Saturday, October 21, 2017

Sweden Considering Using Military In No-Go Zones (a link)

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http://www.breitbart.com/london/2017/10/20/swedish-politicians-propose-deploying-military-no-go-zones/
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Full Censorship In Germany (a link)

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https://www.gatestoneinstitute.org/11205/germany-official-censorship
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Romania Now Rejecting Islam (a link)

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http://www.patriotnewswatch.com/romania-joins-hungary-poland-slovakia-and-the-czech-republic-in-rejection-of-accepting-muslim-migrants/
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Biggest Scandal In American Political History? (a link)

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http://www.thegatewaypundit.com/2017/10/dobbs-uranium-one-may-turn-biggest-scandal-american-political-history-video/
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Big Fire, Day Trip, Good Man Gone (w/fire pics)

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Last night, just after the late news, I saw a post on Facebook that the old factory building where I worked was engulfed in flames. I’m not surprised. Parts of the building were well over a century old. I’m sure some of the wiring was nearly as old as I am. Some of the place was insulated with asbestos. The inside walls were covered with many coats of lead/oil based paint. The roof had so many layers of metal, wood and asphalt roofing that they gave up trying to nail the patches on and fastened them with only roofing cement. The last time that I drove by when the giant doors were open, the place was filled with rolls of plastic being stored there. I’m not sure what all was in there when the place mysteriously caught fire. I will assume that the building and its contents were WELL insured.

The missus and I had planned to go to Ohio’s Amish country today, and we did. Heading toward town to get a drive-thru breakfast and get on the interstate, the first thing we saw was the huge smoke plume billowing from the big fire across town. Covering over one city block, the building would contain a lot of stuff to burn. Heading north on the interstate, we mostly kept the plume in sight and noticed that it crossed the Ohio River about 15 miles to the north. It seemed to fan out, with the outer edges the heaviest and forming a “Y.” Both trails of smoke were huge in their own right and looked like the worst storm clouds that you could ever imagine. The middle of the Y was still heavy with smoke, but not like the edges. Our northward travel ever-so-slowly cut across the center to somewhat parallel the left (western) fork of the plume. It was at the 70 mile marker that we finally passed the head of the thick plume of smoke, though thinner smoke obviously went miles further. That meant that the main smoke plume had gone about 85 miles in nine hours. It was still so thick that it wouldn’t surprise me if the smoke eventually became noticeable at Lake Erie. I guess time will tell. The only good thing about it so far is that the smoke is rising quickly at the source, not hugging the ground.

At Amish country, we discovered that not only is the place continuing to change for the worse (in OUR opinion), but that we are no longer able to see the place as we once did. The missus has only been able to visit about half the shops in Berlin, Ohio, for the past few years. Today, she was down to one-fourth. We haven’t decided whether to quit going or figure out some way to continue. One option is for me to push her to each shop in a wheel chair, and then me sit in it while she hobbles around inside. The other option is to get her a scooter and me hobble around the antique shops while she “shops” (she rarely buys anything anymore). I guess time will tell.

When I was talking to Mom tonight, she mentioned that she thought she’d heard that one of our neighbors had died. I looked it up online and sure enough. No details were available on how he died or on arrangements, though. EWJ was one of those rarest of commodities on earth, a genuinely GOOD Christian man. My wife and I both knew him from childhood and, though we weren’t close, we always felt the utmost respect for him. Heaven has gained another gentle soul.

A check of the local TV website gave the information that the big fire is being considered a chemical fire. The disaster notice and two photos from Facebook are posted below.

disaster notice

Drew Edgar photo

Andrea Duke photo
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Flooded Cars Flooding Market (a link)

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Bayou Renaissance Man: Am I a prophet, or what? - used car edition
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Friday, October 20, 2017

Without Self-Education, The West Will Die (a link)

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http://www.intellectualtakeout.org/blog/without-self-education-west-will-probably-die
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Live And Learn

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I bolted the first two pieces of metal onto my sawmill frame yesterday. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice that I needed five lag-bolts and three carriage bolts and instead had four of each. Plus, when drilling one of the guide holes for a lag-bolt, the drill made a strange hammering noise, as if it had a hammer mode, though it doesn’t. I finally decided that the drill was rubbing an unseen spike in the frame.

I debated whether to put the bolt in that hole, or drill a new one, but I figured it would be okay, since it was typical worthless lumberyard pine. I decided that the frame would have enough give to allow the bolt to screw in okay. I put that bolt in last, and even though I didn’t think I had yet matched the torque I’d put on the other bolts, it twisted off just before it tightened down firmly on the lock-washer. I drilled another hole and looked in the basement JUST IN CASE I might have a couple stray lag-bolts that size lying around, but no such luck. So, I went to the hardware store later that day and picked up the required two lag-bolts. It was late enough when we got home from running sundry errands that I decided to wait until today to put them in.

Today, I made several phone calls to three nurses in my heart doctor’s office before reaching them and taking care of some matters. Then I cleaned my truck windows, put some Freon in the truck AC, gave the dog a thorough combing to thin out some of her shedding hair, and clipped her nails. Having been awoken early (and unnecessarily) by the missus claiming the pooch needed to pee. I was tired enough that I took a nap. My presence was then required to life the pooch in and out of the tub, so my wife could give her a much-needed bath. Finally, not long before dark, I went out back and installed the two lag-bolts in the frame.

And SO ladies and gentlemen, if you ever drill a guide hole for a lag-bolt and realize that your drill bit is rubbing another piece of metal inside the wood, save yourself some aggravation and just drill another hole to begin with! © 2017
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Chapter 4

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Chapter 4



The After Hours Culture Club



The Friday night meetings—such a part of so many people’s lives for a few years, began simply as a couple guys having a beer in the backroom while catching up on fletching arrow-shafts. The get-togethers just sort of evolved; they didn’t start out as a planned event and they never had an official name, yet they eventually became a weekly musical and social event for at least two dozen fellows. If you consider that those present rotated from week to week, due to work schedules and family obligations, the number may have been double that.
The site of the event was Flattop’s Archery Shop, located near the point where Beulah Street crosses Combs’ Run in the North-Side area of Newport. The host was Flattop himself, so nick-named because of his out-of-date haircut. He and Ralph, the manager, saw to it that the fletching jigs were always full, so that the time spent in the celebration of our musical heritage and archery traditions were fiscally advantageous to the shop. The combined smells of wood smoke and fletching compound (think old-fashioned airplane glue) gave rise to smart-Alec remarks that the backroom had a certain “air” about it. Many fellows marveled that such “air” didn’t ignite and blow the crowd to Kingdom Come when sparks flew as someone stoked the old boxwood heater on frosty evenings.
The patriarchs of the club would start arriving about seven in the evening with their archery gear, an instrument case and a brown paper bag. First stop would be in the back room where, amongst fletching jigs, arrow boxes and general shop clutter, they would find safe places to deposit their instrument cases and brown paper bags. Some of the larger bags would go into the old round-topped refrigerator, a cast-off from someone’s kitchen remodel many years earlier. Most of the fellows would then mosey upstairs to the indoor range to shoot a few rounds until the beginning of the festivities. Either Flattop or Ralph would stay in the back room while the others shot, in part to remove from the jigs those arrows whose fletching had dried and replace them with new ones which still needed to be fletched, and partly to keep an eye on the instruments and brown paper bags. Sometimes, archers who’d gotten their fill of practice during league nights earlier in the week would stay in the back room with the resident fletcher to keep him company.
Just before nine o’clock, the regulars would start drifting downstairs and into the back room. As everyone was squaring up with Flattop over range-fees and purchases, a few latecomers would slip in the front door as those who chose not to attend would pay up and file out. At nine sharp, the front door would be locked and the showroom lights would be turned off. Any late arrivals would have to walk around to the back of the building in darkness and knock on the windowless back door to be let in.
Orphaned dining-room chairs from half-dozen or more ancient sets, which comprised the best seats in the house, had long been claimed by the patriarchs. The remainder of the crowd sat where they could. Musical chairs was played the rest of the evening as guys (and rarely gals) stood up to unlimber stiff joints, refill plastic cups or get a handful of snacks from the array of goodies on the folding card table near the main work bench. Whether their seat was on a wooden bench, an old nail keg, or a drywall bucket, they were likely as not to find it taken if they lingered too long elsewhere.
The first few strains of melody always came from the back room even before the front door was locked as early arrivals would check their instruments for tune. The initial burst of music brought a general rustle of activity as older club members added ice to plastic cups, poured in liquids from the small brown bags, and mixed in soda from the pop machine. A few hardy souls skipped the soda. Other fellows scorned the sweet mixes or solvent-like liquids of their peers and pulled out cans with German names printed on them from the fridge. The younger crowd, of course, had to content themselves with offerings from the pop machine.
During summer, there might be as few as three musicians as folks tried to stay ahead of chores at home. During the winter months, however, there would often be a dozen or more instrumentalists, since hunting season was over and there was no grass to mow. The musical selections started out with contemporary country songs, moved to a handful of old ballads,  then a little bluegrass and ended with a couple short classical pieces.
By that time, about 45 minutes had passed and the musicians needed a break. There was a general refreshing of drinks, telling of jokes, passing of the snack trays and an unsuccessful attempt or two by one teenager or another to spike his drink. If there was some hunting story to be told, some parable to be passed on to the younger members or an announcement to be made on conservation matters, it was done at that time. The scents of sour mash, lager and corn chips were added to the already intoxicating smell of fletching compound and wood smoke. Thus, the cluttered concert hall was permeated with a delicate bouquet, improved only on those occasions during hunting season when traces of buck lure were unwittingly added to the mix by hunters who hadn’t changed their clothes before coming to the backroom music-fest.
After a break of 15-20 minutes, the second round of music began and it was usually noticed that things had smoothed up a bit. In part, it may have been that the whiskey had washed away some of the week’s worries and woes, leaving performers more relaxed and focused on their music. One of the fiddle players was a young teetotaling block-mason who complained that his strenuous work stiffened his fingers. He feared that he would someday have to choose between the work which fed his body or the music which fed his soul. Another of the fiddlers was a non-drinking farrier whose frequent need to hold up the feet of lazy or stubborn horses caused the same problem experienced by the block-mason. However, after the first dozen or so songs, their fingers seemed to loosen and they got in as good of form as their suds and liquor-sipping friends.
The most interesting fellow to watch was “the southern gentleman,” a quiet utility-company supervisor nearing retirement age. He’d earned that nickname from his ability to get along with everybody; his quiet gentility and couth making all around him feel as if they were someone special. His normal location was perched on a high stool near the end of the main workbench where most of the whiskey was kept. From observing his fondness for that nectar, it was plain that his location was no accident. As the evening wore on, his eyes stayed closed an increasingly greater percentage of the time, and he seemed more and more to be one with his fiddle. His swaying with the music got so pronounced at times that bets were placed on whether he’d eventually fall from his stool. Still, he never missed a note, and when they would take a turn at a classical number, he deftly made the change from hoe-down fiddler to first violin.
One of the mandolin players could always be counted on to cut a dashing figure. He’d never joined the camo craze that was then sweeping the country but preferred the wool pants and green plaid jackets of an earlier generation of archers. He rarely bothered to take off his armguard when he switched from archery to instrumental endeavors, and even wore his befeathered Robin Hood style hat, giving him the air of some sylvan troubadour. Though he seemed a little eccentric to some, he got his deer every year and told folks they would, too, if they’d just learn how to quit fidgeting.
For whatever the reason, the fiddle players seemed the most faithful in attendance with the mandolin players a close second. Banjo, guitar and harmonica players were more of a circulating group with different players attending the club on different Friday nights. Even those in attendance didn’t always play every song, though. There was often a shuffling of performers between songs as some sought to beat the break-time crowd at the refreshment table or pay a visit to the little room in the back corner of the shop. A few would take an occasional smoke break. You must remember, this was in the days when a businessman could smoke in his own place and tell those who didn’t like it that they could take a hike.
There would be three hitches of music and breaks by the witching hour when those who had to work the next morning, and the teenagers with curfews, had to gather their things and hit the road. A similar scene would be repeated at one o’clock for those who felt the call of the home-fires. At two o’clock, or when the musicians got down to a duo, whichever came first, those remaining would finish off the food or pack it to take home. One by one, the late-stayers parted with a handshake or a pat on the back. The last to quit playing, and usually one of the last to leave, was the southern gentleman. After all the speculation as to how long he could stay atop his perch, he would case his violin and bow, light his pipe, tip his hat to the few souls remaining and walk to his car with a stride as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.
Some folks wondered at the time why the teenagers were tolerated, since they added nothing to the performance. Others may have thought it improper for them to be in the company of adults who were drinking and smoking. Yet, the young people in attendance soon noticed that an occasional drink didn’t have to be an invitation to debauchery. In all the years of the club, not one single person ever got so inebriated as to create a problem. As for smoking, most had a parent or grandparent that smoked, so it was nothing new.
Considering that the club existed during the Vietnam years, the youngsters at the meetings could just as easily have been somewhere smoking wacky-weed, getting their girlfriends pregnant or any number of other less uplifting pastimes than listening to traditional music. Perhaps the patriarchs allowed their young, fellow archers to attend for that very reason; maybe too, they realized how few kids of that era were getting the chance to gain an appreciation of so many varieties of music beyond rock.
Sadly all good things really do come to an end. Flattop retired and sold the business to a much younger man who did indeed smoke wacky-weed instead of drinking whiskey. No one knows if that had anything to do with the place burning down in the wee hours of the morning one weekend. The club had ceased meeting when Flattop retired, so many of the former club members didn’t get the news about the demise of the old landmark for days or even weeks. It was like hearing about the passing of an old friend when the members got the word.
They still see Flattop on the road once in a while. They say he drives with the cautious slowness of the white-headed old man that he is. They always give him a wave, though more often than not, he doesn’t see the gesture. The youngsters of that day are starting to grey themselves now, but each one remembers fondly that smoky back room and the good times and the good music of The After Hours Culture Club.
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Friday Evening Memes

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Unemployment Lowest Since 1973 (a link)

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https://www.sarahpalinnews.com/2017/10/20/unemployment-just-hit-lowest-theyve-since-1973/?ref=Ads
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Take This For What It's Worth (a link)

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https://www.intellihub.com/intellihub-exclusive-on-scene-investigator-banned-from-mandalay-bay-for-life-after-he-discovered-this/
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Snowflakes Interviewed

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This was stolen from Harry over at Self Sufficient Mountain Living.

The post below is from a blog in Oregon.  It was reposted on a blog I read, but the information on who wrote it was deleted to protect the identity of the original blogger. Whoever they were, it's a good post.

The Anatomy of Ignorant Snowflakes!
While I was getting a coffee, I overheard seven young people (22-26 years old, five males, two females) who had been protesting in downtown Portland the last two nights.
I told them I was doing research and asked nicely if they would answer some questions.
They were cool with it, so I sat down and went for it.
— Three voted. Of the four who didn’t, none was registered to vote.
— None of them researched independently either candidate.
— All were for Hillary but preferred Bernie.
— Why the Democratic Candidate?
  • “More things are taken care of.”
  • “Time to have a woman President.”
  • “Democrats aren’t sexist or racist.”
— Six of them live at home.
— All are under their parents insurance.
— Two have “real” jobs.
— Three aren’t working, nor are they trying hard to find a job either.
— Parents pay for everything in their life or subsidize it.
— Six get money from mom or dad every month.
— Two have been on unemployment for 6+ months.
— One is at Portland State U, doesn’t work, and parents pay for everything.
— All 7 said Trump is a racist/sexist. I asked to cite proof … “That tape, man!”
— When I asked, as a man myself, “Have you ever said anything like that when you’ve been hanging out with your buddies? All five males said “Yes.”
— Would you say it if you knew you were on tape? All five answered “No.”
— What’s the difference? I asked. “You’ve all said bad stuff like that. Does that mean you hate women and are a sexual predator?” Nothing. No answer.
— None could tell me how our government works … they didn’t know how laws are passed, how the House of Representatives or the Senate work.
— None could explain how a bill is passed.
--- Only one could tell me the difference between legal and illegal immigration. One of them said, “Legal immigration is when you immigrate legally.” Seriously.
— None could explain the purpose of the Electoral College or how it works.
In 10 minutes they felt they had explained everything.
Nice kids … but so ignorant. I know some awesome, phenomenal young adults, but I’m afraid the majority are like these seven. Too many participation trophies, too much coddling by parents and teachers.
In 1944 18 year-olds stormed the beach at Normandy into almost certain death.
In 2016 18-year-olds feel unsafe because words hurt their feelings.
This country is in deep trouble.

Original Model A Videos! (a link)

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http://sunnybrookfarmus.blogspot.com/2017/10/ninty-years-ago-today.html
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NO Job Is Healthier Than BAD Job (a link)

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https://sixbearsinthewoods.blogspot.com/2017/10/bad-jobs-worse-than-no-job.html?showComment=1508473132246#c8794245832072950504
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Memes After Midnight

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Thursday, October 19, 2017

Sequel To "Peeing In A Cup" (a repost)

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On Tuesday (February 16, 2016), I got a call from the shop, telling me that the bureaucratic powers-that-be had drawn my name as the lucky random guy to pee in the proverbial cup, in an effort to determine if I’m a hopeless drunk or a drug addict. I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever be able to drive again, due to the need for the climbing ability of a billy-goat to get in most dump trucks. For some reason, my recent medical problems have left me with a weakness in the hips that makes it extremely difficult for me to climb stairs, so I don’t know how I’m going to clamber into a truck. Still, I need to keep my options open, just in case. After all, the paltry sick pay I’ve been drawing (thankful though I am for it) pays only about 1/3 of what working does. If I would draw disability, it would pay only HALF of what I make working. SO, should I be able to do so (and if the doctor allows it) I need to go back to work.

However, I was supposed to tie up a few lose ends that day and have surgery the following day, so the guy at the shop told me that I could do it the following week. Since my surgery was cancelled, though, I went today (Thursday) and did the dastardly deed. I didn’t follow the original plan though.

I had an epiphany this morning as I sat watching the morning news. As a result, before getting out of my truck to go inside the facility’s offices, I took a Walmart bag and acted as if I was blowing up a balloon. When I was sure that it had no leaks, I deflated it and suck it in my underwear. After paperwork and emptying my pockets, I entered the place of my former trials. This time, though, I left the cup on the back of the lidless commode and dropped my drawers to ankle level. After opening it, I placed one handle of the bag on the front of the commode and sat down on the front edge of the seat. I then pulled the other handle forward with both hands, so as to widen the bag opening as much as possible. Then, I let it rip!


My plan worked perfectly. I poured the needed amount of the warm, golden liquid into the cup, and the remainder into the commode. (You’re not allowed to flush it, by the way.) Using some toilet paper, I then squeezed out any remaining drops of urine from the upside-down bag (much like stripping the last bit of milk from a cow’s udder), wrapped the bag in toilet paper, raised my drawers, stuffed the bag back into my undies and exited the room.

A couple minutes later, I was hobbling out the front door of the facility feeling like I’d made good use of my time. Sometimes, the small victories are the sweetest. © 2016
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Transexual On Trial For Raping 10-Year-Old In Women's Restroom (a link)

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https://www.louderwithcrowder.com/transgender-raped-girl-bathroom/

And we were bigots for being against the bathroom fiasco!
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Video Of Making Huge Wheels For Old Style Borax Wagons (think 20 mule team)

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https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCMgTlht-PsNniRIuaax4m8Q

It's actually one of several videos from Engel's Coach Shop
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MSM Strangely Silent About Triple Murder In Maryland (a link)

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https://www.allenwest.com/2017/10/19/mass-shooting-maryland-media-silent-suspect/

It might have something to do with muslim-sounding first and middle names, too.
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Coolidge Knew The Truth Even Back Then (from Facebook)

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 will be able to survive. It is the struggle of the common run of people. Unless we can maintain our institutions of liberty unimpaired they will see their savings swept away, their homes devastated, and their children perish from want and hunger.
The time to stop those who would loosen and weaken the fabric of our government is before they begin. "
Calvin Coolidge
Address Delivered at the Dedication of a Monument to Lafayette
Baltimore, Md.
Saturday, September 6, 1924
Constitutional Watchmen
"A deliberate and determined effort is being made to break down the guarantees of our fundamental law. It has for its purpose the confiscation of property and the destruction of liberty. At the present time the chief obstacle to this effort is the Supreme Court of the United States. In this contest there is but one place for a real American to stand. That is on the side of ordered liberty under constitutional government. This is not the struggle of the rich and powerful. They will be able to survive. It is the struggle of the common run of people. Unless we can maintain our institutions of liberty unimpaired they will see their savings swept away, their homes devastated, and their children perish from want and hunger.
The time to stop those who would loosen and weaken the fabric of our government is before they begin. "
Calvin Coolidge
Address Delivered at the Dedication of a Monument to Lafayette
Baltimore, Md.
Saturday, September 6, 1924
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Why Did Nixon Pardon McCain? (from Facebook)

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Mal Luber
Why Did Nixon Pardon John McCain?
The McCain story is a curious one. Records of McCain’s period as a POW were classified upon his return from North Vietnam. His commanding officer, while a POW, was Colonel Ted Guy who submitted a series of charges to military prosecutors citing McCain for, among other things, treason. Of the POWs who faced court martial, McCain’s charges were, by far, the most serious crimes. McCain, it seems was good at only two things, being the son of a Four Star Fleet Admiral who commanded the Pacific Command which included Vietnam and Korea and aiding the enemy.
John McCain was awarded a full pardon for his crimes by President Richard Nixon. Thus, the worst traitor in American history became the “war hero” to a whole generation. After all, McCain suffered all that torture didn’t he? Well, “NO” he didn’t. McCain suffered injuries when he flew too low and was shot down by anti-aircraft fire. Both his arms were broken along with one of his legs. Had he not quickly notified his captors that his daddy was the overall commander, he would probably have just been killed. The North Vietnamese were not going to waste their medical care on a banged up pilot. McCain made them see his usefulness and they immediately took him to the best hospital in Hanoi to restore his health. No other POW was ever treated in that hospital.
McCain was hounded by Marine Sgt. Major John Holland, Army Colonel Earl Hopper and the CIA’s Ted Sampley, all dead now, who cited McCain for crimes as serious as planning air defenses for the Hanoi government to aid them in downing American pilots.
Hopper credits McCain with helping shoot down sixty American aircraft. Others who served with McCain claim it was John McCain that nearly sunk the nuclear super-carrier USS Forrestal, killing or wounding nearly 300 of the crew.
You can’t make this stuff up! I doubt that McCain would have been accepted at the Naval Academy if his father had not been a Fleet Admiral. Nobody at the Academy would dare flunk him out so he graduated 896th out of 899. He crashed his first aircraft as a student pilot and soon after receiving his wings he flew into power lines and crashed another jet. One of my pilots hit the top of a pine tree damaging an F-4 Phantom II; I kicked him out. McCain, the golden boy, went on to fly single seat fighters in combat.
During McCain’s time in the US Senate, when it was known that American POWs were still being held in Southeast Asia, McCain and John Kerry worked to block repatriation though evidence of surviving POWs was overwhelming. Families were furious that WE LEFT MEN BEHIND.
Many Americans have wondered why Russia hasn’t opened its intelligence files on McCain, files that include recordings of 32 propaganda broadcasts he made while a “prisoner.” Maybe the time has not been right and they hoped they could use them if McCain became President of the United States?
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Indoctrination Has ALWAYS Been The Goal Of Progressive Education (a link)

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http://www.intellectualtakeout.org/article/indoctrination-has-always-been-goal-progressive-education
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Both Red And Blue States Getting Redder (a link)

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http://dailytimewaster.blogspot.com/2017/10/something-youll-never-see-analyzed-in.html
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The Do Not Call List

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Is that thing about worthless or what? As soon as you report a number a few times, they switch numbers and keep calling you anyway. I don't know why they'd think an old man is worried about his student loans that he never had in the first place. That's as bad as the people that keep pestering my wife about her warranty being ready to run out on her '79 Honda. Well DUH! She hasn't had it for 20 years, but they know she had one at SOME time apparently!
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Modern Jeans Are Nigh Worthless

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I remember buying bluejeans as a kid and they were so stiff, thick and tough that you could barely get them on. They gave your legs a lot of protection from briers and dog and cat claws, too. These days, the fabric is so thin that you can see light through it and so soft that it won't even hold a cuff if the legs are too long. The prices are sky high, though!
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Aid to Puerto Rico treated like political favors (a link)

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Bayou Renaissance Man: So tell me . . . why are US taxpayers sending aid to Puerto Rico when it's treated like this?
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Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Pre-Midnight Memes

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Mixed Memes

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Being A Know-It-All Is A Mixed Blessing

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Many years ago, the missus and I were visiting PearlBuck’s birthplace and a young volunteer showed us a little metal gizmo and told us it was a meat grinder. When the rest of the crowd left, I told her that being a country boy, I knew it to be a cherry-pitter and thought she might want to know. My wife and I had to smile at one another later to overhear her giving another girl the devil for not telling her the right thing. The second girl’s defense was “Well I didn’t know!”
Several years later, I was in Campus Martius Museum and saw a couple things mislabeled. They acted like they didn’t appreciate being told.
Yet later, the missus and my mother were visiting Henderson Hall and the on-in-years volunteers showed the tourists what she called a “tomahawk” the first female who lived there kept by the bed to protect herself from Indians. My mother didn’t even wait for the room to clear before she informed the lady that it was a broad axe, not a tomahawk. The lady seemed unappreciative of the information. (Had I been there, I could have also told her that the Indians ceased to be a danger in that area nearly three decades before the mansion was built.)
Today, I was in an antique shop and saw a coal grate mislabeled as a “wood holder” and a froe with an upside-down blade labeled as an adze. Luckily, the shop belonged to a guy that I do business with (usually selling, but buying on occasion) and he wasn’t offended at my comments. In fact, he began making new labels on the spot. He knew the grate was for a fireplace but didn’t know the name. He also knew that the piece was NOT an adze, but couldn’t remember the name “froe.” I don’t know if he remembered to turn the blade around or not.
It really isn’t that I want to show my “smarts;” it’s that I want history to be properly preserved. I’ve actually USED a lot of the tools that are displayed in museums, or at least SEEN them used. Both sets of grandparents had a coal grate, for instance. Just for the record, if you ever use one, burn some wood with your coal and your flue won’t soot up as badly.

I’ve used drawknives, adzes, T-augers, froes, peavey hooks, axes, hatchets, post-hole diggers, fence tools (the kind with the steeple-puller), gimlets, glass-cutters, cross-cut saws, hay forks and manure forks, curry combs and a host of other things that nearly every country kid used to know how to handle. Should I keep my mouth shut in this age where no-one really cares anyway? Probably. WILL I? Probably not. – LOL © 2017
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Mueller Was Director When FBI Hid Clinton/Russia Evidence (a link)

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http://www.dailywire.com/news/22398/report-robert-mueller-was-fbi-director-when-agency-ryan-saavedra#exit-modal
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DNA Evidence Proves The Bible Correct On Yet ANOTHER Matter (a link)

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https://insider.pureflix.com/news/dna-evidence-from-egyptian-mummies-proves-biblical-account?utm_campaign=Newsjacking&utm_content=56898958&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook
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Goodell Cops Out (a link)

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https://www.hannity.com/content/2017-10-18-game-over-nfl-commissioner-cops-out-wont-ask-players-to-stand/
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McCain Continues To Be An _sshole (a link)

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http://www.gopusa.com/mccain-blocks-defense-nominees-to-force-trump-to-reveal-afghanistan-strategy/
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A Federal Court Says American Legion Cross Must Come Down (a link)

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http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2017/10/18/federal-court-rules-world-war-memorial-cross-must-be-torn-down.html
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California Now Has THREE Sexes (a link)

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http://www.dailywire.com/news/22375/california-now-first-state-legally-recognize-third-emily-zanotti?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=social&utm_content=062316-podcast&utm_campaign=mattwalsh

I wonder if Governor Moonbeam is one of them "X's?"
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Getting Up For The Dog

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I awoke at 6:25, silently singing the complete third verse of Holy, Holy, Holy. That was a new one for me. As I sat staring at the now “alarmless” alarm clock (it tuckered out recently), I tried to repeat the verse and found myself unable to do so in a waking state. I’d last taken the pooch out at 1:30, just before I went to bed, so I knew she’d probably be ready to venture outside again. Going to the head of the stairs, I silently asked the Lord not to let me fall and then slowly descended, a hand on each wall. I remember when I could bounce down the stairs like a young feller.

After taking a drain my own self, I went looking for the dog. She wasn’t at her normal station by my wife’s bed, so I checked under my desk in the next room. She didn’t want to come out as I called quietly, so I sat down in the desk chair and petted her a few minutes. When I arose, she followed me to the door.

It would have been daylight just a few weeks ago, but the stars, our dusk-to-dawn light out by the road, and seven outdoor lights at the neighbors were all that lit the yard slightly. No sun or moon was to be seen. I think it was only yesterday that a crescent moon hung directly over the neighbor’s house at this hour with the bright morning star beside it. That moon was sitting there like a bowl, and the rest of the moon, in shadow, looked like someone had piled it into the bowl. The star was there again today at least, and all its kinfolk. God has them all named; imagine that. The pooch took a good long drain as I stood there in my skivvies noticing the coolness of 35 degrees darkness. I was tempted to sit on the porch with her a few minutes, but there seemed to be the slightest of breezes and I thought that I might be pushing my luck.

Back inside, I gave the pooch a couple slices of cheese, hoping that would keep her from waking my wife up for a breakfast that she wouldn’t eat anyway, dern fickle dog! The cheese seemed to work and she lay down beside the missus’ bed and went to sleep. I just heard her snore as I typed that last sentence (the pooch, not me wife).

Well, I’ve checked Facebook and my blog, and typed this post. It’s now 7:30 and daylight. I guess I should try to get a few more winks before the missus gets me up to run our errands. She’s awake for now, so I’m pushing my luck staying here any longer. Catch you later! © 2017
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One-In-The Morning Memes

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Click images to enlarge.











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