE SMITH TAKE BARREL TO CAVE. IT DELICIOUS, BUT NOW HIM NEED COFFEE. LUCKY STEVE SMITH FIND SOME IN CAMPER HE VISIT NIGHT BEFORE. BY VISIT, MEAN RAPE. CAMPER. AND CAMPERS IN CAMPER.
BUT YOU NO HERE HEAR STEVE SMITH GRUMBLE. YOU COME FOR LINKS! STEVE SMITH GIVE LINKS. HAVE FUN COMMENT. ON LINKS.
AND NOW, SPECIAL FEATURE! STEVE SMITH GIVE ADVICE! HIM READ “ASK AMY” AND SAY ‘HER SILLY’. STEVE SMITH DO BETTER (EVEN IF IT OLD RERUN!):
Q: I have a good friend who is very nice, very thoughtful and very dependable. Whenever anyone needs to reach her, my friend is just one text message away. But that is just what seems to be the problem — she is always reachable, and her phone is always there, ringing with text messages.
I feel as though when I hang out with her that I am really hanging out with her phone. What is the best way to approach her about this?
A: THIS EASY! TAKE PHONE, SMASH WITH BIG ROCK.
THEN TELL FRIEND LISTEN AND TALK OR GET SMASH WITH BIG ROCK NEXT. SINCE SMASH PHONE, HER NO CALL 911! MIGHT BE LAST CONVERSATION WITH FRIEND. BUT HER ANNOYING ANYWAY.
FREE CASCADIA. AND PASS COFFEE POT.
As Chief Cryptid Editor and Wrangler of this here site, I have noticed that many people have suggested versions of STEVE SMITH such as we saw with SEA (Mad Scientist made first contact with SEA SMITH and steered him to our site)
or SPACE SMITH (not sure about him yet…is he real, or just the product of the insane ramblings of a deranged government employee?).
Oh, and STEVE SMITH did use a pseudonym in Hollywood – STEPHEN SMYTHE. Also, SEA SMITH’s greatgrandfather was OCEANUS SMITHE.
We have seen STEVE SMITH’S MOM:
..and GRANDFATHER SMITH:
I don’t have any pics of SEA SMITH’s distant progenitor LEV IATHAN.
But you, the Glibertariat, have suggested some too. So far, off the top of my head, I can recall;
What other SMITHs have/can you come up with?
Have at it in the comments – by have it at it, mean…
OK, not sure what is going on…but before the riot starts…here are some links:
Over to you, commentariat.