IowaHawk Can Still Make Me Laugh

I followed David Burge back when his IowaHawk blog was trying to make us laugh during the Iraq War, a not trivial exercise.  Here Burge reveals his phobia of doll collectors.

He makes a fairly uncharitable but quite funny character judgement that I can’t help but laugh at.  Back when Obama was running for president the first time Burge had a very amusing parody of establishment Republicans falling over themselves to find the conservative case for voting for Obama.  His foil, T. Coddington Van Voorhees VII, was a transparent spoof of William F. Buckley Jr.’s son Christopher who infamously endorsed Obama for president while writing for the National Review.

Howie Carr Gloats at Impotent Rage of Boston Maskers

Howie Carr is one of a very few sane New England journalists.  He loves tweaking the Left in Boston.  I just had to quote from an article he posted mocking the anger and fear expressed by commenters on the Boston Globe over the judge ending air travel masking.

“I’ve had two vaccines, and two boosters, and have already booked my fifth, sixth and seventh shots. Whenever I step outside my mansion in Lincoln, which I haven’t done since February 2020, I wear 17 masks, all N95’s, but now I am terrified that I will be infected by a MAGA supporter in the tourist section of my next flight to Martha’s Vineyard. P.S. When will Trump be tried as a war criminal?”

Now obviously he’s exaggerating what he read in the Globe comments section.  But based on what I know of these people it’s pretty close to reality.

Kudos to Howie.

The History of Dunwich – Part 1 – It’s Annoying Origins

The origins of the site on which Dunwich sits are shrouded in mystery.  A mystery based on profound indifference and shoddy scholarship.  Legend claims that in the earliest epoch it was the Latrine of Yog Sothoth.  It is believed that the current stratum of bedrock is completely composed of metamorphized coprolite.  Professor Obadiah Bishop of Miskatonic University spent forty years of his academic career studying this coprolite formation and determined that it was almost entirely composed of triceratopsian dung formed from an exclusive diet of poison sumac.  This is thought to explain the funk that emanates from the ground, groundwater, crops and inhabitants of the present day site.  It is also believed to explain the almost constant, frenzied scratching that all Dunwichians indulge in.

The original human inhabitants of the area were members of the Pocnipnarrawampamuckutucs (sometimes shortened to the Muckutucs) tribe.  The Muckutucs were despised by the other tribes because they smelled awful, had thirteen fingers and two rows of teeth.

When the first European settlers arrived, they interbred with the Muckutucs and their descendants had twelve fingers.  Which was an improvement.  But no teeth.  Which was not.  Over time these anatomical oddities became the hallmark of the Dunwichian ancestry and somewhat explained their status as loathed outcasts and pariahs.  Suffice it to say that the rest of New England chose to avoid Dunwich like the plague.

But the American Revolution saw a change.  The patriotic fervor that swept through the rest of New England did not neglect Dunwich.  A company of stout Dunwichians headed up by “Captain” Nehemiah Hoadley marched east to reinforce the colonial army at Lexington.  But when the Boston regiment got a look at the Dunwich contingent approaching from the west, they abandoned their ambush of the British and blasted away at these toothless mutants, mowing them down to the last polydactylous humanoid soul.  After this Dunwich refused taxation by the US government until almost the time of the Civil War.

It was during the nineteenth century that the first truly disturbing events began to occur in and around Dunwich.  In 1824 on the site of Phineas Goodgroates’ orchard, a thousand ton, three-hundred-foot-long caste-iron cylinder fell out of the sky and flattened Phineas’s apple trees and because he was apple picking that day, flattened Phineas too.  This metallic meteor came to be known as the Codpiece of Cthulhu because of the inscription on its side identifying it as such.  The arrival of this piece of sartorial ironmongery was taken as an event of ill-omen.  Opinions varied, although with respect to Phineas all agreed it was definitely a bit of tough luck for him.

But by 1830 the populace had calmed down and normalcy reasserted itself until in the fall of that year when Caleb Sillwright’s turnip patch was similarly bombarded by the aptly named Moustache Comb of Azathoth.  At this point there were calls to abandon Dunwich altogether or at least to install some kind of gargantuan clothes rack above the town in the hope that the Elder Gods would take the hint and stop dropping their effects on Dunwich.  Luckily, cooler heads prevailed.

To be continued.

Biden Blames Putin for Gas Prices, Stagflation, COVID Crisis, Afghan Debacle, Crime Wave in Cities and Incontinence

Washington D.C. – American President Joseph Biden gave a hard hitting if somewhat confusing speech today in front of the Trade Union Delegation from Inner Outer Stanstanistan.  To the somewhat bemused pastoral herdsmen in their colorful native garb the animated but sometimes incoherent stateman was highly entertaining.  Of course, since the translator was speaking in Outer Inner Stanstanistanian they couldn’t understand anything he said.  But their spokesman was quoted as saying “we could tell he really meant whatever it was he was saying.”

After blaming every domestic and foreign policy debacle in his administration on the Russian strongman, Biden finished up the speech with an appeal for lower priced insulin that ended with him repeatedly striking the podium with his shoe.  This got a standing ovation from the herdsmen who remembered old video clips of Khrushchev at the UN that they had watched during lunch break in grammar school.  The emotional yak herders left the meeting chanting, “We will bury you, we will bury you” in fairly good Russian.

MSNBC reported that the speech is widely believed to be the talking points for the Democrat mid-term elections campaign platform.  Rachel Maddow explained, “We will blame everything on Putin.  Inflation, Putin.  Crime, Putin.  Biden’s flatulence, Putin.  There is even talk of finding footage of Putin standing on George Floyd’s neck whenever Chauvin needed to be spelled.  We drew the line at implicating him in the Kennedy assassination because Putin was eleven at the time and known to be a fairly poor shot with a rifle.”

Caught flat-footed by this new scheme Senate minority leader Mitch McConnell was quoted as saying, “Huh?”

After the speech a news team was sent out to a local gas station to do a man on the street interview with a consumer filling his gas tank.  After watching a clip from the speech, the motorist reached into his car and proceeded to brain the reporter with a baseball bat.  Police were called to the scene and after watching the video, they emptied the clips of their sidearms into the now motionless reporter and left.  The rest of the news crew beat a tactical retreat back to MSNBC where they suggested that the DNC might want to do a little more focus group workshopping of the idea.  But they stressed that heavy blunt objects and pointed and sharp-edged utensils be removed from the premises beforehand.

Later that night a medical emergency was declared at the White House.  During dinner when asked by Doctor Jill what he had done that day President Biden began to repeat the word Putin over and over in a continuous string; putinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputiputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputinputin!!!!!

When the doctors arrived, the president was diagnosed with a rare form of political Tourette’s syndrome.  It is now believed that for the rest of his life he will only be able to utter combinations of the two syllables pu and tin.  When questioned about this development White House Spokesperson Jen Psaki declared that this situation was Putin’s fault but that it would pose no real problem to President Biden continuing his present activities.  In fact, Psaki hinted that the new situation might actually make her job easier.

However, after hearing that the condition was permanent First Lady Doctor Jill packed her bag and left the White House with her secret service detail in tow.  She was quoted as saying, “That’s enough.  I’m out.”

Renewing Camera Girl’s Contract

I have often commented to Camera Girl that since people nowadays live enormously longer on average than people in the pre-modern era that the institution of marriage with its whole “’til death do us part” clause is behind the times and needs to be updated with more nuanced language.  However, I never say this when she’s holding a sharp knife.  She’s excitable.

But it’s fair to say that a fifty-year reevaluation event seems warranted.  We’ve got another five years before that milestone but I felt it was a good idea to start some preliminary exercises to determine if an emergency early intervention would be needed.

Today I went on an inspection to see how she was doing.  This morning when I came down for breakfast, I carefully examined the meal for signs of insufficiency or insincerity.  The scrambled eggs and pumpernickel bagel seemed up to snuff.  Check.  The breakfast conversation was satisfactory.  Check.  But the after-breakfast banter seemed to die away.  I was sitting in the living room working diligently on very important web site related work.  But there was none of the expected wifely encouraging, congratulatory pep talk that somehow, I think should have been there.  Maybe just a random “Let’s go photog!” thrown in every few minutes.  That seems reasonable.  Within a half hour my rage built up to the point where I actually got up and went into the kitchen to investigate this outrage.

Well, she probably heard me coming because she managed to throw up a smoke screen of cooking food.  As evidence she had a red sauce with meatballs on the stove and a pan of sausages in the oven and an Italian cheese cake under construction on the counter.  Well, okay.  Check, check, check.  She seemed to be busy.  Seemed!

I went back to the living room thinking furiously on what I had seen.  Well, the kids and grandkids were coming tomorrow for dinner.  I guess maybe cooking was a prerequisite for the meal.  Maybe it would be a little unreasonable for her to do all the cooking after I went to bed so as not to interfere with the very important wifely responsibilities of cheering on the king in his daily battles.  Could it be possible she was in the right?  Was it possible I was being selfish?  Me?  “I’m the Bad Guy?  How did that happen?”

Faced with this confusing thought, I retreated to first principles.  What would Ralph Kramden do?  Ah, that’s better.  Obviously, this pretend-hard-working act was a plot to undermine my sense of self-righteousness.  As such it qualified as disloyalty, the ultimate wifely sin.  Hah!  I knew it.  I’m the good guy.  I win again!

Well, once that had been worked out to my full satisfaction, I felt better and could afford to be magnanimous.  I went into the kitchen and patted her on the arm and praised her for the wonderful work she was doing.  This seemed to confuse her a little but she kept working and almost seemed to ignore my presence.  Well, sure.  Not everyone has my ability to multi-task.  I smiled tolerantly and made a silent benediction over her efforts.  A wise man once wrote that, “uneasy is the head that wears a crown.”  And so true it is.  I’m constantly employed providing guidance and useful advice on any number of things around here.  My inexhaustible supply of knowledge is always improving her efforts.  Noblesse oblige as the say.

I guess the outcome is I’ll let things lay for the next five years.  Sure, she tries to undermine my authority but she’s a hard-working member of the team and I like to reward effort.  Plus she’s related to my children and family is family.  Well done Camera Girl, well done.

Fat Tuesday and Lent

When I was an Italian American kid back in Brooklyn, Lent was a truly annoying time of the year.  Meat was taken off the menu and fish was substituted.  But being poor people, we were served this awful white fish of some sort or other, breaded and fried.  It took a lot of ketchup to make that stuff palatable.  When Camera Girl and I got married and set up our own household I was overjoyed to hear that her family wasn’t observant of the Lenten abstention.  We two decided to go for the appearance over the substance.  So, ashes on Ash Wednesday and beef, chicken and pork remained on the menu.  And when Easter arrived, I put in a request for lamb.  Now Camera Girl hates lamb so unsurprisingly it’s probably ham nine out of ten years and lamb once a decade.

You can see why for the last 45 odd years I’ve never concerned myself with Fat Tuesday.  Eating a lot of bad food just to prepare myself for Lent has no rationale for me.  But I told Camera Girl it was Fat Tuesday today and asked her what delicacy would be for dinner.  She looked at me with naked disdain and said she didn’t know yet and not to expect anything great.  This is why women shouldn’t be allowed to vote.  Their judgement is clouded by a lack of strategic thinking.  Here was her big chance to impress the boss (me) with her ability to think on her feet and all she can come up with is discouraging words.  What was needed was a big bold flexible outlook.  What I got was negativity and defeatism.  Terrible.

So, I’m forced to imagine what I might want to get if Fat Tuesday were a real thing in my home.   What comes to mind immediately is some kind of Cajun cuisine.  Some kind of gumbo or jambalaya.  Maybe something with alligator and craw daddies or whatever the hell they eat down there.  And some kind of French pastries with espresso or some other type of strong black coffee with lots of sugar in it.  I would sit out on my balcony as a parade of demented masked and costumed drug fiends shimmied by on their garish and outlandish floats and requested the crowd to throw beads at them for some perverse reason.  I see myself wearing a white suit and brandishing an ornate walking stick as I regally wave a benediction at the inebriated bacchants.  Possibly I would be entertaining a small gathering of the decadent descendants of the plantation aristocracy now reduced to the status of penniless moochers at my table.  We would discuss the antebellum origins of the Mardi Gras and the rumors of voodoo and vampirism in the neighborhood.  I would tut-tut derisively and hold court on the true goings on; the cult of Cthulhu down in the swamps and bayous and how a recently discovered stone idol proved that the re-emergence of the Cthulhu from his dream death at the bottom of the Atlantic was imminent.

Or something like that.  Well actually, Camera Girl was pulling my leg.  She’s making lentils and rice in pastiche, which in Camera Girl’s family is green peppers preserved in oil and vinegar.  Which is one of my favorites and come to think about it is a pretty good meal for Lent.  Well, forget about the whole Cthulhu thing and also the decadent plantation jazz.  Maybe I’ll have some black coffee instead.

As the Western World Circles the Drain a Plea to the Canadian Truckers

That mannikin Justin Trudeau or, as I think of him, the most brain damaged and least masculine of the Olsen Triplets

has declared war on the normal people of Canada.  And in case it escapes the notice of normal people in Canada their status as adults is at stake.  The American Right has already surrendered any pretense of being considered adults when we allowed Dementia Joe to occupy the White House and sniff adolescent girls and speak in tongues during press conferences.  But at least we can point to the fact that the Democrats have taken possession of the US military with its thousands of megatons of nuclear destructive potential and drone strike capability.

What can Justin Trudeau wield?  He’s got several thousand men wearing Dudley Do-Right costumes

and some snow plows.  It seems to me the truckers in Canada are supremely positioned to shock the anglosphere by telling Trudeau to stick it where the sun don’t shine.  If truck drivers even just stopped delivering fuel for vehicles and heating life as we know it would cease to exist in the Great White North.  In case any Americans forget it’s frikkin’ cold up there.  Within days everything would grind to a  halt and cannibalism would become commonplace.  It would be an arctic version of The Road Warrior.

So my Canadian brethren, don’t let us down.  Strike a blow for freedom and send that twig boy packing to some sex reassignment clinic where they can try to turn him into a proper woman instead of the tutti-frutti spectacle he currently is.  And you’ll get your country back too.  Not a bad fringe benefit.

Valentine’s Day 2022

February 14th is Valentine’s Day and being incredibly romantic I reminded Camera Girl of this important holiday.  I asked if she would make a heart out of red construction paper  for me to signify her undying love.  She made rude noises.  Luckily I can decode that as good natured fun.

Now being of the generation of which I am, my ideas about love and Valentine’s Day are inextricably intertwined with what I learned watching the Little Rascals.  Alfalfa, that star-crossed Lothario was endlessly frustrated in the pursuit of Darla, that femme fatale of the pre-adolescent set.  In the Valentine’s Day episode his pursuit of Darla is foiled by the machinations of Spanky.  Apparently Alfalfa was an officer of the He-Man Woman Hater’s Club (a noble fellowship if there ever was one) and because of his oath breaking over Darla Spanky punished Alfalfa by replacing the swiss cheese with soap in the Valentine’s Day sandwich that Darla had made for Alfalfa.

And that lesson has been with me for almost sixty years, trust but verify.  I always check cheese in a sandwich before eating.  Happy Valentine’s Day.