No Change Necessary

Over at Britain’s Daily Mail newspaper, some bint is full of good advice for Brad Pitt:

Isn’t it time pampered man-baby Sad Dad Brad just grew up?

That’s the headline, and I’m not going to bore you with the rest because it’s basically just one of those everyday “let me tell you how to change your life for the better” articles from a female journalist — a breed not exactly renowned for their chastity, sobriety and responsible level-headedness themselves.

Of course, there’s always the standard manosphere response to twaddle like this, i.e. “I guess I missed the memo which gave you the right to tell me how to live my life”, but a far better response is instead a question: Why should Brad Pitt “grow up”?

Yeah, he’s a bad boy. Yeah, he has a pattern of self-destructive behavior. Yeah, he’s irresponsible. Yeah, he’s a social miscreant. Yeah, he’s this and yeah, he’s that.

Lest we forget, all that (coupled with an acting talent which makes most other actors green with envy, and which propelled him out of pretty-boy roles into big, solid, meaty, Oscar-winning performances) — all those flaws enabled this miserable “man-baby” to have sex with Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie on consecutive nights. How many other men in the world can make that claim?

None. Because he’s Brad fucking Pitt, that’s why, and he doesn’t have to obey anybody’s rules or take advice from anyone. That said, here’s mine.

Brad, dude: if you read this, tell them all (including that stupid psychiatrist) to go and fuck themselves. I assume you’ve got enough money squirreled away that it doesn’t matter whether you ever work again, or not. (And even if you haven’t, you’ll still be able to make a truckload whenever you feel like it, e.g. Oceans 14 through 114.)

And you don’t have to see a shrink. Most shrinks are total girlymen (note their choice of profession), and they’re all just going to tell you what to do to make you more acceptable to the Sisterhood.

You don’t need the Sisterhood because as long as you live, you’ll have permanent access to another kind of sisterhood, the one that wants to rub warm oil all over your man-baby’s body before shagging you till your blue eyes cross. Yep; all over the world, there are a million beautiful women who will have sex with you on whatever terms you wish to make; and if you’re done with those, there are yet another million who would leave their boyfriends or husbands just for the chance to bounce on your Sealy Posturepedic with you.

Yeah, having sex with millions of willing women is a sad, shallow and meaningless existence. Brad, baby: lest we all forget, you tried doing the “responsible husband” schtick with Miss Crazier-Than-A-Sackful-Of Cats herself; how’s that working out for you?

Quit all that namby-pamby sculpture and building fires bullshit. Grab a bottle of Southern Comfort, fire up a joint and give a call to [insert the name of random hottie here]. You may hate yourself in the morning, but what the hell, you seem to hate yourself right now with all this “sad dad” crap anyway. So give it a shot.

In the words of the immortal Jeremy Clarkson: “What could possibly go wrong?”


Disclaimer: I have no actual proof that Brad bonked Jennifer and Angelina on consecutive nights, but let’s just go with the odds on this one. He’s Brad Pitt; who’s going to bet against him?

Let Africa Sink

As my Let Africa Sink essay from 2002(!) is going to feature in my Monday post, I thought I’d take the opportunity to re-publish it below, pretty much un-edited except for a few typos which somehow survived to the present day.  Read more

Brutes

I know that in days past, I expressed my love for the new Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio, which delivers over 500hp from a 2.9-liter V6. This list, however (via Insty) seems to take the whole thing over the top. Cases in point:

— Does anyone think that Dodge can make a car which can handle well enough to push out over 700hp without killing the driver and everyone else within a quarter-mile of its crash?
— Will anyone who wants to tow a boat even look at the BMW X5 (567hp, $100k+) as the horse?
— A 640hp Cadillac? What are these guys smoking?
— I make no comment about the Shelby Mustang, Camaro or Corvette because their owners, like those of the Dodge Hellcat, are probably not long for this world anyway.

I know, I know: we’re a nation founded on power and excess and all that good stuff. But at some point, someone at a car manufacturer has to ask the question: “Why?” (And listen to Jeremy Clarkson — the world’s foremost “POWAAAAHHHH!!!” speed freak; even he has admitted on occasion that a car can be too powerful.)

Most people can barely handle 150hp in their cars, let alone more than 500hp — use your favorite search engine to look up “Bugatti Veyron crash” for a simple flavor, and this in a million-dollar-plus car which has far less than 500hp and handles like a dream — which makes me think that these powerhouses should probably come with a mandatory driving course entitled: “When your IQ is less than a sixth of your car’s horsepower.”

I once watched a guy trying to reverse his McLaren F1 out of a parking space at Eatzi’s in Plano. It took him several minutes, multiple tries and half a dozen near-collisions with other parked cars because he had no idea how to handle the F1’s power for what is, after all, the most mundane of tasks we ask of a car.

My only consolation from all this is that the consumer market for the above will be refreshingly small, kept that way by cost, commonsense and, sadly, attrition.

I still want the Quadrifoglio, of course, because a.) it’s beautiful and b.) it’s an Alfa Romeo, but I’d still want it even if it had half the stated horsepower. How many of the other cars on that list would remain as desirable under that criterion, I wonder.

Crossing America – 2017

Time to play this game again.

The Challenge: You have the opportunity to go back in time, arriving on the east coast of North America circa 1650, and your goal is to cross the North American continent, taking as much time as you need. When/if you reach the Pacific coastline, you’ll be transported back to the present day. Your equipment for this journey will be as follows (taken back in the time capsule with you):

— enough provisions for the first five days’ travel
— a backpack containing some clothing essentials
— a winter coat, raincoat and boots
— waterproof sleeping bag
— an axe, and a small sharpening stone
— a box of 1,000 “strike anywhere” waterproof matches
— a portable water filtration system
— a topographic map of North America
— binoculars and a compass
— a current U.S. Army First Aid kit
— ONE long gun, shotgun or rifle (and 800 rounds, but no scope; and no interchangeable-barrel rifles like a Thompson Center Encore or Blaser; drillings are acceptable, but you still only get 800 rounds of ammo, total)
— ONE handgun (and 1,000 rounds)
— and TWO knives (can include multi-tool knives like Leatherman).

Once there, you’ll be given a horse, a mule and a dog — but apart from that, you’re on your own. Remember you’ll be traveling through deep woods, open prairie, desert and mountains. You may encounter hostile Indian tribes and dangerous animals en route, which should be considered when you answer the following questions (and only these):

1. What long gun would you take back in time with you?
2. What handgun?
3. What knives?

Unlike previous surveys, I’m not going to tabulate the answers; just have at it in Comments. Feel free to add any supporting arguments. I’ll post my choices over the weekend as an update below the fold.

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Not Myself

I’m not normally a melancholy person, and apart from the obvious reason, I really have no idea why I feel that way now: the house sale closes on Monday, Daughter got a new job (yay!), the other kids are doing fine, and I have two trips, one local and one international to look forward to in June.

Yet there it is: today feels like an “empty” day, I feel crappy and unmotivated, and I shouldn’t be.

It doesn’t help that Doc Russia is away for the next week or so, slaughtering dangerous game in his annual African safari (see below); this means that I’m denied my usual “beer, scantily-clad women, loud music and friendly company” remedy for whatever is bringing me down. I’d love to have a few cocktails, but I can’t and never could drink by myself. This is a new thing for me; in the past, I was perfectly happy to be all by myself, and was seldom if ever depressed. Now, I hate being without companionship, and I feel lonely without it. Fuck.

I think I’ll head down to the DFW range for most of the day, and give several of my guns a workout, followed by a thorough cleaning.

Normal blogging service should resume tomorrow. Sorry about that, but I don’t think I’m quite done dealing with this bloody bereavement thing yet.

Killing Time

This cheerful little pic arrived in my Inbox at 5am today:

 

Yes, that’s Doc Russia on the right, the PH on the left. The skull will eventually decorate his office wall. (Mr. Free Market got his buff on Monday.)

I have to tell you, in all the hunting I ever did in Africa, I never went after Cape buffalo, because I simply didn’t have the guts. (Also, the money for the license fee, but that’s not an excuse.)

Kudos to them both.