And As For These Assholes

I see via PJMedia that Hollywood is about to release a movie about Lefties hunting Deplorables:

Universal Pictures is set to release a thriller called The Hunt on September 27, which features left-wing “elites” hunting Trump supporters for sport.

As fantasy goes, this is about as realistic as Tolkien, but let me not stand in your way, Commies, if you want to be “triggered” into indulging yourselves.

Too bad that we Deplorables know more about this “sport” than you ever will.  But what the heck:  give it your best shot [sic].  Just don’t be surprised at your  body count.

And now it’s time for my third range trip of the week.  I think… AK-47?

Yes, AK-47:

…plus maybe a little sniper rifle exercise later on:


(I need to let my handgun barrels cool down after the last session anyway.)

Unless you Lefties have been practicing to about the same degree, The Hunt  sure is going to be fun… for us.

Old-Time Favorite

Here’s a poll result which does not surprise me in the least:

World War II police drama Foyle’s War tops list of 21st Century TV shows that Britons want to see back onscreen, ahead of Downton Abbey, Life on Mars, and Spooks

Of all the TV shows I’ve watched over the past decade or so, none has given me as much pleasure as Foyle’s War, and not just because I’m a history buff.  I love the glimpse into wartime England, of course, and the gentle, almost leisurely pacing of the plots, but I also love the understated performance of the brilliant Michael Kitchen as DCS Foyle.  Compared at least to the other shows listed above — even Life on Mars — it’s in a different league.

And yes, I have the entire series on DVD.  There are dozens of worse ways to spend $80.

Finally, when I grow up, I want to dress like DCS Foyle:

…and drive around southern England in his 1936 Wolseley 14/56:

Artificial Milestones

Ever since I turned 21 (the age of majority back then), I’ve not bothered with any more birthday milestones, except where others (e.g. wives / girlfriends / buddies) have turned it into one.  I remember my fortieth (I think) because we threw a party which I turned into a costume (Eng. “fancy dress”) party — and I used it as an excuse to invite longtime friends I hadn’t seen for a while.  As I recall, the theme was “Vanished Civilizations” so that People With No Imagination could arrive in togas — and nobody did, which shows the imaginative nature of my friends back then.  (Hippies, Fifties-era bobbysoxers, 1930s gangsters and so on… I dressed myself as a Viking, complete with battle-axe.)  So popular was the party that my friends implored me to make it an annual event, with different themes;  thereafter we dressed as Pirates, Priests ‘n Prostitutes, My Worst Nightmare, Bad Taste (for that, one woman came dressed as her husband’s ex-wife, complete with 1980s shoulder-pads and massive hair).

The actual anniversary (my birthday) was quite forgotten, as it should be — I refused offers of presents and all that shit from the very start — and the parties, for the next half-dozen or so years, became a fixture in our social calendars.  And when I moved from Chicago to New Jersey (and got divorced in the process), those parties ended, never to be replaced.   They were an occasion to celebrate friendship, and after the first one, the dates varied wildly, dependent to a large degree on how many of us would be in town at the same time.

I do have one birthday coming up which is of no consequence at all other than it marks the date I’ll be eligible for MediCare.  But otherwise… fach, as they say in Scottishland.

This all came to me while I was reading this little tale of self-absorption:

Why I cancelled my 50th birthday bash
There’s a bigger problem when you are trying to put together a party of tricky 50-year-old egos. That’s the recently sober, the ones who are still looking down — nay, levitating in holier-than-thou, po-faced judgment — upon the rest of us.
Recently cleaned-up types are so readily upset by even the most jovial party animal, it’s hell working out who sits next to them.
Eventually, though, I did the table-planning algebra and I drew up my list and sent out the invites to 40 good friends and family. And then a whole new horror reared its ugly head. The ‘polite decliners’.
They can’t come to my 50th because they’re off counting their gold in another country for the entirety of the summer, or they have encircled Sundays as special family days that they can’t possibly sacrifice. There needs to be a barren spinster sad face emoji.

That’s all well and good.  But what’s the magic in a number divided by 10?  Simple answer:  there is none, other than that created by lazy journalists (e.g. 50th anniversary of the Moon landing, as though that’s relevant to anything) and Hallmark Cards (“Happy Half-Century, Yo!”).

The idea of celebrating these artificial milestones of one’s life irritates me for some reason.  I’d rather celebrate meaningful anniversaries  — this year marks my twenty-first anniversary as a U.S. citizen, for example, and the only reason I didn’t celebrate the twentieth  thereof was that I never noticed it.  (It was triggered a couple weeks ago by someone asking me how long I’d been a citizen, and I had to go and check my naturalization certificate.)

And don’t give me that guff about “it’s an excuse to have a party” or similar:  no adult needs an excuse to have a party, FFS.  (It’s almost as bad as those fools who say they never drink until 5pm;  what bullshit, if you feel like a drink, have a fucking drink.  Life’s too short to let your life be determined by some arbitrary position of the hands on a clock or, for that matter, the page of a calendar.)

Speaking of calendars, here’s Esquire Magazine’s November 1954 page, with the relevant birthday circled: 


…and just so y’all know:  the only reason I celebrate November 19th at all is to remind you lazy bastards to buy ammo.

I’d Never Have Watched It Anyway

Seems as though the Communist Broadcast System (that would be CBS  to you lot) has decided to cancel some TV show because it sucked.

CBS has decided not to renew the “modestly rated” but notoriously inaccurate military drama [The Code] for a second season, Deadline reported on Tuesday, just one day after the first season finale.

Whatever.  When I was flipping through TV channels on my DirectNOW service the other day, I discovered that CBS has withdrawn all its channels (including the “free” CBS broadcast channel) from the service (which, by the way, is the only service I’m allowed at my apartment complex, to my infuriated irritability because AT&T).  In the future, it seems, the only way I’d be able to watch any CBS channel is to subscribe to their poxy service.  Like that’s going to happen.

No great loss.  It’s irritating, of course, but not really a problem for me.  Other than golf’s Masters  tournament, there’s not a single fucking thing on CBS that I would watch for free, let alone pay for.  (And I’ll just stream The Masters  from somewhere — and if that’s impossible, I’ll just forget about the whole thing.  It’s not like golf viewership is going great guns anyway;  as Baby Boomers are starting to die off, their patronage of golf in general is not being replaced by the younger generations, so fuck ’em too.)

As it is, I’m rapidly getting sick of having to subscribe to every fucking thing I want to read or watch.  Netflix is getting the evil eye from me too, because frankly, their content is starting to suck.  (As with all this nonsense, the demand for content is quickly beginning to outpace the ability to create quality material, so I doubt I’d miss much.  Ditto the so-called “premium” cable TV channels.)

There’s not a single newspaper (paper or electronic) I’d subscribe to either except maybe Britain’s Daily Telegraph, but it doesn’t carry enough U.S. news to suit me.  (As an aside, I loved reading the dead tree Telegraph at Mr. Free Market’s place when I was there on my sabbatical, and if I lived in Britishland I’d subscribe to it in a heartbeat.)  As for American newspapers… oh please, they all suck.  Barely a week goes by without my getting some solicitation to subscribe to the Dallas Morning News, to which my stock response is:  “Stop publishing all that leftwing crap and I’ll think about it.”  It’s not like the DMN  was a quality paper to begin with.

And my habitual response when seeing something like this is simply to click the “Exit” button because I refuse to pay for the whole newspaper when I’m only interested in reading the (very) occasional article.

Not even if it’s a “free” subscription, because just I know you’re going to sell my info to every list strip-miner in the world.

News magazines?  Don’t make me laugh.

Let’s face it:  the news business nowadays is awful.  It’s not just a political issue, either.  As that little pissant in the Obama administration said, young journalists nowadays know absolutely nothing.  My corollary is that the older ones may know a little more, but they’re  all rancid Commies like has-been CBS anchor Dan Rather, so why should I bother with any of them?

Oh, and by the way:  AT&T’s DirectNOW doesn’t offer One America News (OAN), probably the only news channel worth watching for more than five minutes.

Oh well.  Less time reading or watching bullshit-masquerading-as-news means more time available for the range. Just for the hell of it, I think it’s time to break out the old Browning 1885 High Wall (.45-70 Govt).

Now that’s  what I call entertainment.

Behind The Boredom

Good grief.  When I was on my sabbatical in Britishland a year or so back, I tried watching BBC’s GMTV (Good Morning TV) and after the second day I had to stop because I was starting to suffer brain damage.

An unending diet of pablum will do that to you.  The topics were banal, the “celebrity guests” (with only a couple of exceptions) were awful to the point of dire, mostly nonentities (Third Cop From The Right in some turgid detective show with a viewership numbered in the dozens).  If the point of morning television is to present the audience with material that doesn’t tax the morning brain, then the BBC succeeds magnificently.  If they showed it at night, sales of sleeping tablets would plummet.

So with that introduction, read this article about what happens backstage and off-camera on GMTV.  (It doesn’t matter if you don’t know the characters involved:  all you have to know is that all this nonsense is happening behind the most stultifyingly-boring show of all time.)

The only thing that ever saves the show is when one or the other of the hosts is either drunk (at 7am) or still drunk from some awards show after-party the night before — one of which seems to take place on a weekly basis Over There.

And all the hosts are appalling, without exception.  (For reference, Piers Morgan is one of them, on the ITV channel’s equivalent, so there you have it.)  Were it not for the fact that a couple of the women are quite attractive, there’d be even less point in tuning in.

By the way, the presenter whining about the way she was treated, Anthea Turner, was quite a babe back then — which is probably why all the other backstage women on the show hated her.



…because this post would be useless without pitchurs.