Rock, Meet Hard Place

Via Reader Mike L. I get this bit of news:

In Missouri, where abortion is illegal, Planned Parenthood sees surge in vasectomies

Doesn’t surprise me.

I had mine done in 1997, some time after my 43rd birthday, and have never looked back.  Frankly, I think that any man who doesn’t have it done by age 45 is asking for trouble, whether or not abortion is legal.  (If your Missus has had her tubes tied or her factory is otherwise disabled, then fine — but be aware that as long as the little swimmers are still there, you can still become a Daddy regardless of the recipient thereof.  I shudder just at the thought.)

And let’s not forget that nowadays you can be stuck with child support payments even if you’re not the daddy — but having had your tubes tied, such an eventuality is highly unlikely if not impossible.

I must admit that back in the times when I did this kind of thing on an ad-hoc basis, it was a real comfort to know that the old production pole had been turned into a joystick.

Sssshhhh Don’t Tell ‘Em

“When civilization falls apart, the rifle I want is an AK-47.”  We all know that famous quote, but an even better one is:  “When civilization falls, you’d better know how to survive in Nature”, as Richard Moss describes the fate of the “social elites” who don’t:

They would soon realize that their clever turns of phrase, condescending smirks, allegiance to “diversity,” abortion, and rejection of God would mean nothing before the fury of nature and nature’s God. Their fatal conceits would vanish in terrified moments as nature delivered its cruel blows. Their high-minded rhetoric, progressive orthodoxy, navel-gazing, and self-absorption would dissolve before the acid rain of Gaia’s indifferent wrath.

All good stuff.  Of course, I don’t have much of that knowledge either — or at least, it’s been largely forgotten — but I have friends who do, and I would arrive at their doorstep with tons of food, guns and ammo —  to help guard them and their loved ones against the inevitable hordes of goblins who would try to prey on them.

The East/West Coast types?  Best leave them in their ignorance.

Waste Of Time

Prompted by several men of my acquaintance, I succumbed to the hype and watched the Reacher  show on Amazon’s “Prime” channel yesterday — yeah, unto the entire first season so nobody could accuse me of missing the good part or the ending, or whatever.

What.  Bullshit.

Apart from an insanely-ridiculous plot with more holes than a mesh facemark, the entire premise of the show (stolen wholesale from the Then Came Bronson  TV series of 1969-70, only with ultra- violence added) is at about comic-book level, i.e. aimed at the nine-year-old boy mentality.

Loner comes to town, finds rampant injustice, fights against it (literally), kills everyone, wins in the end.  Clint Eastwood’s Pale Rider  did it better and more convincingly, in two hours.

I am getting so sick of people fighting in movies, landing what would be crippling blows in real life, only to jump back into the fray and land equally-devastating blows on the opponent.

Pro tip:  when someone is head-butted in the face, the result is a broken nose, broken jaw, broken cheekbone (or all the above), and temporary befuddlement if not outright unconsciousness.  In almost every fight scene in this foul waste of time, the fighters would land not one, but several head-butts on each other, with seemingly no ill effects on either.  Even worse, after the fight was over, nobody showed any ill-effects — no bruising, no fractures, nada.

In one risible fight, Our Hero Reacher gets hit not once but seven times in the ribs with a crowbar.  I hate to spoil the secret, but one blow in the ribs with a crowbar is Game Over — broken ribs, punctured lungs, organ damage — and trying to block the blow with a forearm ends with a broken arm.  And worse, when we see him later (in a predictable sex scene which made me howl with laughter, so awkwardly was it staged), there were absolutely no signs of him having been in mortal combat but a few minutes earlier.

I also think the Desert Eagle was loaded with .22 LR bullets, so little did it recoil.  Please.

Finally, the casting.  Uh huh:  a 6’5″ musclebound protagonist with a steely stare?  Shrimpy dwarf Tom Cruise was more convincing in the movie version, because at least he could hide in a crowd if he had to.   This man-mountain would stand out on Muscle Beach in L.A.

One-dimensional:  the character, the plot, the bad guys, everything.  Oh, and answer me this:  mid-summer in a small town in Georgia, and nobody’s perspiring outdoors?

This show is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever seen on TV, and any future series is going to be roundly ignored, with prejudice.


I’m not often envious of what other people do or have, but I’ll make an exception for this guy and his toy:

We used to have a 30′ Scalextric track layout in the basement of our Chicago suburban home, but in subsequent homes we never had the space available to set it up again.  And unlike Our Hero, we only had a few cars, which we’d race against each other by class, so to speak:



Great fun.

More Difficult Choices

Last week’s post on aircraft provoked more comments from Readers than just about any other piece at this blog.

So this week I’m going to do something quite different.

The scenario:  you are going to do a road trip in Italy which will more or less follow the old Mille Miglia race course.  It will not be a race — in fact, you will end up driving quite slowly, stopping to enjoy all the wonderful views and other attractions along the way.  The only stipulations are a.) that you are in your early thirties, and b.) that whatever car you choose for the trip will be mechanically sound (i.e. no breakdowns).

To make it even more interesting, whichever car you choose will involve a mandatory traveling companion of similar vintage, and your choice therefore requires you to pick not only the car, but the companion as well.  You may not choose or substitute any outside the pairings as listed.

Choice #1:   1958 Lancia Aurelia B24 and 1958 Sophia Loren

Choice #2:  1968 Morgan 8 and 1968 Grace Kelly  

Choice #3:  1967 Austin-Healey MkIII and 1967 Gina Lollobrigida


Choice #4:   1965 Ferrari 330 GTS Spider and 1965 Suzanne Pleshette   

Choice #5:  1959 Corvette and 1962 Ann-Margret 

Choice #6:  1958 Mercedes 300 Roadster and 1958 Elizabeth Taylor

One choice, and one choice only.  Enjoy the trip.

Update:   I fixed the date of the Corvette, and of Ann-Margret just a little (she would have been 18 in 1959, shuddup you pervos).

Also: what part of “you’re not going to experience car trouble” was not clear?