I read the news today, oh boy…Lennon-McCartney (1967)
Every so often I catch a media report that strikes me immediately as unbelievable, ass-backwards and upside-down. Then, after further consideration, I realize that it’s not so shocking after all — even if I wouldn’t’ve predicted it, it’s consistent with what I’ve observed.
Yesterday’s edgy comedy is today’s head-scratching reality. What once was unthinkably absurd has come to pass. American culture is a heap of unrecognizable pieces.
Sports Illustrated’s 2023 swimsuit issue features a tranny on the cover.
Males posing as (or surgically mutilated to resemble) females already are a scourge on women’s sports. Now trannies are poised to seize women’s time-honored role as bikini-clad sex objects, which I would’ve thought was untouchable — but here we are.
I don’t know a single self-respecting American male who’s good with this. No real American woman would be, either. It’s beta males, mindless suburban babes and insufferable wokesters who’ve brought us to this.
These are the same people — Democrats, that is — who evict homeless veterans from subsidized temporary housing to make room for illegal aliens. You know it’s true.
No, the appearance of a surgically altered (at age 16) born-male on the iconic SI swimsuit edition isn’t the most significant story in today’s news. But we’d be foolish not to see it for what it is — another sign of a “reimagined” and poisoned culture.
The death of masculinity is essential to progressives’ unmaking of America. With that in mind, seeing a tranny on an SI swimsuit cover isn’t all that surprising, now, is it?
Last one to leave, please get the light.
Both Deb and I were pretty jazzed about what we had on-tap today, specifically a trip to the RV dealer and a final walkthrough of our fifth-wheel before scheduling its delivery to The Mountain. We knocked out several errands on the way there — post office, grocery, insurance agent and storage unit — and still arrived fifteen minutes early.
Our salesman escorted us to where the rig was parked and hooked up. It didn’t take long, however, to see that they hadn’t done half of what they’d agreed to do — an electrical problem was solved and the original battery had been replaced with two new cells, but the entry steps were still broken, the fresh-water system hadn’t been flushed and the water heater hadn’t been serviced.
And there was more. We made our disappointment known, told our salesman to call us when they were really ready for a walkthrough and drove away.
It’s a temporary setback. We’ll get there, but it’ll be made right before we do.
We retreated to the The Mountain. Deb put up a hummingbird feeder and I test-drove our DeWalt electric pole saw by limbing-up a cedar for the utility right-of-way. Up at Deb’s cousin’s place, Smudge roughhoused with his puppy. Suddenly, we noticed our happy Heeler limping.
She laid down on the garage floor, a trail of bloody pawprints behind her. Deb scooped her up and we examined her — she was bleeding badly from her right forepaw. She’d nearly severed the carpal pad. We have no idea how.
Our regular vet wasn’t available. A clinic in Harrison didn’t answer the phone. Ultimately we connected with a veterinary hospital in Mountain Home, 16 miles away, and whisked Smudge there.
Long story short, they admitted her. Tomorrow morning she’ll be sedated and stitched up. We’ll pick her up sometime after noon.
She’s in good hands. But tonight, for the first time since January 6th, we’re Smudgeless.
Here’s hoping that our Wednesday will be better than our Tuesday was.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.