So this cool cat heads out for a little pussy, and in what must be a PUA record, scores with five different ladies in a single night. Here’s a pic of our exhausted hero, who needed an IV drip after his big night out:
My own record (back in the “rock star” period [eyecross] ) was four in a row… over an entire weekend — and I recall needing an IV as badly as he did. One night? Formidable, Monsieur Chat.
Go here to read them.
My only quibble is with the second last fact: “The AR-15 is as heavy as 10 boxes that you can move.” Nobody would be stupid enough to say or believe that. I mean, even a girl can carry one.
When I said that these assholes were going to start imposing their stupid religion on the rest of us, and we should just start shooting them dead in the streets and firebombing their restaurants, everyone said, “Oh noes, Kim… that would be Krool & Hartless! ”
I speak here not of Muslims, but of vegans:
The group is called Animal Rebellion and its quest to force Britons into compulsory veganism is about to become very high profile. Over the coming days, the organisation is expected to bring thousands of supporters onto the streets, potentially causing serious disruption to the country’s food supplies.
One speaker says: ‘It doesn’t matter if you are the nice one who didn’t want to get arrested, or you’re the one at the front who did. Everyone who goes down there [to London] has to be aware of that, and make sure it’s not going to be stopped by a few people getting pulled away [by the police].’
As the alien cockroach said to Vincent D’Onofrio in Men In Black, “Challenge accepted.”
Or, for those of us who are more old-fashioned in these matters and want to prevent Sherman engine emissions because #SaveThePlanet:
Your suggestions in Comments — and I would suggest that as these little totalitarian bastards get all upset at the sight of blood, the more bloodthirsty your solutions, the better the irony. Have at it.
Wait… what? Sunday’s OVER?
Oh well, let’s at least TRY to work up a smile:
And something to raise your… well, spirits:
Now get in the car and move.
So BritPrince Rufus Castratus and his wife Caring-Slut head off to Africa to do Noble Things, said things including but not limited to hugging Black chilluns, waving their own baby around, and giving inspiring speeches to Third-World Yoot, telling them not to despair but to strive to achieve the kinds of things otherwise only available to people born into noble families, or married into them, or to those of inherited wealth.
The problem, though, is that the African Adventure was supposed to be a giant PR stunt to assuage the storm of opprobrium which burst out when the Royal Ginger addressed a climate-scold conference, telling everyone to lower their carbon footprint, when in fact he’d swanned over to the conference on a series of filthy, polluting private jets.
And the African Adventure certainly started out that way for them; adoring crowds at every stop, lickspittle Press reports and millions of cute baby pics everywhere.
Except…
Because of royalty (his) and celebrity (hers), a certain amount of security would be needed because Africa, and (forgive the unconscious racism) there is no such thing as an “armored SUV” anywhere on the Darkie Continent except as owned by various criminal thugs of the Mugabe stripe who (quite sensibly) were not going to hand over their armored vehicles and leave themselves vulnerable to, well, the rest of Africa.
So the BritGov arranged for a few of these rhino-trucks to be flown over to Darkest Africa, creating in their wake a carbon footprint equivalent to the Krakatoa eruption (some slight exaggeration, but that’s the leitmotif of the International Climate Fear Set, isn’t it?). Needless to say, all the Perpetually Indignants are beside themselves with fury.
I kinda feel sorry for His Gingerness. He’s tried so hard to Do The Right Thing (as defined by his Hollywood slutwife): announced that they’re only going to have two children because social responsibility; given up birdshooting, boozing, foxhunting, eating meat, carousing and all the other stuff which made him lovable, and gone pretty much Full Woke (and we all know what perils lie there).
And that’s the problem right there. If you’re going to set yourselves up as the Duke and Duchess of Wokeshire, you’re always going to fuck up disastrously in some way or another no matter what you do, just because of the nature of your job (such as it is) and the minefield that is wokedom.
Stop to eat some local delicacy at a roadside vendor? Don’t you know that the animal which gave up its testicles for you is on the U.N. Endangered Species List?
Attend a tribal dance festival, put on some of the dancers’ duds and join in the dance? OMG that cultural appropriation is SO disrespectful!
Watch your cousin ride in some equestrian competition? Don’t you KNOW how much the horses suffer?
And so on.
There’s a simple solution to all of this for old Harry:
But he’s never going to go there, is he? Because in terms of becoming King of Britishland, his brother (and his expanding brood) has relegated Rufus pretty much to the 2nd XI, inheritance-wise; and without being the Woke Prince, therefore, all he would have left to do is open supermarkets, attend formal balls, go to church with Granny, and hand out the trophies at the Upper Twittering Boys Athletics competition.
Just like all the other minor royals, in other words.
But at least he’d get his balls back.
Apparently the Brits have got their panties all in a knot over a book. It’s called My Little Book Of All The Brexiteers I Want To Stab, and of course the fury is because Amazon offered it for sale.
Even though the “hate speech” bullshit is most often used by the Left against conservatives, on this occasion it’s Brexiteers using the liberal fascists’ cancel culture rule against the Remainers. But that doesn’t make it right, now, does it?
Let’s play a little game here, seeing as the Left seems not to mind calling for Trump, Scalise, Clarence Thomas et al. to be assassinated. I’m not going to play the “One Shot” game because quite frankly, we need more than one shot to eliminate most of the Leftist / Never Trumper assholes which infest our body politic.
Instead, we’ll use a popular motif on this here website:
Send me an email (NOT in Comments) in which you assign each of your favorite hang-worthy assholes a number, ranked from 1-15 in descending order of hangworthyness (i.e. #1=worst, #15=least objectionable), e.g. 1: Eric Swalwell, 2: Elizabeth Warren, 3: Paul Ryan, 4: Nancy Pelosi, 5: Beto etc etc all the way to 15: Wayne LaPierre. Nominate anyone you want (except me; compared to the pustules which infest society at the moment, I’m barely worth noticing). I’ll tabulate the responses over the weekend and post the results sometime next week. Emails arriving after Sunday won’t be tabulated.