Shouldn’t this Jolly Rogerer be flying the skull and crossbones?
Cap’n Piggy is pissing on Nicolás Maduro’s shoes, saying the U.S. Coast Guard and Navy have snatched up an oil tanker off Venezuela.
The usual deeply considered, stable-genius, hold-my-Big Mac-and-watch-this planning applies, of course. Asked what would happen to the oil aboard the tanker, the cap’n replied, “Well, we keep it, I guess.”
Well, I guess it couldn’t be long before he added piracy to his list of crimes. Might we expect Piggy to shift his allegiance from Mickey D’s to Long John Silver’s?
God of War Henery “Pistol Pete” Hegseth (major, National Guard, ret.). Apologies to Chuck Jones/Warner Bros.
When the going gets tough, the tough get going, and God of War Henery “Pistol Pete” Hegseth is no exception.
Left unsatisfied by (and roundly criticized for) sinking small craft in America’s Oceans® — including a double-tap that finished off a couple survivors of one such strike — the retired National Guard major and Faux News foghorn set out after bigger game.
Not that he’s taking the credit for that particular kill, mind you.
Writes Stars and Stripes:
“Secretary [Pete] Hegseth authorized Adm. [Frank M.] Bradley to conduct these kinetic strikes. Adm. Bradley worked well within his authority, and the law, directing the engagement to ensure the boat was destroyed and the threat to the United States was eliminated,” White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt said.
The buck stops where? Tell you what, grunt — uh, pardon me, admiral, sir — you don’t want to be on duty when that particular dollar lands in your lap.
Just ask Herbert “Spermwhale” Whalen, a major in the U.S. Air Force Reserve who flew in World War II and Korea before joining the Los Angeles Police Department. Speaking of a superior officer in Joe Wambaugh’s novel “The Choirboys,” the burly street cop observed:
“I always knew he was behind us. I felt him there many times.”
Herself, who spends more time on the social medias than Your Humble Narrator, tipped me to this fella this morning.
Jesse Welles makes good use of TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube, where followers compare the 32-year-old from Arkansas to Woody Guthrie or Bob Dylan. He tours like a fiend, from Austin to Boston, Berlin to Brisbane, and recently popped up on Stephen Colbert’s show, which is where Herself caught his act.
NPR calls him “one of the most visible examples of a new generation of digital-savvy artists bringing folk traditions to a modern medium. … So far, his music has addressed the war in Gaza, the Epstein list and the Trump administration’s claims that Tylenol is linked to autism.”
Well, sir. That covers a lot of waterfront, doesn’t it? Rants you can rock to, and roll with. Give him a listen.
I’ll spare you my “hot take” on the latest capitulation by the Democrats, noting only that if we were ever to get serious about governance in this Republic, we could revive the domestic splintery rail, tar, and feather industries in a fortnight. Maybe less.
Jesus H. Christ on a flatcar. I believe these eejits could fall into a barrel of tits and come out sucking their thumbs. Bringing a knife to a gunfight would be a remarkable escalation for this lot. A one-armed monkey could carve a better party out of a banana, using a single strand of al dente pasta.
Fuck these people. I’m going back to the commies. At least they go down swinging.
Meanwhile, to any who remain with the Jackasses: Primary ’em all, let God sort ’em out.
Halloween 2025 is dead and buried, but the boogeymen remain very much among us.
And now it’s time — well, nearly so, anyway — to fall back.
This is fine, for as far as it goes, which is not very. It’s 8:45 a.m. as I write this, the temperature is a brisk 42°, and the sun has yet to pop round from behind the Sandias. So tomorrow, once Daylight Saving Time ends, it will be 7:45 a.m. and I’ll have an extra hour to dither over whether I’ll need arm and knee warmers for the day’s ride or can just let it all hang out.
Well, not all, as in everything. One must consider the neighbors. Also, the police.
In any event, getting back one measly hour isn’t going to cut it. Not this year. I want to go all the way back to Nov. 5, 2024, this time to see a different result in that year’s pestilential erection, with the Republican candidate headed for the Big House instead of the White House.
Perhaps the day of reckoning would only be postponed, not eliminated. So be it. All I know for sure is that this timeline ain’t working for me. And I’m not alone. Hell, I’ll bet a bicycle or two that a critical number of people who actually voted for this mess would like to have a do-over, and pronto.
Where’s H.G. Wells when we need him? Lost in the dim mists of Time, more’s the pity.
He I know — for the question had been discussed among us long before the Time Machine was made — thought but cheerlessly of the advancement of mankind, and saw in the growing pile of civilization only a foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy its makers in the end. If that is so, it remains for us to live as though it were not so.
