Some Graves Can't Be Visited or Decorated

In cemeteries throughout the US this day people will visit to pay their respects to our honored dead who paid the ultimate price to defend our country, and that is right and good; but I hope you'll take a moment to reflect on our dead who never made it home to be laid to rest in US soil; the men of USS Wahoo (SS-238), a US submarine that went down with all hands on a war patrol near Japan, for example:

Wahoo wasn't even located until 2004. One of the most successful of our WWII submarines, she went down with all hands in combat with the Japanese. Her crew deserve to be remembered just as much as our war heroes in Arlington, though, and I hope you'll take the time to think of them for a few minutes.

The story of USS Wahoo can be found at Wikipedia.

What's With These Leftist Pricks...

...desecrating our war memorials on Memorial Day Weekend?

And here, also.

Authors Drawn As Owls

J.K. Rowling is a natural, isn't she?

Found here.

When a Man Surpasses His Human Potential

In New Zealand, A man built a church from living trees.

Pic:

On Facebook where I first saw this, there were very quickly mentions of Tolkien, as one might expect. Author Tom Kratman, who shared the story on Facebook, remarked in comments, "One suspects that God would be there, if anywhere." I can't disagree, and if an order of druid-monks was needed to help care for this masterwork, I'd happily apply.

That's How Anti-Venom Is Made, You Know

Do you know how anti-venom for snakebite and other venomous creatures is made? A sub-lethal dose of venom is injected into a subject animal - - a horse or sheep, usually - - and, over a period of weeks, the dosage is increased. The animal manufactures antibodies to cope with the venom, and after a while, the animal becomes totally immune to the venom, at which point blood is drawn from the animal to manufacture into anti-venom. Herpetologist William Haast did the same thing by injecting himself with a cocktail of sub-lethal snake venoms until he became immune to most snakebites (he lived until nearly 100, also, which might say something about the therapy).

Why am I mentioning this? Because it's the approach that the MSM is mistakenly taking in attacking Donald Trump. It's been well known that the MSM is sitting on plenty of dirt that they have dug up on Trump, and teams of journalists (the Washington Post alone has assigned 50 reporters to dig up dirt) busy 24/7 digging up more. They intend to trickle this dirt out a little at a time, thinking that Trump will suffer from an extended attack, rather than release it all at once. Well, think about it. All they are really doing is making Trump, and the voters, immune to the venom (stories) that they have dug up. Will it work? We'll see on Election Day.

Guy Clark, 1941-2016: R.I.P.

This cursed year in which all our best music artists die claims another legend:

NASHVILLE — Guy Charles Clark, the gravel-voiced troubadour who crafted a vast catalog of emotionally charged, intricately detailed works that illuminated and expanded the literary possibilities of popular song, died in Nashville on Tuesday morning after a long illness.

Clark, a Nashville Songwriters Hall of Famer, had been in declining health for years, including a lengthy cancer battle. He was 74 years old, and the author of 13 compelling studio albums.

Clark lived in Nashville but wasn't really a country artist per se, he dwelt in that land that isn't quite rock, isn't quite country, isn't quite folk, that has become known as alt-country or Americana music. Quirky stuff; here's a sampling:





And a concert favorite, "Randall Knife," about a knife owned by his father which, at this moment, probably is still on his home workbench, momentarily forgotten:

He had a workbench because he was a working man in addition to being a working musician; he was a skilled luthier, and made his own guitars.

Let's hope he's greeting his father in Heaven right now, and giving a hug to his old friend Townes Van Zandt, who proceeded him by a dozen years.

It Lends An Air of Authenticity

"Police Apologise After Fake Suicide Bomber Shouts ‘Allahu Akbar’ During Training Exercise."

It'd be sort of like yelling "Yoiks, Tally Ho!" at a faux fox hunt, or "Timber!" at a faux tree felling, or "Fore!" at a faux golf game.

The Day Wimpy's Brother Snapped

"Authorities: Man kills brother in fight over cheeseburger."

ST. CLOUD — Authorities say a 25-year-old St. Cloud man faces murder charges, accused of shooting and killing his older brother over a cheeseburger.

You'll pay me today, motherfucker. No more of this "Tuesday" shit, yahearme?

Musical Interlude - - Carrie Newcomer

I've been listening to Carrie for a half-dozen or so years now. She has a beautiful deep, rich voice, one that producers and industry insiders call a "brown" voice. She's a devout Quaker, and her songs are gentle and spiritual without being overtly religious, for the most part. Here's a new favorite, from a tale in the Bible:



Here's the lyrics:

LAZARUS (Carrie Newcomer)

Now that he's gone
Now the world has moved on
Since he called my name nothing's the same
As my sisters cried he said, "Lazarus rise"
To love and anoint or just prove a point

I'm the one that he saved
I'm the one that he raised
From the dark quiet sleep from the peace of the grave
I'm the one who owes much but that no one will touch
Mothers see me and cry
Dogs bare teeth as I walk by

I don't see a veil between heaven and hell
The truth is there's nothing but warm light and singing
But here in between a voice haunts my dreams
Martha does what she can, but won't look at my hands

I'm the one that he saved
I'm the one that he raised
From the dark quiet sleep from the peace of the grave
I'm the one who owes much but that no one will touch
Mothers see me and cry
Dogs bare teeth as I walk by

I love the cool mornings, I love a hot meal
The pulse of the street, night, jasmine and clean sheets
I cant sleep or rest I feel lost and hard pressed
I wander these rooms still looking for you

Now I ought to be grateful to drink from the grail
But I don't belong either side of this veil
I look down at my hands that I clasp in my lap
When he left this world I thought he'd take me back

Meanwhile, In Gastonia, NC....

Gastonia Man pees in the ABC store parking lot and won't show his hands to the police afterward.

A Gastonia man was wrestled to the ground on Wednesday after he urinated in the parking lot of an ABC store and refused to show a Bessemer City police officer his hands.

It's a shame Merle Haggard has passed, this one is a natural for an "Okie From Muskogee" parody:

We don't piss on the street in Gastonia,
And we always show our hands to the BCPD;
We don't shoot our homies down on Main Street
We like living right and holdin' our pee.

Well I'm proud to be a groaner from Gastonia,
A place where you don't pee against a wall;
We still wave our weiners IN the restroom
And wash our hands as we leave the stall.

It's Better Than the Hairbrush

The people who are dumbfounded at Trump's success continue to bitch and moan. Why, they ask. Why did you pick this phony?

Let me explain. No. It would take too long. Let me sum up: Trump put himself forward. The Republican field, although well populated, wasn't composed of world-striding, instantly recognizable individuals. Although there was some competence there, there wasn't any excitement. They were oatmeal, and Trump was Lucky Charms. You know in your heart that Lucky Charms are candy and not real food like oatmeal is. Now, who eats oatmeal? Old folks do, and children with strict parents do. For some kids it's a choice between eating the oatmeal or being whipped with a hairbrush by your mother. After you reach adulthood, the threat of the hairbrush isn't there, so you choose the Lucky Charms. To Hell with the oatmeal. And that is what the non-Trump candidates were: oatmeal, and bad memories of hairbrushes.

So Trump won, and we're given a choice of the Lucky Charms candidate, or the hairbrush candidate. Yah, we know that Trump is bad for us. We know he's P.T. Barnum, who'll promise us the Feejee Mermaid and deliver a shriveled sea creature made of sewn-together parts. The alternative, though, is the mean woman with the hairbrush who wants us to eat our fucking oatmeal.

What's that, Mr. Trump? This way to the egress? Cool, I've never seen one of those before!

For All Of You Out There Losing Your Minds...

this song's for you:

Yet Another 2016 Presidential Election Analogy: Who Runs the Asylum?

Will it be Nurse Ratched, (D), played by Hillary Clinton?

Or will it be Randall McMurphy ("R"), played by Donald Trump?

If Ratched wins, McMurphy gets lobotomized and the rest of the inmates in the asylum go back to gulping down Thorazine like good little slaves; if McMurphy wins, then the inmates run the asylum.

Choose Wisely.

Last word goes to Maximus, although it might be considered mixing my movie metaphors: