Whittle wisdom

BILL WHITTLE always puts things in proper perspective.

Here he deals with the left-wing obsession of “climate change,” a bogus worry if there ever was one.

Two party gals

PICTURES ARE worth thousands of words.

On the left is Rosa DeLauro, a U.S. representative from Connecticut.* Can you guess which party she belongs to?

On the right is Tomi Lahren. She is not a politician. She is a well-known television political commentator. Can you guess which party she belongs to?

DeLauro came to my attention yesterday due to a speech she made Friday during the debate on the ObamaCare replacement. Here is a short excerpt of her rant.

The ObamaCare replacement, something abysmal from Paul Ryan, was pulled at the last moment, thank God, but that’s not the theme of today’s post.

The theme is that these photos illustrate beautifully — literally in Lahren’s case — the difference between today’s Republican and Democrat parties.

Tip of the sombrero to The Gateway Pundit for bringing this to my attention.

* * * *

* Click on DeLauro’s photo to get the full impact, to see her in all her wacky splendor. She’s 73 years old, the Woodstock Generation! She could strut the streets of San Miguel de Allende, and no one would even notice.

Hillary loses it

HILLARY QUACKS, quacks, quacks about “so-called” right to work. Lordy, who would vote for this woman?

This shrill video is so distressing and hilarious at the same time, I felt the need to share it with you. It was made for a union group, but Hillary apparently does not know that if it’s on the internet, anybody can watch.

And most people don’t like greedy, corrupt unions anymore. They do like “right to work,” i.e. freedom.

This is the sound of a B-52 in drag doing a tailspin.

Here is a bonus video:

A Florida childhood

Circa 1955.

I WAS RAISED in north Florida, Jacksonville, where I lived throughout the 1950s and on into the 1960s. I graduated from high school in 1962, and left the state forever.

That’s me and my sister, Diane, sitting on the bentwood bench in the back yard of our home in the Jacksonville suburb of Arlington, across the St. John’s River.

I don’t know why we were dolled up like that. It likely was Easter Sunday, and my paternal grandparents must have come to town. Otherwise, we would have ignored Easter because my parents were socialist agnostics, usually.

But when my father’s parents were around, we were upstanding citizens, good churchgoers, teetotalers. My father hid his booze bottles. Paternal grandfather was a Baptist deacon, and grandma was a Methodist.

Around them, we were another family altogether.

Here’s my mother, Virginia. She died in 2009 at age 90, but she would have been about 38 here. I wonder if her Miltowns were in the purse or on the kitchen window ledge, which is where she usually kept them for easy access.

Our green 1950 Dodge is parked in the driveway. I have no idea who those rug-rats are who are opening the screen door. Probably kids of the Dawsons who lived next door.

My sister towered six-feet-tall in high school and had just one date the entire time. I wonder if that was when she began her spiral down the road where she ended up decades later as a militant, explosive, feminist, lesbian fanatic?

But she was very nice when she was young. She was smart and kind and reasonable. I miss that sister.

An American family of the 1950s. You never know what hides behind the Easter Sunday smiles and lies.

The demon urge

BACK IN JULY, I posted Geezer Dreams in which I spoke of my desire to buy a new car and/or a motorcycle.

I need neither, but dreams are not made of needs but of desires. Putting aside the car idea was fairly easy. The motorcycle, well, that’s another matter altogether. It still haunts me.

Just this morning (!), I had deleted saved internet links of various motorcycles, and I’d swapped my internet screen saver from a bike to a Mexican flag, my old screen saver.

Just hours later, I saw the above video on the blog Surviving Yucatan, and it’s got me all roiled up again. Dang! Those old Chinese buzzards make me look like a babe in diapers.

Like a freaking pantywaist.

Get out, out, out!

Like Mississippi blacks in 1950, women sent to the rear.

THE MOON supports the lovely diversity of national cultures — defined by borders — and opposes Mohammedanism. At times those two issues intersect nicely.

The upcoming vote in Great Britain over its being in the European Union provides a lovely example.

London’s Mohammedan mayor(!) has gone on a road trip in support of remaining in the European Union. The photo above was taken at one of his stops. The Mohammedan women were compelled to stay at the back of the audience.

Leftists support this abominable misognyny. You can read more about this nonsense right here.

Meanwhile, Switzerland has withdrawn its application to join the EU, saying “only a few lunatics” now favor it.

Never wanting to miss an opportunity to make fun of Mohammedans, let’s look at this:

Rayani Airlines, which would have been Malaysia’s first Sharia-compliant carrier, has been grounded by the government. While it was Sharia-compliant, it was not flying-compliant.

There were other issues too. Strict dress codes for passengers. No in-flight cocktails. Strictly Halal meals. Late flights. Last-minute cancellations. Pilots not getting paid.

In other words, managed like the Mideast.

Handwritten boarding passes on little sheets of paper. You can’t make this stuff up. The Mohammedans do it for you.

Let’s pray the Brits exit the collectivist European Union and regain control of their once-great nation.

The fifth horseman

A FIFTH HORSEMAN of the Apocalypse now rides through Western Europe, the United States and Canada, the historically white man’s civilized world of liberal democracy.

And freedom.

It is the Horseman of Lunacy, a new boy on the block.

And the other four horsemen are just behind him.

Beanies and Bedlam

THE FORMER freckled blonde and current soul sistah named Rachel Dolezal has been all over the news due to her identifying.

In olden and saner times, Dolezal would be tied to a table at Bedlam, but these days she’s on television, an international celebrity feted as though she were not actually sporting a beanie with propeller.

Dolezal is the latest example of the fad of identifying, something quite popular among youth, the leaders of tomorrow.

No matter if you’re born a boy, you can always change teams tomorrow or the next day. What does it matter if your hair is blonde? You can frizz it, overstay at tanning salons and proclaim your African roots, maybe even get voted president of the NAACP somewhere.

It’s fun to watch America from my Mexican mountaintop, and I rejoice I’m not elsewhere, above the Rio Bravo.

The therapy generation

I’VE DONE THERAPY, and I’m not a fan.

The people who get into that line of work, in my opinion, are troubled people, which is why they get into it in the first place. Their true motivation is understanding themselves, not others, but you can make a living at it, so many do. Kill two birds.

Win, win. Endless fixation on one’s self while having others pay you to fix them too. If only you could. Most men are not inclined to therapy. It’s primarily a female thing which folds nicely into their endless talking and reading self-help books.

Men who submit to therapy, I believe, are usually coerced into it by a woman, or they are questionable fellows like Woody Allen. I was in the first category. Maybe the second too.

The therapists to whom I refer are not psychiatrists. I’m talking about psychologists and other lesser lights with therapy “training.” There are lots of options available. Psychiatrists are just physicians who want those big doctor bucks but who faint at the sight of blood.

My sister is a therapist. My first wife is a therapist. My daughter was a therapist until she married very well and became a woman of leisure. The man who picked up my pieces and put me back together in the late 1990s, when I was a basket case, was a therapist, a psychologist.

But his tools were entheogens, not the endless chatter of usual therapy.

I was first hauled into traditional therapy in 1994. My second wife was the hauler. The therapist was a woman, a scandalously expensive marriage counselor in the Galleria area of Houston. Her suite had multiple rooms. At first we sat on a white leather sofa, my seething wife and I.

Basically, it was a gang-bang, and I got hosed, strapped naked atop a grimy mattress on the floor of a dank, stinky basement. The gang-bangers were, of course, the therapist and my wife.

They had their way with me, over and over, and they didn’t even use protection.

My last clear memory of the final session was this: We went into another room of the suite where there were various instruments of torture, or perhaps they were just therapy aids. The shrink had me lie on my back atop a huge inflated ball, basically bending me backwards, which was uncomfortable.

She leaned over me, looked right into my face and asked (I am not making this up): How old are you now?  I’m 50, I accurately responded, but I don’t think that’s what she wanted to hear.

In the parking lot, I vowed not to return, so my wife tossed me out in the cold shortly thereafter.

I do think that in some cases, what I call chatter therapy can do some good, mostly in relationships. Sometimes, but even then I have my doubts. When deeper issues are involved, things buried far below the surface of the psyche, the troubled soul, you can talk till your jaw falls off, and it will have done nothing of use. Our deepest conflicts care naught for conversation.

At best, those devilish conflicts might be excavated with some sticks of dynamite. Entheogens can be sticks of dynamite when administered with care.

Therapy as we know it started in the 20th century. There were therapists long before, of course, and they were called priests, ministers, pastors and shamans.

I prefer the old ways of therapy.

A shaman would never have bent me over a big, inflated ball and asked how old I was.

He would already have known. The jungle would  have told him.