Killing The Monster

I see that singer Michael Bublé has decided to quit singing and the limelight.  I can quite understand why.  At a time when his beloved son was close to death from cancer, Bublé found himself in a blizzard of “well-meaning” Press attention, with articles sensitively entitled “Michael’s Torment“, “Michael Looks Depressed As He Leaves Hospital” and the always-popular “Will Michael Bublé Ever Be Able To Sing Again?”  (“No” being the eventual answer to this question, as it happens.)

Under those circumstances, Bublé discovered that while his fame sold albums and made him rich, the price he had to pay was the complete loss of privacy and even dignity.  For attention-whores like the Kardashians and their ilk, this celebrity and attention might have been accepted, even welcomed;  for him, facing that most awful and personal of tragedies, the scouring of his anguish and its parade in the tabloids must have been torture — and his desire to quit the spotlight both literally and figuratively is both understandable and even laudable.

And good for him, say I.  His wealth is secure, his family likewise;  but should his young son ever get nailed by cancer again — a horrible possibility — I can only hope that he and his wife can deal with whatever happens in solitude and isolation.  I don’t even want to hear about it, for that matter.  Whatever happens, Michael Bublé deserves his privacy, and I can only hope that the Media Vultures leave him alone from now on.

I for one will refuse to read anything about him and his family ever again.  I can’t escape the future headlines, should they occur, but I don’t have to reward the Jackals Of The Press by reading about the details.  He deserves the anonymity he craves, and I’m happy to grant it to him.

Michael, I wish lasting happiness, health and peace to you and your family;  and thank you for sharing your magnificent talent with us while you did.

Never Mind The Joke

So this asshole got some joke award for his charlatanry:

The man who published a widely-dismissed paper claiming the MMR vaccine could make children autistic has been ridiculed with an award for bad science. Andrew Wakefield, a former gastroenterologist who is now believed to be in a relationship with the model Elle Macpherson, has been awarded the ‘Rusty Razor’ award for pseudoscience by magazine The Skeptic.
Wakefield’s so-called research fueled the ‘anti-vaxx’ movement, by suggesting jabs could make children autistic, but his studies were fabricated.
Experts have called the paper, published in medical journal The Lancet in 1998, but retracted in 2010, ‘the most damaging medical hoax of the past 100 years’.

Never mind the Rusty Razor Award, someone should have used a rusty razor to cut this fucker’s head off.  Countless children have died and others fallen dangerously ill because of his “pseudo-scientific” study, and at least he should be in prison for life instead of dating a dim-bulb ex-supermodel.

I am not a vengeful man by nature, but if one day some bereaved parent were to shoot Wakefield in the face and I were in the jury at the parent’s trial, my vote would be an unshakable “Not Guilty”.

Gratuitous Gun Pic: Carbine Problem Solved

From Reader Brad_In_IL comes this excellent rant / exposition:

Kim,
I’m certain that you recall my pistol-caliber carbine dilemma from a few months ago.

Well, I thought about all the comments, tightened my belt, increased my budget and purchased the Ruger PC-9 carbine.  It’s a fun little rifle, I can shoot it reasonably well and it shares magazines with Ruger’s SR9 series pistols.  For your Readers who are Fanbois of Glock 17/19:  the carbine ships with interchangeable magazine well inserts allowing it to alternatively run Glock double-stack magazines.  Changing to the Glock mag insert takes but a few minutes.
And:  Ruger also made the bolt face removable.  In the future, if they want to produce variants in .40 S&W or say .45ACP, new bolt face, new barrel, additional mag well inserts, new recoil spring in the blowback system, and VOILA !!!  New Rifle !!!  Can you tell I’m sold on the concept?  Thought so.  And how does it shoot?  Off-hand at 25 yards, if I do my part reasonably well, it patterns to minute-of-fist with junky “range grade” practice ammo.

Here in IL, the inmates are most decidedly running the asylum. As the progressive political winds of doom grow stronger and the political clouds of doom darken to the point of sack-cloth (re: miserable rich-boi fat-fuck toilet-yanking, property tax avoiding, never-worked-a-day-in-his-life JB Pritzker),  I decided the time for a carry piece as a companion to the Ruger rifle was to be the order of the day.  Remember from above I mentioned about the carbine sharing magazines?  I contacted a buddy of mine with an FFL and procured Ruger’s SR9c compact, giving me…

…wait for it…

[drum roll]

a Gratuitous Gun PAIR !!!

So today I give you the modern version of the paired carbine & pistol, sharing not only ammo, but also sharing magazines. Think of it as the modern incarnation of the Old West cowhand who carried a lever-rifle and revolver chambered for the same ammo.

Also:

A few days ago you put up a post about being angry, and that we’d get more of Classic Kim.  Angry?  Am I angry with how IL is quickly degrading to be almost Kommiefornia?  You bet your pasty-white conservative South African ass I’m angry.  The Dem-progs here in ILL-Annoy are driving a once-good state, The Land of Lincoln, down the shit-hole.  Those feckless moronic mouth-breathing pension-hoarding troglodytes can suck my gunsmoke all day long, and double on Sunday.
Now… time for me to get BUSY.  I’ve got two stripped AR lower receivers sitting on the shelf doing me no good.  Time to begin my first AR build, because AR rifles cause the Progs here and everywhere to get a crippling case of the vapors, and because a hearty FUCK YOU to the dem-prog hoplophobes in Springfield, Cook County, Deerfield, Highland Park, Aurora and elsewhere.  Buggering sods.
Gah.  I need a drink.  Now, where did I leave my heirloom rye whiskey?

Now that, my friends, is how to deal with living in a GFW location, i.e. which is not part of the United States — other than leaving it, which I’m constantly nagging Brad to do.  And that, too, is a fine rant.  (The “miserable rich-boi fat-fuck toilet-yanking, property tax avoiding, never-worked-a-day-in-his-life”  appellation is worth the price of admission alone.)

And allow me to be the first to congratulate Brad on his gunny activities.  That matched pair is a joy to behold.

Final thought:  Is it my imagination, or are Ruger products starting to become more-imaginatively (i.e. better) designed?

Of Course He Is

According to super-scold Kathleen Parker, God-Emperor Trump is responsible for the rise in booze consumption in the U.S.

More than 70 percent of Americans imbibe each year, and about 40 percent drink excessively, according to two separate studies last year. A comparison to 2014 data showed a 10 percent increase in the number of heavy drinkers.
I mention these sotted stats for context. Lately, at least from my perch on the porch, the evening cocktail has become less an aperitif than a medicinal slug made necessary by the alternative of ripping off my face. To bear witness to These Times In Which We Live is to go insane, join a cult or pour your favorite poison.

And what are “These Times In Which We Live”?  Well, Parker goes on to explain her reasons.  Mostly, they’re of the “Not Our Kind, Dear” (NOKD) sort, because Trump had rapper Kanye West over to the White House for a visit — I mean, my dear:  imagine having a rapper tread the hallowed halls of government?

Honestly, that thought doesn’t drive me to drink, although I think Kanye West is, to put it mildly, fucked in the head.  What would (and did) cause that reaction in me was when the President had the Prime Minister of Israel over, and made him leave out the back door like an unwanted encyclopedia salesman;  or doing the same or worse to the Dalai Lama of Tibet.  Okay, that was a different president — Barack Cocksucker Obama, actually — but you see my point.  Presidents can drive one to drink, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not that important.

Trump probably is causing people to drink more, but different groups of people are doing so for different reasons.  Among socialists, people are drinking to drown their sorrow and rage (try not to giggle like a little girl when you follow that link):

    

…whereas we conservatives look on what Trump is doing to the socialist agenda, and are drinking in celebration:

  

And one of the joys of drinking Liberal Tears is that you can drink it either as a refresher, or as a mixer with your J&B.

So, to Kathleen Parker I say:  bottoms up!

Doggy Style

It’s not often that I am rendered speechless, but this story has made today one of those times.

We always make fun of Florida Man when some weird stuff happens in the Sunshine State;  I think that the subject of this article qualifies as “California Man/Woman”, for all sorts of reasons.

I accept no responsibility for what may happen when you follow that link, even though it’s quite safe for work… I think.

Throwing Money Into The Pit

When I wrote Let Africa Sink all those years ago, one of my main arguments for so doing was that giving aid to Africa just didn’t work, and was a waste of money.

Needless to say, I was called a “racist”, “stupid” and “heartless” (among other names) by the Bleeding Heart Set.

Well now, lookee here:

Proof that foreign aid DOESN’T work: Scathing report reveals £11million scheme backed by Bono failed to reduce poverty or hunger

Feel free to read the details for reasons why, but if you’re pressed for time, don’t bother.  It’s just the usual African catalog of corruption, venality and inefficiency.

So the next time some celebrity asks you to give money to some fashionable charity, save your money and spend it on something that actually provides a benefit to someone — you (e.g. with a new gun, fine liquor or similar).  Or if you’d rather invest the money, head to a casino because your odds of winning there are better than your donation to Pore & Starvin Inc. making a difference.

Yeah, I’m heartless.