Tuesday, September 27, 2016


Here is The EntirDebate


Now, What Do 
YOU 

Think?



Comments Not Pertinent to 
Last Monday Night's Event 
WILL be DELETED 

Sunday, September 25, 2016

WHY WE HAVE the PROBLEMS WE DO with POLICING so-called "MINORITIES"




What no one seems to have addressed so far are the large segments of our population who are innately UNGOVERNABLE.  It started in the so-called Inner Cities – and you know what THAT means ––– millions upon millions of ENWORDS.  Zones of horror created by "liberalism."

Progressives –– i.e. LEFTISTS –– some of them possibly well-meaning –– have sponsored permissive policies that effectively encouraged laziness, shiftlessness, hopelessness, anger, dereliction of duty, and despair.  

How could rendering huge segments of the population –– most of them ignorant, unlettered, backward, unsophisticated, deracinated, alienated, and lacking the basic skills one needs to function even minimally in the larger society –– how could rendering these people helpless and hopelessly dependent on government "programs" and government "handouts" help them to develop into useful, productive citizens? 

If the Left had deliberately set out to destroy the chances of the American Negro population to advance, they couldn't have done a better, more-efficient job.  WORSE even than that: in the wake of all these bogus, totally ineffective government policies purportedly designed to aid in "the Advancement of Colored People," much of the REST of society has been degraded, devolved, coarsened, cheapened and led astray.  Like it or not THAT is the corrosive process the Left has foisted on us.  

The results, as all sane people certainly must realize, has been the debacle we experience and suffer with now.  What the Left calls "progress" is in truth a REVERSION to BRUTE SAVAGERY after a long slow process of artificially-induced societal degeneration. And "they" will call ME a "hater" for saying this. GREAT DAY in the MORNING! To THIS we've come! 


~ § ~

MEMBERS of the RULING CLASS

Sights to make you shudder

Angela Merkel eating a Muslim dick?


Would you hire her to be your babysitter?


Sleepless? Senile? Syphilitic? 


This nearly made it to the White House.




Tuesday, September 20, 2016



Take Me In

On her way to work one morning
Down the path along side the lake
A tender hearted woman 
saw a poor, half-frozen snake
His pretty colored skin had been 
all frosted with the dew
"Oh dear!" she cried, "I'll take you in 
and I'll take care of you"

"Take me in oh tender woman
Take me in, for heaven's sake
Take me in, O tender woman, " 
sighed the snake.

She wrapped him up all cozy 
in a curvature of silk
Then laid him by the fireside 
with some honey and some milk
She hurried home from work that night 
as soon as she arrived
She found the snake she'd taken in 
was happily revived

"Take me in, O tender woman,
Take me in, for heaven's sake
Take me in, O tender woman, " 
sighed the snake.

Now she clutched him to her bosom, 
"You're so beautiful," she cried
"But if I hadn't brought you in by now 
you surely would have died"

Now she stroked his pretty skin and then 
she kissed and held him tight
But instead of saying thanks, 
the snake gave her a vicious bite.

"Take me in, O tender woman.
Take me in, for heaven's sake
Take me in, O tender woman, " 
sighed the snake.

"I saved you," cried the woman
"And you've bitten me now, why?
You know your bite is poisonous 
and now I'm going to die."

"Oh shut up, you silly woman," 
said the reptile with a grin.
"You knew damned well I was a snake 
before you took me in."

"Take me in, O tender woman
Take me in, for heaven's sake
Take me in, O tender woman, " 
hissed the snake.


~ Al Wilson


SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2016




 Comments are Now Open to Discussion of the Presidential Candidates and Speculation about Monday Night’s Debate

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Sunday, September 11, 2016



Meditation on a Tragic Anniversary


A radiant cloudless morning
_____ air fresh and clear
__________ sky the brightest blue
_______________ mood mellow
A lovely young day bright with promise ––

And then a gleaming silver shell appeared
_____ mirroring beautifully the morning sunshine 
__________ A Thing of Beauty –– but horribly out of place
_______________ like a spacecraft from an alien planet

Dipping crazily far too low upon the skyline
_____ before anyone could feel the menace ––
_________ it smashed directly into a gigantic upright construct ––
_______________ one of a pair ––

Twin monuments to Greed and Vain Ambition some were quick to say

But sudden violent death eradicated an entire investment firm
_____ in one horrific instant –– 
__________ dozens of bright young lives incinerated –– gone!

Before dazed onlookers could begin to understand what was happening
_____ another silver shell acting as a missile 
__________ crashed into the second of the giant pair.

Ugly buildings!  A hideous blot 
_____ on the once-graceful Manhattan skyline!

“Ada Louise Huxtable might secretly rejoice at this,”
_____ part of me though wickedly, for I had always resented
__________ the overbearing, outsized twins ––
_______________ bounders, interlopers, invaders!

But before that ruined day was halfway through
_____ three-thousand innocents had been
__________ burned alive, brains and eyeballs boiled 
__________ skulls pulverized, skeletons crushed
_______________ between twisting, white hot girders
_______________ pelted with falling rubble midst the flames
_______________ caught, crippled, crumpled, smashed to bits ––
__________ Smothered in collapsing stairwells and buried alive
_______________ in a torrent of red hot cinders and debris

In so many ways the scene must have mimicked the final hours
_____ of the residents of Pompeii and Herculaneum


And then there were those hideous echoes 
––––– of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire ––
Where so many jumped to their deaths
_____ to escape being burned alive ––
In an instant smashed skulls, broken bones and bloody pulp 
_____ were all that remained of their vibrant young lives ––
__________ and locked inside the ruined sweatshop –– 
_______________ cinders –– ashes and soot.

And just a year ago in Benghazi –– to mark the anniversary 
__________ of this Great Triumph of Barbarity over Civilization
_______________ our young, handsome, well-meaning, 
_______________ hopelessly naive, ambassador to Libya
_______________ was surrounded in his quarters, 
_______________ dragged out into the streets
_______________ beaten, sodomized and brutally murdered.

But what does any of this matter? What difference does it make?
_____ Let’s just forget about it, and MOVE ON.
__________ Might as well. 

We are privileged to live in interesting times.

Kyrie eleison!
Kyrie eleison!
Christe eleison!

~ FreeThinke 




Thursday, September 8, 2016





Sredni Vashtar

Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. De Ropp, who counted for nearly everything. 

Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin's cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome necessary things---such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dulness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.


Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him “for his good” was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. 

Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out –– an unclean thing, which should find no entrance.

In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit-trees that it contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. 

In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. 




In one corner lived a ragged-plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a long-secreted hoard of small silver. 

Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe, sharp-fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day, out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion. 

The Woman indulged in religion once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon. Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial before the wooden hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret. 

Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient side of things, as opposed to the Woman's religion, which, as far as Conradin could observe, went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. 

These festivals were of irregular occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. De Ropp suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day the supply of nutmeg would have given out.


The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. De Ropp was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability.

After a while Conradin's absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the notice of his guardian. “It is not good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers,” she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. 


Something perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of it “gave trouble,” a deadly offence in the middle-class feminine eye.

“I thought you liked toast,” she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it.

“Sometimes,” said Conradin.

In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the hutch-god. Conradin had been wont to chant his praises, tonight be asked a boon.

“Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”

The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty comer, Conradin went back to the world he so hated.

And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the tool-shed, Conradin's bitter litany went up: “Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”

Mrs. De Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of inspection.

“What are you keeping in that locked hutch?” she asked. “I believe it's guinea-pigs. I'll have them all cleared away.”

Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. 

It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bidden to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining-room the door of the shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin stationed himself. 

He saw the Woman enter, and then be imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time. But he knew as he prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom, till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol:

Sredni Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts 
And his teeth were white.   
His enemies called for peace, 
But he brought them death.   
Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful.

And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them over and over again, with one eye always on that swinging door. 

A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patience of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the p├Žan of victory and devastation. And presently his eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat.

Conradin dropped on his knees. The great polecat-ferret made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.

“Tea is ready,” said the sour-faced maid; “where is the mistress?”' 

“She went down to the shed some time ago,” said Conradin. 

And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. 

The loud foolish screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region, the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy burden into the house.

“Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn't for the life of me!” exclaimed a shrill voice. 

And while they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.



 Saki - Hector Hugh Munro (1870-1916)