Author: Kim du Toit

News Roundup

Bad News

They’ll never catch on.   Anyway, speaking of lies:

Global Cooling Climate Warming Change© News:


...because if all they spoke was the truth, there’d be no “climate change” doctrine, period.


...for “planet” read “Catholic Church”.


…


...and the Taiwanese yawn.  Also, F- for the fucking awful puns.

In the Dept. of Irony:


...black pot, meet kettle.  (Vince Foster and Jeffrey Epstein were unavailable for comment.)

In Technology News:


...[yawn] let me know when they come in .45 ACP.

From the Tourism Bureau:


...thus making Europe’s most expensive hotels now stratospheric.

In Political News:


...and yet, amazingly, in that 11-day period he’s still managed to vote fifteen times, three times each per bill.
#TypicalDemocratVoting


...I’m hoping for a higher death toll, myself.  (no link because PPV)


...I’m just amazed that there’s a Target still open in St. Louis.

From the Dept. of Health:


...and he was related to her.
#ScourgeThenExecute

And from the Dept. of Education:


...because grades are so, like, rayciss.


...in which we play our ever-popular game of “Guess The Race”.


...or even with young boys.

In the department known as 

     

Finally. on Paige Three:


...let’s see what’s so bad about this bikini, shall we, that FecesBook is getting agitated:

Nope;  not much more to see here (other than the usual).  And from the recently-finished tournament at Augusta National:

You most certainly can, sweetheart.  And that’s the news.

“Dear Dr. Kim”

Advice

“Dear Dr. Kim,

“I have a son aged 38. He has a partner and three children. My husband and I feel as though we’ve been cut off because we haven’t seen any of them since Christmas 2019. One of his sons was born in 2021, so we haven’t even met him.

“There hasn’t been a falling out – it seems that we have just drifted into this situation. The main problem is his partner. She used to claim that we never made the effort to see them, even though we were always the ones who messaged and made plans.

“In fact they never once came to us. It always felt like we did all the running – but this wasn’t good enough for her. The longer the situation has gone on, the harder it is to see a way out.

“Our daughter and my elderly father have also heard nothing from our son. He has cut himself off from the whole family. But I know that as soon as someone dies he will want his share of any inheritance.

“Dr. Kim, I’m at a loss as to what to do.”

 — Cut Loose

Dear Loose:

It sounds very much like you’ve come across the dreaded “Poontang Over Parents” situation.  In these situations, it’s often a terrible thing when your son chooses the former option, but as much as I make light of the problem, it’s not at all a nice thing.

The part of your letter that bothers me is this:  “I know that as soon as someone dies he will want his share of any inheritance.”

Right now, you’re being stiffed from the love and joy one should expect from grandchildren — fucking hell, it’s the only upside of having your own kids in the first place — and there’s only one way to head off this little bit of avaricious spite.

Actions have consequences, and your asshole of a son (and the bitch he’s hooked up with) will need to learn this lesson ASAP.

You and your husband should prepare a joint Last Will & Testament now (I’ll explain the “now” in a moment).  In it, make sure to specify that Loving Son will get nothing, nada, bupkes  from your estate, ever, and your daughter and her family (whom you love and who loves you back) will get it all.  Be sure to explain why, in as scathing or hurt tones as you can manage (your lawyer will doubtless be able to offer good advice thereon).

Then send him a copy (with receipt signature required, to prove that he actually got it).  Don’t put a cover letter with the will;  just let the thing stand all by itself.

Yes, this may exacerbate the situation, but let’s be honest here:  how much worse can it get?

And why should you do this now?  Simply put, if you do it later, the little shit may contest the will, claiming that you and your husband were “mentally impaired by advanced age” or whatever the legal term is, so it’s in your best interests to make that a non-issue.

I am truly sorry that you are being put through this, but right now there’s not much else you can do.  Pleading with him to change his behavior will just give the Bitch Girlfriend satisfaction.

By the way, I’m accepting your assertion that their behavior is indeed unwarranted.  If it turns out that you or your husband said or did something unpleasant to the girlfriend, then you are the ones seeing the consequences of your actions.

 —

Strong Medicine

Perverts, Psychos

Here’s a story which got my teeth on edge:

A Dublin singer has allegedly been sexually assaulted for the second time while on tour with her band.

Karla Chubb, the lead singer of Dublin-based grunge band Sprints, was allegedly groped and harassed while performing at one of the band’s recent gigs.

Sprints posted a statement revealing that Karla had been assaulted for the second time on Saturday.

The statement said: “Yesterday, Karla was sexually assaulted for the second time while on the Letter To Self tour. The fact that this has occurred twice is abhorrent, the fact it still happens at all is disgusting. We will not stand for it and we will not stay silent about it. Female performers should be able to engage with their audience, step off the stage or perform without fear of groping, unwanted touching, cat-calling and harassment. The fact that this is still an every day occurrence for most women is beyond reprehensible. To those who noticed and called out the behaviour yesterday, thank you. To those of you responsible for the behaviour, shame on you. Do better.”

Actually, the last bit is what got me reaching for another gin.

You see, this is a common thing, and I don;t know why some assholes think that just because the girl looks sexy or whatever, that they can cop a quick feel or worse.

I have spoken before of Gilly, our band’s vocalist, and her skirts:

Needless to say, she got a lot of attention, but we looked after her and made sure that there was always one of us with her at all times before, during and after a gig.

Here’s a little story about that.

We once played a 6-month gig as the house band at a seedy nightclub in Johannesburg, and such was our popularity that the room always exceeded the Fire Department’s maximum occupancy limit.

One example of this popularity was that we became favorites of a motorcycle band (can’t remember the name, but it was something like The Devils).  Even though they were a rough-‘n-tough crowd, they always behaved themselves in the club during their weekly visit, dancing with their ladies and drinking up a storm (which is why the management allowed them in — their bar bill was the equivalent of the GDP of a small country).  We sometimes invited someone in the gang to perform a song with us, and Long John — a tall, skinny guy with long, greasy black hair and the worst teeth in the Western Hemisphere — would enthrall the audience with his version of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick In The Wall  (“We don’t need no sex education!” delivered in a hoarse bellow) which always brought the house down.  It became a weekly fixture.

Anyway, one night I became aware of a guy wearing a red shirt who was intent on reaching up to the stage and getting his hand up Gilly’s skirt while she was singing.  I growled at him once and he went away, but came back after a while and tried again.  Gilly managed to avoid his groping, and unfortunately for him, he chose the last song of the set to play his little game.

During our break, I went over to the Devils’ tables and sat down next to the gang leader, a guy named Pete.

“Pete,” I said, “do you see that guy over there in the red shirt?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, that bastard’s been trying to finger Gilly, right there on the stage while we’re playing.  I can’t deal with it because we’re employees here and I don’t want us to get fired.  Can you do something to help her out?”

Pete scowled, beckoned to two of his guys and whispered something to them.  They stood up, pulled on their gang colors, walked over to Mr. Redshirt Groper and dragged him out of the club.

I have no idea what they said (or did) to him, but I never saw him again.  when I asked Pete what had happened — I mean, these were serious biker tough guys, and they might have killed him — he just grinned and muttered something about “teaching him a lesson”.

And that is the kind of thing that needs to happen to these assholes, not some mealy-mouthed statement like begging the assholes to “Do better”  — don’t beg them to behave themselves, just fuck them up.

It’s all they deserve.

More Strong Medicine

Resistance

Here’s another thing which gets up my nose:

Columbia’s Rabbinical Leaders Urge Jewish Students to Stay Home Amid ‘Extreme Antisemitism and Anarchy’

Why?  Why should Jews cower in their houses when these anti-Semitic assholes are screeching their “from the river to the sea” bullshit?  They have as much right — perhaps even more so — to be on campus as these other tools, and if confronted then yes, they should have the right to defend themselves against attack.

If you get my drift.

The problem is, and always has been, that Jews respond like victims to anti-Semitic bullying instead of standing up to it.  (The exception to this, of course, is the state of Israel, which is why the Arabs and their noch-schleppers  get into such a frothy about Israel — “They dare to stand up to us and retaliate!” — when in fact that is precisely what is needed when encountering a bully.)

No, Jews are civilized — at least, far more civilized than those who hate them, e.g. Arabs and other Muslims — and so their response to threats has always been with calls to the “authorities” for protection instead of applying a local version of IDF remedies.

Well, the “authorities” ain’t gonna do shit to help you, guys, and in fact they’re more likely to be terrorsymps than protectors.

I have a dream, and it’s absolutely nothing like Martin Luther King’s.

I have a dream that I could get a whole bunch of my tough Tribe Readers to go with me to the Columbia campus, and do nothing but stand there and wear our yarmulkas during one of these little “demonstrations” by the Screaming Asshole Set.  No signs, no yelling, nothing but our presence.

I’ll leave what follows to your imagination.

Kim’s European Garage

Drive Time

We’ve all seen my American garage;  now here, spurred on by last Saturday’s post of the Holland-to-Spain exercise, is its European counterpart.  It would be located in, I dunno, maybe the Austrian Alps or somewhere in the Black Forest, wherever I decided to set up a European base.

I excluded all British right-hand drive ones, with regret, because while I’d be okay on a highway, the smaller Euro roads (which I’d surely drive instead) are another story altogether.

Anyway, I limited my European garage to ten cars, as before, and here they are, in no specific order:

1972 Fiat Dino 2400

Are you kidding me?  I’ve always loved Fiats, with all their little quirks and niggles, but a Fiat with a Ferrari (Dino) 246 V6 under the hood?  [exit, drooling]

1971 BMW 3.0CS

I drove one once, and I would feel comfortable making this my everyday driver, on any continent (okay, Europe or the U.S.).  All the power I’d ever need, understated looks, old-time Beemer reliability and performance… I think you get my drift.

1981 Alfa Romeo GTV6

As for Fiat, so with Alfa.  I’ve driven this beauty before, from Johannesburg to Durban (about 400 miles) and I can truthfully say that it was the most enthralling drive ever — the old mountain road called Van Reenen’s Pass was a twisty, narrow and stupendous test for any car’s roadholding and handling, and the GTV6 passed with flying colors.  (Me?  My whole body was shaking with an adrenaline overload.)  And yeah, when I eventually stopped to refuel, the door handle came off in my hand.  Si bella.

1949 Mercedes-Benz 170S

My oldie choice.  Yes, I’d prefer the 1954/55 300 S or SC, but that’s not what they had in stock, the Dutch idiots, so I’d “settle” for the 170.  Drive all day, and drink in the admiration from passers-by.  My kinda fun.

1977 Jensen Interceptor MK3

My token Anglo-American car in the garage.  Who’s going to say no to a spacious sports car with that lovely color scheme, and the brilliant Chrysler 7.2-liter V8 engine purring (okay, roaring) as you get to a nice flat bit of straight road?  Not I.

1974 Volkswagen Beetle

For those days I just want to be incognito.

1989 BMW 320i E30

A sentimental choice, this one.  I owned a BMW 318i back in the old Racist Republic, and loved it more than perhaps any other car I drove back there.  And this E30 model has a stick shift, just as mine did.  Hubba hubba.

Porsche 356 Pre-A Roadster

If my European garage is going to contain a Porsche (and of course it should) then this lovely old 356 fills the requirement, more than adequately.  And anyway, I don’t care much for the 911 line.

And finally:

1965 Mercedes-Benz 230SL Pagode

Okay, maybe the older 230 SL is a little underpowered by today’s rip-roaring sports car standards;  but if we go by my major criterion, i.e. “Will this car make me glad to be alive when I see it in the garage?”, then the little 230 most assuredly qualifies.

Wait… no Ferrari, Kim?

I’m not too impressed by the ones offered, to be honest.  And I did pick the Ferrari-powered Fiat 2400, didn’t I?

Oh, I need to answer the question posed in last Saturday’s Amsterdam – Madrid exercise:  which one would I pick to make the trip?

None of them — because the rules state that it’s a one-way trip and the car to be sold upon arrival in Madrid.  I wouldn’t want that for any of the above.  For that reason, this is my pick:

1961 Jaguar MK II

That unbelievable color scheme, a supremely comfortable ride, and pretty much all the power one would need on a European road… if you don’t agree with this choice, I’m quite sure you’ve never been in a Mk II.  I have, and that’s all there is to say about that.

One last thing:  there is, among all the cars for sale at ER Classics, one that I’d buy and ship back to the U.S., simply because I’d want an SUV that would be more U than S, if you follow me.  That’s this one:

1984 Mercedes-Benz 300GD

Excuse me, but that lovely and powerful 3-liter diesel engine (fuck Earth Day) in something that can be driven hard and put away all muddy and dusty, to be driven in the same manner the next day, and the next, and the next, without ever breaking down or even breaking a sweat?

Want.