Welcome to December

Well, another week, for a lot of us Christians, we start a whole new year today, as we anticipate the birth of Jesus. I’m ready for one, and suspect you are too. He’s back!

Well, the President retweeted some British group (that hardly anybody had heard of, although they have now) and HMG came unglued. I wonder of it was because Britain First was correct. Less NSFW than usual, BTW.

Well, another week, another bunch of unemployed famous men who can’t seem to understand that women are not their property, or something.

More palatably

Christmas shopping?

And, of course

Mostly from PowerLine, Sleeping Beauty from Ace.

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Katie Hopkins

My British friends tell me things, as I do them, most of them pseudonymously, for good and sufficient reason. Some Brits have heroically said these things under their own name in public and a few write them. Katie Hopkins is one. And she has paid the price and no doubt will in the future. That is what happens to truth-tellers in countries that are becoming less free.

But this is what almost all my friends say, it is the truth as a lot of the cousins see it, and like Katie, they see America as the great hope, the keeper of the flame, for she is right, all across Europe the reaction is building,

This is from the David Horowitz Freedom Center’s 2017 Restoration Weekend. The event was held Nov. 16th-19th at the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida. This speech cost her her job with The Daily Mail, truth-telling has a high price sometimes. Unusually for here, the transcript follows the video. It’s important guys, this is the central issue of the day.


<p><a href=”https://vimeo.com/243803644″>Katie Hopkins: Get Furious and Fight Back</a> from <a href=”https://vimeo.com/user15333690″>DHFC</a&gt; on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Katie Hopkins: Hello. Thank you very much for having me here. It’s such a pleasure to be – I don’t know – amongst people that are prepared to fight for their country, and I really appreciate the opportunity to be here. A couple things I should clear up, really, before I start. First up, I’m not Milo, and neither, slightly more offensively, am I Milo’s mother, and also, for the record, some people on the Democratic side of things say that I’m a crap Ellen DeGeneres. I’m not her either. Actually, I’m not even gay. I just have short hair. Those are two different things. I am a straight, white, conservative female with one husband and three children under 13, and where I come from, back in Blighty, that virtually makes me an endangered species. I’m on the extinctions list, the list of animals that are due for extinction. I’m up there with the black rhino, and he has an advantage because he’s black. Black lives matter, people.

In fact the threat against me has become a little bit more real of late. I’ve been kind of under attack myself, I suppose, as so many of us have. Only last week a lovely lady called Madihah; if I got that wrong, I don’t apologize, and her partner – they’re British, of course; they were in court and they were found guilty of conspiring to commit acts of terror against citizens of the UK, one of which was to decapitate me. Yes. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Islamic Extremist 2017 had been romancing a jihadi, and as her wedding gift, she wanted my head on a plate. I was at the top of her list because I am the biggest bitch in Britain. Yes, I am. She bought him a hunting knife. She bought him a plastic dummy to practice his stabbing skills on, and they chatted about the glorious day on WhatsApp, and in a rare example of the British police actually doing the job they’ve been paid for, instead of placating the Muslim mafia or police in my Twitter, she has been found guilty and sent down. All right. She is going down and she better get used to that in the slammer that she’s been sent to.

And I live to fight another day, and so here I am, and my message to you resonates with what the boys were saying. I was thinking they’re a bit like the three wise monkeys, those guys, aren’t they? Except they do hear it, they do see it, and they do say it, so thank God for them; but my message is simple. Do not let this great country become the United Kingdom. Do not allow America to fall as Europe has fallen. Look at us, let us be a warning; be better than us. I’ve watched my country fall apart and I want to warn others before they let their country do the same, and believe me, I love my country. I’m not quick to talk it down. I was sponsored through university by the Intelligence Corps. I passed out of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst to serve my country as an army officer. We went in as a troop of 32 girls; we came out as 8 more-or-less men. Oh yeah. It’s still there, but doesn’t work that much. And I wanted to become the first female general, but my epilepsy put paid to that. It’s why I have short hair too, actually, but it brought me to the media, and so my fight goes on, and this fight is real.

The UK today is a place few of us recognize. I get letters and emails – really upsetting ones – from 60- and 70-year-olds struggling to make sense of the country they love. Like my mom and dad; they ask me, “Has the world gone mad? How is this all going to end up? Where does this stop?” Some of them email me to say that they’re glad they’re old because they will be gone soon, and they won’t have to wait for the time they see their country fall. These are hard messages to read, and they’re really hard messages to respond to, and believe me, I am wary of painting too depressing a picture. I have not come here to be part of the fear. I have not come here to talk my country down or to fail to see the good in Britain, but there are some blunt truths I believe it is my duty to tell. You are more likely to be raped in London than in New York. You are more likely to be attacked with acid from a guy on a moped in East London than in Islamabad, and when it comes to terror, the head of the UK MI5 said the risk is now impossible to contain or to control.

Seven police officers in Muslim-controlled areas of the UK email me and alleged that the local imam at the mosque is in charge of selecting the police officers he will allow to police his neighborhood. In a relentless program of appeasement by the establishment, they continually seem to put the lives of jihadi and the Muslim mafia ahead of the lives of our own daughters, and in the latest recruitment round for the police, white British males were excluded from the day’s coaching in how to pass the recruitment day. If you were white and male, you could not go. If you were gay or ethnic or black or any other minority, then you could apply, and I have nothing against those people, but in the UK, discrimination against whites is institutionalized and systemic. I applied for a place for my husband just to see if he could get through. He’s a male, vaguely, and he’s white, and they said no; but without a minority card to play or a race card, you have no grounds for redress anymore in our country.

The UK is now formed of two distinct territories. There is Londonistan and there is the rest of the UK, London and the rest of the UK. If you took Britain and stand it on its side, it is very much a baby America. London is Clinton. London is California, the bad bits, and all the good bits I see are here today. London is Bill de Blasio’s New York, and he’s an utter cockwomble if ever I met one. He may be tall, but he is the smallest man I know. And then there is a better place; there is a place called the rest of the UK. There is a place where hard-working Brits want to do a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay. They want to look after their families. They want to love their country. They’ll fight for their country. They support Trump. They voted Brexit. Occasionally we want to have a barbeque with our families, but we can’t because it never stops bloody raining. That is a good place and it’s the place where I come from. It’s the place where I put my lovely husband, it’s the place I put my children, and it’s the place that I live in. I live in a place called the rest of the UK, and here people have grown weary about speaking out because it’s just not worth the hassle.

There is mass silencing of the thoughts of Brexiteers, of us deplorables, considered racist or stupid or wrong. We’re browbeaten into shutting up, but they’re still there, and there’s a quiet rumble of discontent at the state of Londonistan, and that quiet rumble is getting louder. Our win for Brexit was just like your win for Trump, which I went on CNN and called a week before it happened, and that went really well; and when we stand together, our voices are a low rumble that becomes an almighty thunder and our voices are heard. The quiet rumblings turn into a roar, and we’re not alone. Across Poland, Italy, Austria, Germany, the voices of the discontented are rising up to reject the globalist agenda of the people that are managing the decline of Europe and letting us fall.

Sebastian Kurz’s People’s Party, he is also better-looking than the Canadian Justin Trudeau, so take that, you lame-ass piece of crap. The German AFD, the huge parade of patriots in Poland recently in support of national pride; you can feel the determination of the people that I talk to. I can feel the possibilities. There is hope. We do not have to watch our country fall and there is action we can all take. There’s three things I’d quickly like to run through, if I may.

Firstly, most importantly, the same as the guys were saying, we must reject the narrative, resist the narrative. Just become someone said it and they’re wearing a uniform or a badge does not make it true. When we’re scared, a strong narrative can be reassuring, like when we’re little and bad things happen and you run and you tell your teacher, and so, too, after terror. We look around for someone in a uniform to tell us what to do. These days in the UK, they say run, hide, tell. My grandad fought in the war. These were not orders that he would recognize, and in the quiet calm of our streets, when the threat is neutralized and yet another terrorist is taken down, the media machine goes into action, and it’s terrifying to observe. We stand united; we are not cowed; the terrorists will never win – repeated over and over by the Muslim mayor, by the Prime Minister, by the chief of police – the mantra of multicultural acceptance, the same script, everything the same time every time. We stand united; we are not cowed; we stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and the media run around with their cameras showing people drinking cups of tea like that’s going to solve the problem.

The real truth is not this fabrication. We do not stand united. Our daughters were left crumpled on the sidewalk. Some lost limbs, some under a truck, like the images you had of those bikes strewn on the cycle path in New York of the Argentinians. We do not carry on as normal. Mothers and fathers are burying their daughters. A boy I know wrote to me – he’s learning to use his legs again after they were blown apart at the Manchester attack. He does not carry on as normal. Others seem to carry on as normal because what’s the alternative? What – hiding in your home? Is that defeat? It’s not normal to build walls on bridges of rings of steel around Christmas markets. If this is terror losing, I would hate to see terror win. Enough of the candle lights. Enough of your hashtags. Enough of your heart-shaped gestures at the sky. Enough of turning the Eiffel Tower lights on and off. I’m epileptic; flashing lights don’t do me any favor whatsoever. I wrote all this, you know, in a column of mine online. I write for dailymail.com and I went on Tucker Carlson. He did his best confused face, and I’m like Tucker quit that. Tucker, you’re my mate; you do not have to put on a confused face just because we’re on telly; and for the crime of this column, I was reported to the British Metropolitan Police for a hate crime and inciting violence against Muslims. We can reject the narrative.

Two, we can commit to arm ourselves, not just with the help of the NRA. Sadly, in the UK, we don’t have that luxury of the Second Amendment. Our police on our streets are armed with the equivalent of a Clorox spray and a Band-Aid. Some even have a letter from their mum excusing them from games. But we can arm ourselves with information, information that we find closest to the source – not information fed through the liberal filters of Google or the California fruit loops at Facebook. We must look for our own truths. I spent 48 hours in the migrant camp at Calais in France – it’s called the jungle; quite appropriate, seems to me – where African migrants masquerading as children and asylum seekers fought their way through teargas and steel fencing to break into the trucks crossing over from France to Dover, to sneak into the UK. My photographer was lynched. His camera was stolen, his wallet taken. He was beaten up and he went home because he was badly beaten, actually. I had my arm dislocated. They came for us with steel bars. We were put in the back of a van and taken out of the camp to safety.

I went back in the next day. I was told to cover up by the charity workers there, the do-gooders, the Democrats, those types. They told me to cover up my shoulders because it was offensive to the Muslim men. So I stripped off, and they didn’t like my tiny tits much better either. I met a lady with a little boy, and I was trying to find this quieter story, real women, real problems, and so her little boy – it was the first child I’d seen in camp, and she invited me into her little caravan thing, and it turns out her little boy was in fact a little girl, except she dressed him as a boy so that at night the migrant men wouldn’t come and try and steal him from her, and I learned a big lesson as well. I was naive. Migrants don’t come for a new life and leave their old life behind; they bring them with them. All the old conflicts from back home; the Eritreans hate the Somalis, who hate the Afghanis, who don’t speak to the Libyans, and they’re still fighting. They come. They do not start a new life. They bring the conflicts from back home.

I spent 48 hours in the cab of a large haulage truck because I wanted to understand the dangers of this crossing people were making. I always said one day someone will die making this crossing because our truckers are at risk. British truckers’ lives are at risk, and indeed one has since died, and I had my eyes opened once more. These entire truck stops run by the mafia, movements of migrants ticketed, organized, controlled, lucrative. Officers at the port pay to turn a blind eye to the migrants crossing. It is much more systematic than we imagine. I traveled to Libya to the coast of Southern Italy to join the migrants crossing over from the Med. You’ll know that there’s charity boats, Save the Children; just because they call themselves Save the Children, it doesn’t mean that they are. It is virtually a ferry service, and to be completely honest with you for transparency, I would rather it was a ferry service. Hundreds of thousands of migrant men, fully aware of their rights, given places in local hotels to stay, given 35 euros a day, a sum that locals themselves don’t earn, and when I carried on my journey and talked to these men in these hotels, they were blockading the road in the local village in Southern Italy because their Wi-Fi was too slow. The rice that they were served was too soft, and they were protesting their rights. These are the people that come.

I met with a woman on the tarmac at the side of the road in the heat, and she looked ill. She said she was poorly. She was there to service the drivers as they passed. She was trafficked for this life, and these do-gooders, remember, think they are saving lives. They are not saving lives. They are destroying lives while they are pretending to do good, and I walked the suburbs of no-go Sweden because Trump said Sweden has fallen, and the media crucified him for that. They mocked him relentlessly. I can confirm, firsthand, Sweden has fallen. An elderly woman grabbed me. She had only Arabic for language. She grabbed me by both arms; wrong hair, wrong face, wrong face, wrong place; she was worried for me. She’s a kind lady. I was the only white woman, the only woman, the only white in the whole of the area of Sweden that I was in, where people no longer go, and she was worried for my safety. No‑go Sweden has fallen to the migrants, and the Somalis still battle the Eritreans, who still battle the Afghanis, just like they did in the camp at Calais, and once I was there, two hand grenades were found just in a bin outside the police station, and a week later a Muslim took a truck and rammed it into pedestrians in the shopping arcade, as you will recall. One was an 11-year-old girl. It’s a curious thing, you know, how the bodies of our daughters slain by Islamist terror never make the front pages of any of the press.

I interviewed a girl who lived in the forgotten suburbs because it was all she could afford. She can’t go out at night. She dare not leave her home. She was burgled, but the police couldn’t come because their cars were looted and torched. She said she’s no longer allowed to carry pepper spray to defend herself because a girl that was attacked by a gang of Muslim men accidentally pepper sprayed the wrong guy and was prosecuted for GBH. Sat in the darkness of her home; she wouldn’t even allow me to take a picture of her face for the camera for fear of reprisals by Swedish feminists, who support the migrant men at all costs. In the game of Top Trumps, the victim edition, if you are a migrant, you win every time.

Swedish feminists – in fact, feminists as a whole – have never been more disappointing. I fail to see how they support women, and I met the head of the toughest fire station in Sweden, who was exceptionally good-looking – I’m just going to say that – but once I moved over on that point, he was now putting a bigger fence around the station to stop migrants vandalizing the engine, the fire engines, and to stop them coming in and stealing the cutting equipment which they like to steal. I asked him whether walls like this were our future, and he looked at me really strangely. He was surprised. He said no, it’s too late for that. We no longer build walls to keep people out. Going forward, we will build walls to keep the people that we love in, and that – it still gives me the shivers now, actually – and these are my truths. These come straight from the mouths of men and women who live this stuff every day, no filter, no lens, no censorship, no Google ranking, no New York Times, and the next stop for me, I want to go and join the white farmers of South Africa who are being systematically cleansed from the country by blacks there, and this way, we find our own truths.

If we can resist the narrative, if we can, just by speaking to people we know, doctors, nurses, teachers, people in the street, people that have got problems, we can find our own truths. We will have the story of the people who will have the power, and then finally, the third arm of this thing is that we have to have the moral courage to fight. We have to somehow find the strength to withstand the constant attacks that we face, and Trump is the Jedi master at this game. I love him. I know what it’s like to be ostracized by friends who don’t like our opinions. People can be unkind. The media can be merciless, but we all need to find the moral courage to stand strong.

I have battles of my own, of course. I’ve got the pocket-size Muslim mayor of Londonistan, who’s about as useful as a chocolate teapot. There is a ruder version, which involves a penis-favored lollipop, but I thought that wasn’t correct for today. I have a Muslim mayor that I cannot stand. He spent 1.7 million pounds on an online hate police force to police my Twitter feed. I’ve been arrested for my writing. I was interviewed under caution by the major crime and homicide command for a column in a newspaper, and I was referred to the Crown Prosecution Service for my commentary on life because a complaint was made by the Society for Black Lawyers. I look forward to meeting the “Society for White Lawyers” one day.

My family are reported to Social Services on a fairly regular basis. People hope that they can take my children from me and that will silence me. The last time Social Services rang and said they’d had a complaint, I said but my children are at home and my husband just made them a prawn salad because prawns are quite posh in my family, and the guy said that doesn’t really help. No, it doesn’t, and vexatious litigation, of course, is never far from my door, but I’m not complaining. There is no self-pity. I’ve put myself out there; I have to suck it up. If I don’t like it, I can get home, sit on my sofa, shut up and become a vegan, and that is not going to happen.

But resistance is key, and when we come under attack, we need to make like an arrowhead and feel the criticism falling from your sides. You know I get a lot of emails from 16, 17-year-olds who feel like they have no voice in school anymore. They can’t say if they’re a Brexit supporter or if they’re one of the members of Gays for Trump. They can’t speak out, and I say to them, make like you’re diving into a swimming pool. Feel the water coming off your sides. Imagine that’s the criticism falling off you, and keep moving forward. We can keep moving forward. The liberals who reject Brexit or try to discredit Trump, they gave birth to our determination to succeed. They are Frankenstein and we are their monster, and we are big and we are bad and we are coming for them. They are right to be afraid.

We can do this. Yes, we can. If only I was black, that would work so much better. We can commit to refuse the narrative. We can commit to arm ourselves with our truths, with no liberal filter, and we can commit to have the moral courage under attack to keep moving forward. This is our time. Do not become like Britain. Get furious and fight back. Thank you very much.

Happy Thanksgiving

Today, in America is Thanksgiving Day. It is a day of celebration of what we have made of God’s gift to us all. Its history reaches all the way back to our Pilgrim forebearers, who felt called to thank God that they had survived the first year in the Massachusetts Bay.

Now it is a day of parades, football, serious overeating, and sleeping off that overeating by sleeping through the football on TV. But I think we all deep in our hearts do remember to thank “The Big Guy” for all we have, and the freedom to enjoy it.

President Washington certainly knew something about dark days, far darker than ours are today, and he (and Congress) thought it fit to remember the Author of our blessings. So should we.

From the Heritage Foundation

Thanksgiving Proclamation

Issued by President George Washington, at the request of Congress, on October 3, 1789

By the President of the United States of America, a Proclamation.

Whereas it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor; and—Whereas both Houses of Congress have, by their joint committee, requested me “to recommend to the people of the United States a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God, especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness:”

Now, therefore, I do recommend and assign Thursday, the 26th day of November next, to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be; that we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for His kind care and protection of the people of this country previous to their becoming a nation; for the signal and manifold mercies and the favor, able interpositions of His providence in the course and conclusion of the late war; for the great degree of tranquillity, union, and plenty which we have since enjoyed; for the peaceable and rational manner in which we have been enabled to establish constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national one now lately instituted; for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed, and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge; and, in general, for all the great and various favors which He has been pleased to confer upon us.

And also that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations, and beseech Him to pardon our national and other trangressions; to enable us all, whether in public or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually; to render our National Government a blessing to all the people by constantly being a Government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed; to protect and guide all sovereigns and nations (especially such as have shown kindness to us), and to bless them with good governments, peace, and concord; to promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science among them and us; and, generally, to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as He alone knows to be best.

Given under my hand at the City of New York the third day of October in the year of our Lord 1789.

Go. Washington

That’s the reason for the day put as well as anyone has, ever.

My family’s traditional table grace is this

Now for something much lighter. You know these guys, we’ve loved them most of our lives.

 

Keep the Radio On

The other day in comments, Unit and I got to talking a bit about listening to the radio. I commented then that often I have the BBC local station in Norfolk on. I use an internet radio almost exclusively anymore, not least because I’m not all that fond of contemporary country music, which is about all that I can get here.

If I spent more time in the truck, I would likely bite the bullet and get me a Sirius radio, it’s an impressive service, but my internet one is just fine for here, and yes, I’ve been known to record a few hours of something to playback when I’m travelling. What can I say, I’m a cheap old curmudgeon.

It’s hard to describe the appeal of the BBC’s local stations because unless you are like me, you don’t really remember what local radio was like in the US. For quite a while now, it has mostly been the same wherever you go, delivered by satellite to the stations. That’s even true for AM talk radio. In a way, it’s good, I can listen to Rush at the same time that you do, wherever you are, but there’s little that’s personal about it.

Interestingly, the BBC local stations started coming on air 50 years ago, to counteract the pirate stations that were operating offshore. Some of these also ran shortwave service, and I can remember listening to Radio Caroline myself when I was a kid after it got dark and the propagation picked up. Them and the World Service, Radio Moscow, Radio Vatican, and for some reason Radio Quito. That’s how my interest in long-distance radio got started.

The other day The Spectator ran an article on the local stations that I found quite interesting. Here’s a bit.

It’s 50 years since the first local radio stations were launched by the BBC in yet another instance of the corporation working hard to stay ahead of the game, on this occasion responding to the challenge of the pirate stations, whose audiences were local and known to be very loyal. Radio Leicester was the first to go on air on 8 November 1967, launched by a very plummy-voiced postmaster-general as ‘the first hometown radio station in Britain’. (The BBC executive behind the idea, Frank Gillard, had spent time in America and been impressed by local radio there, wishing to replicate its homespun feel.) Others followed quickly, dependent on whether the local council was happy to provide part-funding (they are now solely funded by the BBC). Known for their cheesy jingles (Radio Merseyside boasted that their call-sign was composed by Gerry Marsden, of the Pacemakers), the BBC’s local stations were often treated like a poor relation of grand old 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Underfunded, understaffed, relegated to the back pages of Radio Times,they were designed for listeners like ‘Dave and Sue’ (the fictional target audience created by the Beeb’s marketing department), who were in their fifties, not interested in politics or piano concertos, shopped at Asda, wore ‘casual clothes’, and wanted to be cheered up and made to laugh by what they listened to. […]

That is a formula that still works, at least for me, and why listening to the radio has become in America, mostly something one does in the car, I think.

There is something very different about the conversation local stations have with their audiences. As Vanessa Feltz of Radio London explained on the World At One last Wednesday, it is ‘very, very intimate. You can be talking about specific houses, specific window boxes’; it’s broadcasting in the raw. Jack Thompson, one of the first presenters on Radio Sheffield, recalled how instead of phoning in, callers would turn up at the station and be put behind the mike, talking directly to other listeners. Local stations can react more quickly, the Radio Manchester presenter Allan Beswick staying on air until six in the morning after the Manchester Arena attack earlier this year.

That continuity and flexibility creates a bond with the listener that could be said to be ‘the culture of encounter’ interrogated by Douglas Alexander, the former Labour MP and cabinet minister, in his programme for Radio 4 on Tuesday morning. He wonders why so many of us now have the sense that we’re living among strangers, incredulous that anyone can have voted to leave the EU, or on the other hand to remain. […]

Yep, he’s right, I think. Several of the announcers have become welcome voices in my ears, one, whose name I shamefully have forgotten, got his start on Radio Caroline, and is as good as he was there, Some are just fun to listen to, where else will you find someone addressed as Thunderfairy, and some just ooze personality, like Georgey Spanswick, whose laugh is so infectious that I think she is now on all the local stations in England and the Channel Islands. Combine that with old music, both top 40 and country, and even the weekly gardening show, and it’s a calm and winning combination. Even Postman Pat shows up, and if that registers with you, you spend, like me, entirely too much time with Brits.

Shared activities bridge the difference, like the project in Peckham that brings young professionals together with older people, the young teaching techie skills, the older people telling stories, giving advice, Just like local radio.

And just like radio used to be here,

So often we cousins steal the absolute worst in each other’s culture, but here the Brits managed to steal something that was really good in America, and to get it right not long before we threw it away. Good on you, BBC. You do lots of stuff on on your big national stations radio, and TV, that is deplorable, but your local stuff is quite wonderful.

It’s a formula that worked so well that for a time in the mid 60s the best music came either from London – or Chicago. It still works for me, even if I have to listen to a station in Norwich, England. And every once in a while, someone gets on the station, that actually speaks with the Norfolk accent, if you hear it, you won’t forget it, although you may not understand a word they say.

But you know, I was never the complete rocker, for years my clock radio lulled me to sleep, set on WGN, listening to Jack Eigen talking to whatever show biz folks happened to be in Chicago that day. Nothing important, just chatting with them, maybe spinning a record of two, or maybe not. Things were simpler then, maybe because we simply didn’t hear all the noise we do these days.

And this week, one of my favorite Gingers celebrated her 85th birthday, so we’d best remember her, as well.

Made in America

There is a bunch of new stuff that dropped yesterday about the Clinton crime syndicate and its dealings with Russia, not too mention the swamp in general. Monday, if I get it sorted. 🙂

There’s a saying that been about a few years; “There are two kinds of countries in the world, those on the metric system, and those that have gone to the moon.”

Leadership and freedom, rather sums it up for me.

Fifty years ago yesterday, Ronald Reagan gave a speech. It has become a classic of freedom, and yes, it lit a fire that still burns across the prairie, and yes, I think it has spread to Britain, and even the continent, although many there don’t have the background to completely understand the theory of ordered freedom. Here’s the Gipper.

Ya know, we hear a lot about being on the right side of history. Well, that’s for losers, our method is to write the history, that way it is on our side. We don’t have to twist anything, just tell the truth.

Ground truth from a lieutenant colonel of Marines

 

And leadership, from a general of Marines

 

Ya know, we’ve been doing this leadership thing for a while. I hadn’t seen this before, but it’s rare to see two heroes of yours in the same film. But it happens here. And narrated by Ronald Reagan besides.

I look back on the men that built this country defended her, and carried the torch of freedom around the world, and then I look at that little man over in North Korea, and well, you can figure out what I think. I note that no less than three Carrier Strike Groups are gathering on his doorstep, (first time in ten years that has happened) not to mention a whole bunch of troops in the south, and enough airpower to take out Nazi Germany. In all, it makes me think of Toby Keith.

There are a few mullahs over in Tehran who would be wise to get their house in order soon, because there is getting to be a bit much noise in the world, and well, we’ve been known to defend ourselves before, and we just might again. Like the Marines say, No better friend, no worse enemy. But hey, even the greatest of empires, the British got all they wanted over here.

 

Week in Pictures: Honoring Warriors

I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith

2 TIMOTHY 4:7

A man who knows whereof he speaks

Seems a bit tacky, but some things are eternal verities


The business of the week. Snark, irony, and pictures to do with the events of the week. Mostly from Powerline and The Bookworm Beat.

Steve over at PowerLine says this may be their mascot for a while. I can see why. IDF veteran soldier Orin Julie.

Have a better week.

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