29 November 2006

X-Men Illustrator Dies In Superman Pajamas

(found at michellemalkin.com)

COLUMBIA, South Carolina (AP) -- Wearing Superman pajamas and covered with his Batman blanket, comic book illustrator Dave Cockrum died Sunday.

The 63-year-old overhauled the X-Men comic and helped popularize the relatively obscure Marvel Comics in the 1970s. He helped turn the title into a publishing sensation and major film franchise.

Cockrum died in his favorite chair at his home in Belton, South Carolina, after a long battle with diabetes and related complications, his wife Paty Cockrum said Tuesday.

At Cockrum's request, there will be no public services and his body will be cremated, according to Cox Funeral Home. His ashes will be spread on his property. A family friend said he will be cremated in a Green Lantern shirt.

At Marvel Comics, Cockrum and writer Len Wein were handed the X-Men. The comic had been created in 1963 as a group of young outcasts enrolled in an academy for mutants. The premise had failed to capture fans.

Cockrum and Wein added their own heroes to the comic and published "Giant-Size X-Men No. 1" in 1975. Many signature characters Cockrum designed and co-created -- such as Storm, Mystique, Nightcrawler and Colossus -- went on to become part of the "X-Men" films starring Hugh Jackman and Halle Berry.

Cockrum received no movie royalties, said family friend Clifford Meth, who organized efforts to help Cockrum and his family during his protracted medical care.

"Dave saw the movie and he cried -- not because he was bitter," Meth said. "He cried because his characters were on screen and they were living."

Cockrum was born in Pendleton, Oregon, the son of an Air Force officer. He set aside his interest in art while serving in Vietnam for the U.S. Navy.

He moved to New York after leaving the service and got his big break in the early 1970s, drawing the Legion of Super-Heroes for DC Comics before moving to Marvel.

In January 2004, Cockrum moved to South Carolina after being hospitalized for bacterial pneumonia. As his diabetes progressed, his drawings became limited.

His last drawing was a sketch for a fan, who attended a small comic book convention in Greenville, Paty Cockrum said.

Meth said Cockrum will be remembered as "a comic incarnate."

"He had a genuine love for comics and for science fiction and for fantasy, and he lived in it," Meth said. "He loved his work."

Wednesday Weird Al - Spy Hard

In tribute to the new James Bond flik, Casino Royal (which I plan on seeing sometime this week), I present today's WWA...

Film review to come when I see it.


27 November 2006

From The Dept. Of Crank It Up To 11 - AC/DC - Its A Long Way To The Top If Ya Wanna Rock And Roll

For everybody that is playing the "air guitar" game on PS3, just a little reminder...


Charlie Rangel Is An Ignorant Pigfucker

These word were spoken by fear monger/congress critter Charlie Rangel on HIS plan to re-instate the draft and instill fear and uncertainty in the sheeple and draw attention to his fucking worthless self...
I want to make it abundantly clear: if there’s anyone who believes that these youngsters want to fight, as the Pentagon and some generals have said, you can just forget about it. No young, bright individual wants to fight just because of a bonus and just because of educational benefits. And most all of them come from communities of very, very high unemployment. If a young fella has an option of having a decent career or joining the army to fight in Iraq, you can bet your life that he would not be in Iraq.

(F.Y.I. Chuckie.. the blighted urban areas called "the 'hood" where unemployment is the highest in this country are the most UNDER represented communities in the service. (like the area YOU represent) That's according to stats freely provided by all branches of the military, and they have EVERY ONE of their member's home address to back that up. OH, and BTW, a good portion of active duty personnel have turned down college appointments and scholarships to VOLUNTEER to serve their country. And that doesn't even count the members of the Guard and the Reserve who have "decent careers" who VOLUNTEER and RE-ENLIST for multiple tours, you fucking shit stain...)

These words were spoken by General George S. Patton...
Men, this stuff we hear about America wanting to stay out of the war, not wanting to fight, is a lot of bullshit. Americans love to fight - traditionally. All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble player; the fastest runner; the big league ball players; the toughest boxers. Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser. Americans despise cowards. Americans play to win - all the time. I wouldn’t give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That’s why Americans have never lost, not ever will lose a war, for the very thought of losing is hateful to an American.

These words were typed by me at the site linked to in the title of the post...
I think Rangel should check out The Military Channel - My War Diary before he spouts off about how much he knows about our Troops.

About the show…

MY WAR DIARY offers un-filtered stories from the frontlines of Iraq, told by personal videos and photos sent by those serving in the armed forces. Each episode will present a broad range of the life in Iraq, from down time, to the emotional strain from being far from home, to gripping never-before-seen battle scenes.

For as long as there have been wars, people have written home from the frontline. They have shared their thoughts, their fears and hopes, their pride in their work and their longing for a home-cooked meal and loved ones back home. In between the bullets and the frenzy of war are the moments not seen on the nightly news — the real moments of real people living in a war zone.

MY WAR DIARY will feature everything from home videos — both in action and behind-the-scenes — to blogs and “old school” letters mailed home to Mom, Dad, friends and loved ones … each sharing a personal perspective on war. The program will put a face and name to the men and women who are serving our country overseas.

In some of those videos I’ve seen these people who “Don’t want to fight” whoop and holler like they are having the time of their lives right after they rip off a burst from their hummvee mounted .50 cal at the bad guys, or after a M1A2 blows the hell outta a bunch of holed up terrorists.

If you folks want to see the faces and hear the stories of our Heros and what’s REALLY going on in The War On Terror without a bullshit MSM filter, catch the show on Fridays at 2100 ET, and for those of you who don’t get The Military Channel, check out the link and you’ll find some clips from the show that you can watch over the intertubes.

The next two years will be very important in the future of this republic, either fuckwits like Rangel and the rest of the fuckers who will be assuming the majority in congress in January will doom their party, or they will doom our country to be discarded to the dust bin of history.

The small glimmer of hope is that they have a minor majority, and won't have the votes to inflict mortal damage, but that glimmer could turn out to be the lights on the train at the other end of the tunnel if we don't get our shit together...

Me, I'm cocked, locked and ready to rock.

26 November 2006

Who Keeps Track Of The Squids

From strategypage.com

As we all are kicking back getting fat and sassy on leftovers, take a moment of say thanks to all of our Military Personnel, and not just those on the sharp end of the spear. Remember that for every Troop who's "in the shit", there are around 1/2 a dozen "Support Troops", A(ffectionately)KA: REMF's, who are there to make sure that the guys on the line have the things they need to Take Care of Business. Such as Bullets, Beans and Bandaids, AND, quite possibly the most important, INFORMATION.

With that in mind I offer this...

For any active duty/former military out there, especially you Jarheads, it ain't EXACTLY what you think...

November 25, 2006:

In the U.S. Navy, the METOC (meteorological and oceanographic) community is an odd bird. Everyone knows what the meteorology side does (predicts the weather), but the oceanography side is usually not understood at all. Aside from providing information on currents, water peculiarities (e.g., thermal layers, salinity, etc.), the oceanographers also keep track of marine life. Aside from environmental issues, marine life can affect sonars in interesting ways and offer other challenges. Ignoring the METOC officer can be risky.

A few years ago a carrier passing through the Straights of Magellan was almost incapacitated by enormous schools of squid. These sea creatures were sucked into the water intakes in large quantities, nearly clogging them, which could have led to engine problems for want of coolant. Turned out the skipper had not consulted his staff METOC officer. The captain had passed the straits before with no problems, but didn't realize there were seasonal patterns to marine life that only the METOC was aware of.

Only METOC keeps track of squid migrations.

Saturday South Park - Go God Go - Part II

Ok, so it's Sunday and time for a Special Thanksgiving Edition of SSP... Here's the exciting conclusion of yesterday's episode...

25 November 2006

Saturday South Park - Go God Go - Part I

Well, here we are, millions of people have eaten themselves stupid across this country the day before yesterday, and then yesterday, "Black Friday", the first official shopping day of the christmas season, millions more proved themselves stupid by camping out for hours to be the first in line to get "IT". (IT = whatever hot gadget they just HAD to have)

So, in that vein, I present today's S.S.P. Our hero Cartman just has to have a Nintendo Wii, but he doesn't have the patience to wait for the release date. So he cooks up a plan to spare himself the agony of waiting. And in the process, alters the time line.

BTW, if you are easily offended, say by, I dunno, the images of an atheist evolutionary scientist and a bald middle-aged transsexual with a bad tit job having hot monkey sex, stand by to be offended. Fuck it, if you are easily offended, you shouldn't fuckin' be here in the first place.

Oh, I forgot, this episode's a two parter. So I think I'll wait 'til tomorrow for a special edition Sunday South Park for the conclusion.

22 November 2006

Wednesday Weird Al - Eat It

With tomorrow being Thanksgiving, I thought this would be a suitable WWA. Happy Turkey Day y'all and be sure to eat too much and have a great tryptophan nap...


20 November 2006

From The Dept. Of You Gotta Be Shitting Me...

So, I was checking out my usual news sites, and followed a link to a site for a news article, and what do I see on the sidebar ads but a dude in a white bathrobe with christmas balls in his hand and the words "Norelco Bodyshaver"...

I think to myself, "There's NO WAY this could be about THAT!!!" So I clicked on the ad... Just as you should click on the title of this post...

18 November 2006

Saturday South Park - World Of Warcraft

This weeks SSP if for all my friends who are busy playing their Fancy Nancy new RPG that my 'puter can't run 'cause it's too DEE-DEE-DEE!! Hope you punks get PK'd.

Notice: You might want to turn down the volume for the first few seconds 'til the show starts. The dude that posted it shouts some unintelligible gibberish at the very beginning of the video.

17 November 2006

University of Iowa Farm Machine Music

(Found at Grouchy Old Cripple's site, who found it here...)


This incredible machine was built as a collaborative effort between the Robert M. Trammell Music Conservatory and the Sharon Wick School of Engineering at the University of Iowa . Amazingly, 97% of the machines components came from John Deere Industries and Irrigation equipment of Bancroft Iowa , yes farm equipment!

It took the team a combined 13,029 hours of set-up, alignment, calibration, and tuning before filming this video but as you can see it was WELL worth the effort.

It is now on display in the Matthew Gerhard Alumni Hall at the University and is already slated to be donated to the Smithsonian.

Is that shit cool or what?? Reminds me of this...

New Honda commercial in the UK. Very important that you understand: There are no computer graphics or digital tricks in the film. Everything you see really happened in real time exactly as you see it.

The film took 606 takes. On the first 605 takes, something, usually very minor, didn't work. They would then have to set the whole thing up again.

The crew spent weeks shooting night and day. The film cost six million dollars and took three months to complete including a full engineering of Cog the sequence.

In addition, it's two minutes long so every time Honda airs the film on British television, they're shelling out enough dough to keep any one of us in clover for a lifetime. Honda executives figure the ad will soon pay for itself simply in "free" viewings (Honda isn't paying a dime to have you watch this commercial!).

When the ad was pitched to senior executives, they signed off on it immediately without any hesitation — including the costs.

There are six and only six hand-made Accords in the world. To the horror of Honda engineers, the filmmakers disassembled two of them to make the film.

Everything you see in the film (aside from the walls, floor, ramp, and complete Honda Accord) are parts from those two cars.

When the ad was shown to Honda executives, they liked it and commented on how amazing computer graphics have gotten. They fell off their chairs when they found out it was for real.


16 November 2006

Survivor: Zombie Apocalypse

I was over at southparkpundit, a place I haven't been in a while, and while catching up on his posts, found this from the day before Halloween, but since the dead can not be counted on to only come on that day, being prepared for the zombie hordes should be a daily thing. This survival guide is a good primer if you are to keep you and yours from becoming zombie chow.
I damn near forgot that tomorrow is Halloween, and we all know what that means. There is a distinctly minor chance that the undead will rise and walk the earth tomorrow. In the unlikely event of this inevitibility, there are a few things that I know that you should know also. After all, if you’re reading this, I like you and want you to survive.

First, there is more to repelling the undead armies than guns. You need bullets as well. Lots and lots of bullets. Enough to protect yourself and still use some in the barter system that will spring up after the lands have been swept free of the shambling masses.

Second, plan ahead. You’ve got until tomorrow night, so I don’t expect much, but at least gas up the truck, make sure the dirt bikes are running, lube your guns, stockpile some water and canned goods and generally get ready to either bail out or hunker down. Just don’t try to do both - hunkering out and bailing down have gotten people eaten in previous undead encounters.

Third, be mobile. Do not get caught by the first of the shuffling horde while you’re enjoying a nice candelit bath. You’re better than that. Have a pack with at least two days worth of beans, bullets and band-aids so you can move at a moments notice. Have a weeks supply in your vehicle, and a months worth in your shelter, be that your home, office, mistress’s apartment…wherever.

Fourthly, have the tools available to go wherever you need to. A small tool kit, some electrical tape, bolt cutters and a 30″ pry bar will get you further than your Visa will the day after tomorrow. Use your tools to procure transport, shelter and defensive positions. Add a lock and some locking carabiners to your kit to secure positions - the lock for when you leave, and the ‘biners for securing doors once inside. And theres the added benefit of being able to use the pry bar as a weapon if need be.

Fifthest, be prepared. Don’t be “that guy” in the movies who puts his gun down on a table, walks to the other side of the room and gets attacked. What’re you, stupid? Carry a gun. Carry two. Carry one for every 35lbs of body weight you carry. Make sure you can use them, as you may have to blast the snapping jaws of a zombified schoolteacher at a moments notice.

These are basic guidelines that you may use to help survive. I’ve also come up with some other rules that I will follow which you may find helpful.

* The woman/man/child with the bite mark on their arm is going to get a bullet in their head. Deal with it and move on.
* Anyone too incompetent to stand guard well is shot. For a second offense, they’re killed.
* I will never allow the dumbest/cutest/craziest member of my group to hold anything that is absolutely crucial to survival. Instead, they will be given something shiny and told it is crucial. I will keep the real thing.
* Those who insist on venturing out, looking for help, in the midst of an undead onslaught are to be allowed to go. They are obviously stupid, and I don’t want their genes polluting the progeny I will create if/when I survive.
* If a location looks too good to be true, it is.
* Boats sink, cars break down, bikes break, but secluded mountain homes last forever.
* When you recognize one of the undead as a former friend/lover/family member, the humane thing to do is to feed them the idiots in your group.
* If any opposition forces (alive) are encountered, we will attempt to reason with them while half of our group sneaks up and kills them.
* It is not OK to snipe zombies from the roof of our darkened hideout. There is a reason we’re being quiet, numbnuts.
* Explosives work both ways. Avoid when possible.
* No raping/beating/befriending/capturing zombies. Kill them and move on.
* In situations requiring stealth, children and easily frightened adults will have their mouths taped shut. Clumsy people will not be allowed to go with us into glass factories, wind chime test facilities or china shops.
* The one stranger that no one knows is bad news - there is a reason that everyone he knew before is dead, and its likely his fault. He shall be known as “zombait.”
* Always save one bullet for yourself, and make it a big one - don’t mess this part up.

Thats pretty much it, folks. Make sure that you’ve got everything under control before it happens. Keep tuned to the radio and television all day tomorrow (call in sick if you have to) for developments. Remember, key words like “deranged”, “psychotic”, “cannibal”, “police shooting” and “bloodbath” used in the news tomorrow are going to be the opening notes of the greatest battle ever. Call your loved ones, bolt the doors and barricade the windows if the stories are being reported within fifteen miles of your location. If they are within 30 miles of you, load up and beat a retreat into the nearest inhospitable terrain you can find. If your first indication of a problem is the sounds of moaning and breaking glass, you’re fucked.

Wednesday Weird Al - My Bologna

Yeah, I know it's Thursday, screw you hippie.

The History Channel has a show on called "Man, Moment, Machine". Basically, it's tales about the right man, at the right moment in time with the right machine coming together to make history. Tonight's episode is about Al and his accordian at the moment it all started.


14 November 2006

Me For Prez In '08 (I'd Have To Try REALLY Hard To Fuck Things Up Worse Than They Are Now...)

I’m throwing my hat into the ring:

MOMinuteman in ‘08…

My Platform??

2nd amendment - If you want a Ma Deuce and can afford to feed it and aren’t a psycho, why not??

The Border - 20′ wall with gun towers every 1/4 mile, a 500 meter deep mine field in front of it with a 500 meter killzone behind it and orders to shoot to kill anyone who makes it through the mines.

The Jihad on America - We kicked the dogsnot outta over 2/3 of the world 60 years ago, and we are MUCH more industrially capable now. Time to ramp up, go balls to the wall, and settle it. And if it comes down to it, nuke ‘em all and let Allah sort ‘em out.

The rest of the world doesn’t like us - SCREW ‘EM! With a little re-structuring, we can get by just fine without them, but the reverse is not true for them. A couple of weeks of empty bellies might make them realize we ain’t all that bad. And it’s better to be our friend than not. The U.N.?? OUTTA HERE!!! And if China and Russia don’t like it, tough. China doesn’t have the equipment to take us on, and don’t tell me about millions of conscripts, a couple of SSBN’s will solve that problem. And Russia’s crap is so old and worn out that most of it doesn’t work due to lack of funds to maintain it.

Abortion - Condoms are a cheaper form of birth control and a lot less physically and psychologically painful than abortion, but it’s your body, who am I to tell you what to do with it?? But Partial Birth and Late-term abortions are nothing more than murder with the screams muffled.

Special interest groups - I am a simple country boy with simple needs. If I can’t get by on around $300k a year, something is severely wrong, and I feel that the rest of the government would be better off with more folks with similar needs.

Taxes - The economy is going like crazy with all tax cuts, so why not make them permanent??

Did I hit the high points that everybody is worried about?? Just relax, enjoy a Happy Thanksgiving and a Merry Christmas, and Vote For Me in ‘08!!

11 November 2006

Veteran's Day

This just in - Actual documented evidence of how our Nazi Stormtrooper thug Soldiers are torturing and abusing Iraqi children and eating them for breakfast...

Veteran's Day

What is a Vet?

He is the cop on the beat who spent six months in Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.

He is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel.

She - or he - is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in Da Nang.

He is the POW who went away one person and came back another - or didn't come back AT ALL.

He is the Quantico drill instructor who has never seen combat - but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account rednecks and gang members into Marines, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.

He is the parade - riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.

He is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by.

He is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb Of The Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor died unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.

He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket - palsied now and aggravatingly slow - who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.

He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being - a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.

He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known.

So remember, each time you see someone who has served our country, just lean over and say Thank You. That's all most people need, and in most cases it will mean more than any medals they could have been awarded or were awarded.

Father Denis Edward O'Brien

Read this one again... He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket - palsied now and aggravatingly slow - who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.

Remember it and thank him and show him the respect he deserves, or I will personally come over to your house and gouge out your eyes and skull fuck you to death.

Veteran's Day

Subject: Military Rules for the Non-Military Personnel

Dear Civilians,

We know that the current state of affairs in our great nation have many civilians up in arms and excited to join the military. For those of you who can't join, you can still lend a hand. Here are a few of the areas we would like your assistance with:

1: The next time you see an adult talking (or wearing a hat) during the playing of the National Anthem ... kick their ass.

2: When you witness firsthand someone burning the American Flag in protest... kick their ass.

3: Regardless of the rank they held while they served, pay the highest amount of respect to all veterans. If you see anyone doing otherwise, quietly pull them aside and explain how these Veterans fought for the very freedom they bask in every second. Enlighten them on the many sacrifices these Veterans made to make this Nation great. Then hold them down while a Disabled Veteran kicks their ass.

4: (GUYS) If you were never in the military, DO NOT pretend that you were. Wearing battle dress uniforms (BDU's), telling others that you used to be "Special Forces," and collecting GI Joe memorabilia, might have been okay if you were still seven. Now, it will only make you look stupid and get your ass kicked.

5: Next time you come across an Air Force member, do not ask them, "Do you fly a jet?" Not everyone in the Air Force is a pilot. Such ignorance deserves an ass kicking (children are exempt).

6: If you witness someone calling the U.S. Coast Guard non military, inform them of their mistake...and kick their ass.

7: Roseanne Barr's singing of the National Anthem is not a blooper...it was a disgrace and disrespectful. Laugh, and sooner or later your ass will be kicked.

8: Next time Old Glory (U.S. flag) prances by during a parade, get on your damn feet and pay homage to her by placing your hand over your heart. Quietly thank the military member or veteran lucky enough to be carrying her...of course, failure to do either of those could earn you a severe ass kicking.

9: What Jane Fonda did during the Vietnam War makes her the enemy. The proper word to describe her is "traitor." Just mention her nomination for "Woman of the Year" and get your ass kicked.

10: Don't try to discuss politics with a military member or a veteran. We are Americans and we all bleed the same regardless of our party affiliation. Our Chain of Command, is to include our commander in Chief. The President (for those who didn't know) is our CIC regardless of political party. We have no inside track on what happens inside those big important buildings where all those representatives" meet. All we know is that when those civilian representatives screw up the situation, they call upon the military to go straighten it out. The military member might direct you to Oliver North. (I can see him kicking your ass already.)

11: "Your mama wears combat boots" never made sense to me ... stop saying it! If she did, she would most likely be a vet and probably kick your ass!

12: Bin Laden and the Taliban are not communists, so stop saying "Let's go kill those Commie's!!!" And stop asking us where he is!!!! Crystal balls are not standard issue in the military. That reminds me ... if you see anyone calling those damn psychic phone numbers; let me know, so I can go kick their ass.

13: Flyboy (Air Force), Jar Head (Marines), Grunt (Army), Squid (Navy) etc, are terms of endearment we use describing each other. Unless you are a service member or vet, you have not earned the right to use them. Could get your ass kicked.

14: Last but not least, whether or not you become a member of the military, support our troops and their families. Every Thanksgiving and religious holiday that you enjoy with family and friends please remember that there are, literally, thousands of sailors and troops far from home wishing they could be with their families. Thank God for our military and the sacrifices they make every day. Without them, our country would get its ass kicked.

It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press.

It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech.

It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate.

It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who has given the protester the right to burn the flag.

10 November 2006

Fucked Up Friday News The MSM Doesn't Want You To See

(found at Mrs. Malkin's site)

While Dubya and his gibbering cast of idiots gleefully prepare to throw open the border and grant amnesty to MILLIONS of criminals, I want you to read what kind of fucking sub-human scum will skip to the head of the line for citizenship in front of Doctors, Scientists and others who are a benefit to society that will have to wait years to get their citizenship, IF they ever get it...

The bloody consequences of open borders
By Michelle Malkin · November 10, 2006 12:12 PM

On election day, I was in New York City. You know what a lot of New Yorkers were buzzing about that day?

Not the election.

They were buzzing about a tragic story that has disappeared under the national MSM radar screen--even though folks who live in the city (including journalists) are still talking about it around the water cooler and the local tabloids have covered it wall-to-wall.

Last week, a veteran indie-film actress was found dead:

The body of a beautiful, talented actress was hanging from a shower rod in the bathtub of a Greenwich Village apartment by her horrified husband, who cried out, "Why? Why?" cops and witnesses said.

Adrienne Shelly, 40, who was also a director and screenwriter, apparently killed herself, cops said, but added they're examining some mysterious aspects of the case.

Shelly's husband is Andy Ostroy, a liberal blogger whom I've linked and had cordial communications with in the past, despite heated political differences. Ostroy insisted passionately that his wife would never commit suicide and leave him and their three-year-old daughter behind. After intensive questioning by police, Ostroy refused to accept the suicide theory and pushed the NYPD to find the truth. On Election Day, the New York Post reported the bombshell discovery:

In a stunning turnaround, a construction worker yesterday confessed to killing indie actress Adrienne Shelly, whose death in a Greenwich Village apartment last week was first thought to be suicide, cops said.

"I was having a bad day," illegal immigrant Diego Pillco, 19, allegedly told cops. "I didn't mean to kill her. But I did kill her."

He was having a bad day?! Evil bastard.

Pillco told detectives that he punched Shelly, 40, last Wednesday afternoon outside the Abingdon Square apartment she was using as an office after she yelled at him about the noise he was making while working in a vacant apartment below.

Pillco, who is from Ecuador and speaks only Spanish, also claimed that Shelly slapped him first.

After seeing she was unconscious and believing she was dead, Pillco claimed, he dragged Shelly into her apartment, wrapped a bed sheet around her neck and attached it to a shower rod in the bathroom to make it appear she had hanged herself, sources said. The medical examiner has not yet released autopsy results.

Shelly's marketing-exec husband, Andrew Ostroy, found her body just before 6 that evening.

Pillco was nabbed early yesterday at his Brooklyn apartment after detectives matched several Reebok sneaker prints from the toilet seat in Shelly's bathroom to a print they found in the apartment downstairs.

Pillco's boss told detectives the laborer had been wearing sneakers while working.

Reebok Allen Iverson-model sneakers found at Pillco's home matched the prints, sources said.

The suspect's stunned boss, contractor Louis Hernandez, called his employee "a good kid."

This "good kid" was an illegal alien day laborer whose employer knew he was illegal. He lived and worked in an illegal alien sanctuary city whose open-border policies were crafted by Democrat Mayor Ed Koch and embraced by GOP successors Rudy Giuliani and Michael Bloomberg. He lived and worked under a Bush administration whose employer sanctions enforcement record is abysmal.

Yup, Pillco was just a hard-working immigrant "doing a job Americans wouldn't do"--as new best friends President Bush and House Speaker Nancy Pelosi would put it. Details:

A native of the city of Cuenca, Pillco arrived in the United States in the summer of 2005 after paying smugglers $12,000 to sneak him over the Mexican border, law-enforcement sources said.

Pillco eventually made his way to Brooklyn, where he moved into a basement apartment with his brother Wilson - who had arrived months earlier - at 328 Prospect Ave., where a cousin also lived.

His landlord, Louis Hernandez, hired Pillco to work as a part-time helper for his construction company, even though - by his own admission - he knew the immigrant did not have legal working papers.

Shelly was not afraid to stand up to Pillco and fought hard for her life:

A 19-year-old construction worker flipped out, hitting and strangling indie actress Adrienne Shelly with a bed sheet because she dared to call him a "son of a bitch," police sources said yesterday.

Ecuadorian illegal immigrant Diego Pillco told cops he took that insult literally and became enraged during a confrontation with the pint-sized actress last week over noise he was making in the apartment below her Greenwich Village office, sources said.

Police also revealed that Shelly, 40, desperately tried to fight off the baby-faced worker during the attack, leaving scratch marks on his face.

"She didn't go easily," said a law-enforcement source.

Adrienne Shelly put up a battle.

If only spineless politicians in both parties who have created a ripe atmosphere for such crimes would do the same.

Instead, we have Republicans--you know, the party of law and order--preparing to cut and run at the border and hand over a mass illegal alien amnesty to the Dems.

At least they got the pigfucking piece of shit before he had a chance to skip back across the border to get off scott-free...

Go and read the rest of the article to see how the Politicians and the MSM are spinning and covering their asses on this, and then tell me that we wouldn't be better off if Flight 93 had made it to Capitol Hill during a joint session of Congress to hear a Presidential address... FUCKING BASTARDS!!!!

That's all the fucking news that I can take today, I'm gonna go play Team Fortress, fuck fucking D.C., fuck fucking Dems, fuck the fucking GOP, fucking well fuck them all!!!

08 November 2006

The Century War With Islam - By Dan Simmons

I found this over at Boortz.com and thought I'd post it as a reminder that "Cut-n-Run" and appeasement, both of which we will be soon seeing following last nights Democrat victory, will not defeat Islamic Terrorism. This fight is not gonna be over in a few years, it WILL be a drawn out affair, especially if we continue to be PC and non-offensive in our tactics. We need to take off the gloves and start killing people and breaking things unless we want our Grandkids to have to continue the fight. It's either total overwhelming victory over Islam and the Jihadis or total submission to them. Those are the only two options that our enemy will recognize.

The Time Traveler appeared suddenly in my study on New Year’s Eve, 2004. He was a stolid, grizzled man in a gray tunic and looked to be in his late-sixties or older. He also appeared to be the veteran of wars or of some terrible accident since he had livid scars on his face and neck and hands, some even visible in his scalp beneath a fuzz of gray hair cropped short in a military cut. One eye was covered by a black eyepatch. Before I could finish dialing 911 he announced in a husky voice that he was a Time Traveler come back to talk to me about the future.

Being a sometimes science-fiction writer but not a fool, I said, “Prove it.”

“Do you remember Replay?” he said.

My finger hovered over the final “1” in my dialing. “The 1987 novel?” I said. “By Ken Grimwood?”

The stranger – Time Traveler, psychotic, home invader, whatever he was – nodded.

I hesitated. The novel by Grimwood had won the World Fantasy Award a year or two after my first-novel, Song of Kali, had. Grimwood’s book was about a guy who woke up one morning to find himself snapped back decades in his life, from the late 1980’s to himself as a college student in 1963, and thus getting the chance to relive – to replay – that life again, only this time acting upon what he’d already learned the hard way. In the book, the character, who was to experience – suffer – several Replays, learned that there were other people from his time who were also Replaying their lives in the past, their bodies younger but their memories intact. I’d greatly enjoyed the book, thought it deserved the award, and had been sad to hear that Grimwood had died . . . when? . . . in 2003.

So, I thought, I might have a grizzled nut case in my study this New Year’s Eve, but if he was a reader and a fan of Replay, he was probably just a sci-fi fan grizzled nut case, and therefore probably harmless. Possibly. Maybe.

I kept my finger poised over the final “1” in “911.”

“What does that book have to do with you illegally entering my home and study?” I asked.

The stranger smiled … almost sadly I thought. “You asked me to prove that I’m a Time Traveler,” he said softly. “Do you remember how Grimwood’s character in Replay went hunting for others in the 1960’s who had traveled back in time from the late 1980’s?”

I did remember now. I’d thought it clever at the time. The guy in Replay, once he suspected others were also replaying into the past, had taken out personal ads in major city newspapers around the country. The ads were concise. “Do you remember Three Mile Island, Challenger, Watergate, Reaganomics? If so, contact me at . . .”

Before I could say anything else on this New Year’s Eve of 2004, a few hours before 2005 began, the stranger said, “Terri Schiavo, Katrina, New Orleans under water, Ninth Ward, Ray Nagin, Superdome, Judge John Roberts, White Sox sweep the Astros in four to win the World Series, Pope Benedict XVI, Scooter Libby.”

“Wait, wait!” I said, scrambling for a pen and then scrambling even faster to write. “Ray who? Pope who? Scooter who?”

“You’ll recognize it all when you hear it all again,” said the stranger. “I’ll see you in a year and we’ll have our conversation.”

“Wait!” I repeated. “What was that middle apart . . . Ray Nugin? Judge who? John Roberts? Who is . . .” But when I looked up he was gone.

“White Sox win the Series?” I muttered into the silence. “Fat chance.”


I was waiting for him on New Year’s Eve 2005. I didn’t see him enter. I looked up from the book I was fitfully reading and he was standing in the shadows again. I didn’t dial 911 this time, nor demand any more proof. I waved him to the leather wingchair and said, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Scotch,” he said. “Single malt if you have it.”

I did.

Our conversation ran over two hours, but the following is the gist of it. I’m a novelist by trade. I remember conversations pretty well. (Not as perfectly as Truman Capote was said to be able to recall long conversations word for word, but pretty well.)

The Time Traveler wouldn’t tell me what year in the future he was from. Not even the decade or century. But the gray cord trousers and blue-gray wool tunic top he was wearing didn’t look very far-future science-fictiony or military, no Star Trekky boots or insignia, just wellworn clothes that looked like something a guy who worked with his hands a lot would wear. Construction maybe.

“I know you can’t tell me details about the future because of time travel paradoxes,” I began. I hadn’t spent a lifetime reading and then writing SF for nothing.

“Oh, bugger time travel paradoxes,” said the Time Traveler. “They don’t exist. I could tell you anything I want to and it won’t change anything. I just choose not to tell you some things.”

I frowned at this. “Time travel paradoxes don’t exist? But surely if I go back in time and kill my grandfather before he meets my grandmother . . .”

The Time Traveler laughed and sipped his Scotch. “Would you want to kill your grandfather?” he said. “Or anyone else?”

“Well . . .Hitler maybe,” I said weakly.

The Traveler smiled, but more ironically this time. “Good luck,” he said. “But don’t count on succeeding.”

I shook my head. “But surely anything you tell me now about the future will change the future,” I said.

“I gave you a raft of facts about your future a year ago as my bona fides,” said the Time Traveler. “Did it change anything? Did you save New Orleans from drowning?”

“I won $50 betting on the White Sox in October,” I admitted.

The Time Traveler only shook his head. “Quod erat demonstrandum,” he said softly. “I could tell you that the Mississippi River flows generally south. Would your knowing about it change its course or flow or flooding?”

I thought about this. Finally I said, “Why did you come back? Why do you want to talk to me? What do you want me to do?”

“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.”

I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said.

“The Century War,” said the Time Traveler.

I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .”

“I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he stood, refilled his Scotch glass, and sat again. He said, “It was important to me to come back to this time early on in the struggle. Even if only to remind myself of how unspeakably blind you all were.”

“You mean the War on Terrorism,” I said.

“I mean the Long War with Islam,” he said. “The Century War. And it’s not over yet where I come from. Not close to being over.”

“You can’t have a war with Islam,” I said. “You can’t go to war against a religion. Radical Islam, maybe. Jihadism. Some extremists. But not a . . . the . . . religion itself. The vast majority of Muslims in the world are peaceloving people who wish us no harm. I mean . . . I mean . . . the very word ‘Islam’ means ‘Peace.’”

“So you kept telling yourselves,” said the Time Traveler. His voice was very low but there was a strange and almost frightening edge to it. “But the ‘peace’ in ‘Islam’ means ‘Submission.’ You’ll find that out soon enough”

Great, I was thinking. Of all the time travelers in all the gin joints in all the world, I get this racist, xenophobic, right-wing asshole.

“After Nine-eleven, we’re fighting terrorism,” I began, “not . . .”

He waved me into silence.

“You were a philosophy major or minor at that podunk little college you went to long ago,” said the Time Traveler. “Do you remember what Category Error is?”

It rang a bell. But I was too irritated at hearing my alma mater being called a “podunk little college” to be able to concentrate fully.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the Time Traveler. “In philosophy and formal logic, and it has its equivalents in science and business management, Category Error is the term for having stated or defined a problem so poorly that it becomes impossible to solve that problem, through dialectic or any other means.”

I waited. Finally I said firmly, “You can’t go to war with a religion. Or, I mean . . . sure, you could . . . the Crusades and all that . . . but it would be wrong.”

The Time Traveler sipped his Scotch and looked at me. He said, “Let me give you an analogy . . .”

God, I hated and distrusted analogies. I said nothing.

“Let’s imagine,” said the Time Traveler, “that on December eighth, Nineteen forty-one, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt spoke before a joint session of Congress and asked them to declare war on aviation.”

“That’s absurd,” I said.

“Is it?” asked the Time Traveler. “The American battleships, cruisers, harbor installations, Army barracks, and airfields at Pearl Harbor and elsewhere in Hawaii were all struck by Japanese aircraft. Imagine if the next day Roosevelt had declared war on aviation . . . threatening to wipe it out wherever we found it. Committing all the resources of the United States of America to defeating aviation, so help us God.”

“That’s just stupid,” I said. If I’d ever been afraid of this Time Traveler, I wasn’t now. He was obviously a mental defective.“The planes, the Japanese planes,” I said, “were just a method of attack . . . a means . . . it wasn’t aviation that attacked us at Pearl Harbor, but the Empire of Japan. We declared war on Japan and a few days later its ally, Germany, lived up to its treaty with the Japanese and declared war on us. If we’d declared war on aviation, on goddamned airplanes rather than the empire and ideology that launched them, we’d never have . . .”

I stopped. What had he called it? Category Error. Making the problem unsolvable through your inability – or fear – of defining it correctly.

The Time Traveler was smiling at me from the shadows. It was a small, thin, cold smile – holding no humor in it, I was sure -- but still a smile of sorts. It seemed more sad than gloating as my sudden silence stretched on.

“What do you know about Syracuse?” he asked suddenly.

I blinked again. “Syracuse, New York?” I said at last.

He shook his head slowly. “Thucydides’ Syracuse,” he said softly. “Syracuse circa 415 B.C. The Syracuse Athens invaded.”

“It was . . . part of the Peloponnesian War,” I ventured.

He waited for more but I had no more to give. I loved history, but let’s admit it . . . that was ancient history. Still, I felt that I should have been able to tell him,or at least remember, why Syracuse was important in the Peloponnesian War or why they fought there or who fought exactly or who had won or . . . something. I hated feeling like a dull student around this scarred old man.

“The war between Athens and its allies and Sparta and its allies – a war for nothing less than hegemony over the entire known world at that time – began in 431 B.C.,” said the Time Traveler. “After seventeen years of almost constant fighting, with no clear or permanent advantage for either side, Athens – under the leadership of Alcibiades at the time – decided to widen the war by conquering Sicily, the ‘Great Greece’ they called it, an area full of colonies and the key to maritime commerce at the time the way the Strait of Hormuz in the Persian Gulf is today.”

I hate being lectured to at the best of times, but something about the tone and timber of the Time Traveler’s voice – soft, deep, rasping, perhaps thickened a bit by the whiskey – made this sound more like a story being told around a campfire. Or perhaps a bit like one of Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon stories on “Prairie Home Companion.” I settled deeper into my chair and listened.

“Syracuse wasn’t a direct enemy of the Athenians,” continued the Time Traveler, “but it was quarreling with a local Athenian colony and the democracy of Athens used that as an excuse to launch a major expedition against it. It was a big deal – Athens sent 136 triremes, the best fighting ships in the world then – and landed 5,000 soldiers right under the city’s walls.

“The Athenians had enjoyed so much military success in recent years, including their invasion of Melos, that Thucydides wrote – So thoroughly had the present prosperity persuaded the Athenians that nothing could withstand them, and that they could achieve what was possible and what was impracticable alike, with means ample or inadequate it mattered not. The reason for this was their general extraordinary success, which made them confuse their strengths with their hopes.”

“Oh, hell,” I said, “this is going to be a lecture about Iraq, isn’t it? Look . . . I voted for John Kerry last year and . . .”

“Listen to me,” the Time Traveler said softly. It was not a request. There was steel in that soft, rasping voice. “Nicias, the Athenian general who ended up leading the invasion, warned against it in 415 B.C. He said – ‘We must not disguise from ourselves that we go to found a city among strangers and enemies, and that he who undertakes such an enterprise should be prepared to become master of the country the first day he lands, or failing in this to find everything hostile to him’. Nicias, along with the Athenian poet and general Demosthenes, would see their armies destroyed at Syracuse and then they would both be captured and put to death by the Syracusans. Sparta won big in that two-year debacle for Athens. The war went on for seven more years, but Athens never recovered from that overreaching at Syracuse, and in the end . . . Sparta destroyed it. Conquered the Athenian empire and its allies, destroyed Athens’ democracy, ruined the entire balance of power and Greek hegemony over the known world at the time . . . ruined everything. All because of a miscalculation about Syracuse.”

I sighed. I was sick of Iraq. Everyone was sick of Iraq on New Years Eve, 2005, both Bush supporters and Bush haters. It was just an ugly mess. “They just had an election,” I said. “The Iraqi people. They dipped their fingers in purple ink and . . .”

“Yes yes,” interrupted the Time Traveler as if recalling something further back in time, and much less important, than Athens versus Syracuse. “The free elections. Purple fingers. Democracy in the Mid-East. The Palestinians are voting as well. You will see in the coming year what will become of all that.”

The Time Traveler drank some Scotch, closed his eyes for a second, and said, “Sun Tzu writes – The side that knows when to fight and when not to will take the victory. There are roadways not to be traveled, armies not to be attacked, walled cities not to be assaulted.”

“All right, goddammit,” I said irritably. “Your point’s made. So we shouldn’t have invaded Iraq in this . . . what did you call it? This Long War with Islam, this Century War. We’re all beginning to realize that here by the end of 2005.”

The Time Traveler shook his head. “You’ve understood nothing I’ve said. Nothing. Athens failed in Syracuse – and doomed their democracy – not because they fought in the wrong place and at the wrong time, but because they weren’t ruthless enough. They had grown soft since their slaughter of every combat-age man and boy on the island of Melos, the enslavement of every woman and girl there. The democratic Athenians, in regards to Syracuse, thought that once engaged they could win without absolute commitment to winning, claim victory without being as ruthless and merciless as their Spartan and Syracusan enemies. The Athenians, once defeat loomed, turned against their own generals and political leaders – and their official soothsayers. If General Nicias or Demosthenes had survived their captivity and returned home, the people who sent them off with parades and strewn flower petals in their path would have ripped them limb from limb. They blamed their own leaders like a sun-maddened dog ripping and chewing at its own belly.”

I thought about this. I had no idea what the hell he was saying or how it related to the future.

“You came back in time to lecture me about Thucydides?” I said. “Athens? Syracuse? Sun-Tzu? No offense, Mr. Time Traveler, but who gives a damn?”

The Time Traveler rose so quickly that I flinched back in my chair, but he only refilled his Scotch. This time he refilled my glass as well. “You probably should give a damn” he said softly. “ In 2006, you’ll be ripping and tearing at yourselves so fiercely that your nation – the only one on Earth actually fighting against resurgent caliphate Islam in this long struggle over the very future of civilization – will become so preoccupied with criticizing yourselves and trying to gain short-term political advantage, that you’ll all forget that there’s actually a war for your survival going on. Twenty-five years from now, every man or woman in America who wishes to vote will be required to read Thucydides on this matter. And others as well. And there are tests. If you don’t know some history, you don’t vote . . . much less run for office. America’s vacation from knowing history ends very soon now . . . for you, I mean. And for those few others left alive in the world who are allowed to vote.”

“You’re shitting me,” I said.

“I am shitting you not,” said the Time Traveler.

“Those few others left alive who are allowed to vote?” I said, the words just now striking me like hardthrown stones. “What the hell are you talking about? Has our government taken away all our civil liberties in this awful future of yours?”

He laughed then and this time it was a deep, hearty, truly amused laugh. “Oh, yes,” he said when the laughter abated a bit. He actually wiped away tears from his one good eye. “I had almost forgotten about your fears of your, our . . . civil liberties . . . being abridged by our own government back in these last stupidity-allowed years of 2005 and 2006 and 2007 . Where exactly do you see this repression coming from?”

“Well . . .” I said. I hate it when I start a sentence with ‘well,’ especially in an argument. “Well, the Patriot Act. Bush authorizing spying on Americans . . . international phonecalls and such. Uh . . . I think mosques in the States are under FBI surveillance. I mean, they want to look up what library books we’re reading, for God’s sake. Big Brother. 1984. You know.”

The Time Traveler laughed again, but with more edge this time. “Yes, I know,” he said. “We all know . . . up there in the future which some of you will survive to see as free people. Civil liberties. In 2006 you still fear yourselves and your own institutions first, out of old habit. A not unworthy – if fatally misguided and terminally masochistic – paranoia. I will tell you right now, and this is not a prediction but a history lesson, some of your grandchildren will live in dhimmitude.”

“Zimmi . . . what?” I said.

He spelled it out. What had sounded like a ‘z’ was the ‘dh.’ I’d never heard the word and I told him so.

“Then get off your ass and Google it,” said the Time Traveler, his one working eye glinting with something like fury. “Dhimmitude. You can also look up the word dhimmi, because that’s what two of your three grandchildren will be called. Dhimmis. Dhimmitude is the system of separate and subordinate laws and rules they will live under. Look up the word sharia while you’re Googling dhimmi, because that is the only law they will answer to as dhimmis, the only justice they can hope for . . . they and tens and hundreds of millions more now who are worried in your time about invisible abridgements of their ‘civil liberties’ by their ‘oppressive’ American and European democratically elected governments.”

He audibly sneered this last part. I wondered now if the fury I sensed in him was a result of his madness, or if the reverse were true.

“Where will my grandchildren suffer this dhimmitude?” I asked. My mouth was suddenly so dry I could barely speak.

“Eurabia,” said the Time Traveler.

“There’s no such place,” I said.

He gave me his one-eyed stare. My stomach suddenly lurched and I wished I’d drunk no Scotch. “Words,” I said.

The Time Traveler raised one scar-slashed eyebrow.

“Last year you gave me words about 2005,” I said. “The kind of words Ken Grimwood’s replayers in time would have put in the newspaper to find each other. Give me more now. Or, better yet, just fucking tell me what you’re talking about. You said it wouldn’t matter. You said that my knowing won’t change anything, any more than I can change the direction the Mississippi is flowing . So tell me, God damn it!”

He began by giving me words. Even while I was scribbling them down, I was thinking of reading I’d been doing recently about the joy with which the Victorian Englishmen and 19th Century Europeans and Americans greeted the arrival of the 20th Century. The toasts, especially among the intellectual elite, on New Year’s Eve 1899 had been about the coming glories of technology liberating them, of the imminent Second Enlightenment in human understanding, of the certainty of a just one-world government, of the end of war for all time.

Instead, what words would a time traveler or poor Replay victim put in his London Times or Berliner Zeitung or New York Times on January 1, 1900, to find his fellow travelers displaced in time? Auschwitz, I was sure, and Hiroshima and Trinity Site and Holocaust and Hitler and Stalin and . . .

The clock in my study chimed midnight.

Jesus God. Did I want to hear such words about 2006 and the rest of the 21st Century from the Time Traveler?

“Ahmadenijad,” he said softly. “Natanz. Arak. Bushehr. Ishafan. Bonab. Ramsar.”

“Those words don’t mean a damned thing to me,” I said as I scribbled them down phonetically. “Where are they? What are they?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” said the Time Traveler.

“Are you talking about . . . what? . . . the next fifteen or twenty years?” I said.

“I’m talking about the next fifteen or twenty months from your now,” he said softly. “Do you want more words?”

I didn’t. But I couldn’t speak just then.

“General Seyed Reza Pardis,” intoned the Time Traveler. “Shehab-one, Shehab-two, Shehab-three. Tel Aviv. Baghdad International Airport, Al Salem U.S. airbase in Kuwait, Camp Dawhah U.S. Army base in Kuwait, al Seeb U.S. airbase in Oman, al Udeid U.S. Army and Air Force base in Qatar. Haifa. Beir-Shiva. Dimona.”

“Oh, fuck,” I said. “Oh, Jesus.” I had no clue as to who or what Shehab One, Two, or Three might be, but the context and litany alone made me want to throw up.

“This is just the beginning,” said the Time Traveler.

“Wasn’t the beginning on September 11, 2001?” I managed through numb lips.

The one-eyed scarred man shook his head. “Historians in my time know that it began on June 5, 1968,” he said. “But it hasn’t really begun for you yet. For any of you.”

I thought – What on earth happened on the fifth of June, 1968? I’m old enough to remember. I was in college then. Working that summer and . . . Kennedy. Robert F. Kennedy’s assassination. “Now on to Chicago and the nomination!” Sirhan Sirhan. Was the Time Traveler trying to give me some kind of half-assed Oliver-Stone-JFK-movie garbled up conspiracy theory?

“What . . .” I began.

“Galveston,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “The Space Needle. Bank of America Plaza in Dallas. Renaissance Tower in Dallas. Bank One Center in Dallas. The Indianapolis 500 – one hour and twenty-three minutes into the race. The Bell South Building in Atlanta. The TransAmerica Pyramid in San Francisco . . .”

“Stop,” I said. “Just stop.”

“The Golden Gate Bridge,” persisted the Time Traveler. “The Guggenheim in Bilbao. The New Reichstag in Berlin. Albert Hall. Saint Paul’s Cathedral . . .”

“Shut the fuck up!” I shouted. “All these places can’t disappear in the rest of this century, your goddamned Century War or not! I don’t believe it.”

“I didn’t say in the rest of your century,” said the Time Traveler, his torn voice almost a whisper now. “I’m talking about your next fifteen years. And I’ve barely begun.”

“You’re nuts,” I said. “You’re not from the future. You escaped from some asylum.”

The Time Traveler nodded. “That’s more true than you know,” he said. “I come from a place and time where your grandchildren and hundreds of millions of other dhimmi are compelled to write ‘pbuh’ after the Prophet’s name. They wear gold crosses and gold Stars of David sewn onto their clothing. The Nazis didn’t invent the wearing of the Star of David . . . the marking and setting apart of the Jews in society. Muslims did that centuries ago in they lands they conquered, European and otherwise. They will refine it and update it, not toward the more merciful, in the lands they occupy through the decades ahead of you.”

“You’re crazy,” I cried, standing. My hands were balled into fists. “Islam is a religion . . . a religion of peace . . . not our enemy. We can’t be at war with a religion. That’s obscene.”

“Have you read the Qur’an and learned your Sunnah?” asked the Time Traveler. “It would behoove you to do so. Dhimmi means ‘protection.’ And your children and grandchildren will be protected . . . like cattle.”

“To hell with you,” I said.

“Your dhimmi poll tax will be called jizya,” said the Time Traveler. His voice suddenly sounded very weary.“Your land tax for being an infidel, even for fellow People of the Book – Christians and Jews – will be called kharaz. Both of these taxes will be in addition to your mandatory alms – the zakat. The punishment for failure to pay, or for paying late, a punishment meted out by your local qadi, religious judge, is death by stoning or beheading.”

I folded my arms and looked away from the Time Traveler.

“Under sharia – which will be the universal law of Eurabia,” persisted the Time Traveler, “the value of a dhimmi’s life, the value of your grandchildren, is one half the value of a Muslim’s life. Jews and Christians are worth one-third of a Muslim. Indian Parsees are worth one-fifteenth. In a court of the Eurabian Caliphate or the Global Khalifate, if a Muslim murders a dhimmi, any infidel, he must pay a blood money fine not to exceed one thousand euros. No Muslim will ever be jailed or sentenced to death for the murder of any dhimmi or any number of dhimmis. If the murders were done under the auspices of Universal Compulsive Jihad, which will be sanctioned by sharia as of 2019 Common Era, all blood money fines are waived.”

“Go away,” I said. “Go back to wherever you came from.”

“I come from here,” said the Time Traveler. “From not so far from here.”

“Bullshit,” I said.

“Your enemies have gathered and struck and continue to strike and you, the innocents of 2006 and beyond, fight among yourselves, chew and rip at your own bellies, blame your brothers and yourselves and your institutions of the Enlightenment – law, tolerance, science, democracy – even while your enemies grow stronger.”

“How are we supposed to know who our enemies are?” I turned and growled at him. “The world is a complex place. Morality is a complex thing.”

“Your enemy is he who will give his life to kill you,” said the Time Traveler. “Your enemies are they that wish you and your children and your grandchildren dead and who are willing to sacrifice themselves, or support those fanatics who will sacrifice themselves, to see you and your institutions destroyed. You haven’t figured that out yet – the majority of you fat, sleeping, smug, infinitely stupid Americans and Europeans.”

He stood and set the Scotch glass back in its place on my sideboard. “How, we wonder in my time,” he said softly, “can you ignore the better part of a billion people who say aloud that they are willing to kill your children . . . or condone and celebrate the killing of them? And ignore them as they act on what they say? We do not understand you.”

I still had not turned to face him, but was looking over my shoulder at him.

“The world, as it turns out,” continued the Time Traveler, “is not nearly so complex a place as your liberal and gentle minds sought to make it.”

I did not respond.

“Thucydides taught us more than twenty-four hundred years ago – counting back from your time – that all men’s behavior is guided by phobos, kerdos, and doxa,” said the Time Traveler. “Fear, self-interest, and honor.”

I pretended I did not hear.

“Plato saw human behavior as a chariot pulled by precisely those three powerful and headstrong horses, first tugged this way, then pulled that way,” continued the Time Traveler. “Phobos, kerdos, doxa. Fear, self-interest, honor. Which of these guides the chariot of your nation and your allies in Europe and your surprisingly fragile civilization now, O Man of 2006?”

I stared at the bookcase instead of the man and willed him gone, wishing him away like a sleepy boy willing away the boogeyman under his bed.

“Which combination of those three traits -- phobos, kerdos, doxa -- will save or doom your world?” asked the Time Traveler. “Which might bring you back from this vacation from history – from history’s responsibilities and history’s burdens – that you have all so generously gifted yourselves with? You peaceloving Europeans. You civil-liberties loving Americans? You Athenian invertebrates with your love of your own exalted sensibilities and your willingness to enter into a global war for civilizational survival even while you are too timid, too fearful . . . too decent . . . to match the ruthlessness of your enemies.”

I closed my eyes but that did not stop his voice.

“At least understand that such decency goes away quickly when you are burying your children and your grandchildren,” rasped the Time Traveler. “Or watching them suffer in slavery. Ruthlessness deferred against totalitarian aggression only makes the later need for ruthlessness more terrible. Thousands of years of history and war should have taught you that. Did you fools learn nothing from living through the charnel house that was the 20th Century?”

I’d had enough. I opened my eyes, turned, reached into the top left drawer of my desk, and pulled out the .38 revolver that I had owned for twenty-three years and fired only twice, at firing ranges, shortly after it was given to me as a gift.

I aimed it at the Time Traveler. “Get out,” I said.

He showed no reaction. “Do you want more than words?” he asked softly. “I will give you more than words. I give you eight million Jews dead in Israel – incinerated – and many more dead Jews in Eurabia and around the world. I give you the continent of Europe cast back more than five hundred years into sad pools of warring civilizations.”

“Get out,” I repeated, aiming the revolver higher.

“I give you an Asian world in chaos, a Pacific rim ruled by China after the vacuum of America’s withdrawal – this nation’s full resources devoted to fighting, and possibly losing, the Century War – a South America and Mexico lost to corruption and appeasement, a resurgent Russian Empire that has reclaimed its old dominated republics and more, and a Canada split into three hateful nations.”

I cocked the pistol. The click sounded very loud in the small room.

“We were speaking about ruthlessness,” said the Time Traveler. “If you fail to understand it at first, you learn it quickly enough in a war like the one you are allowing to come. Would you like to hear the litany of Islamic shrines and cities that will blossom in nuclear retaliatory fire in the decades to come?”

“Get out,” I said for a final time. “I’m ruthless enough to shoot you, and by God I will if you don’t get out of here.”

The Time Traveler nodded. “As you wish. But you should hear two last words, two last names . . .religious judge Ubar ibn al-Khattab and rector-imam Ismail Nawahda of New Al-Azhar University in London, part of the 200,000-man Golden Mosque of the New Islamic Khalifate in Eurabia.”

“What are those names to me or me to them?” I asked. My finger was on the trigger of the cocked .38.

“These religious officials were on the Islamic Tribunal that sentenced two dhimmis to death by stoning and beheading,” said the Time Traveler. “The dhimmis were your two grandsons, Thomas and Daniel.”

“What was . . . will be . . . their crime?” I was able to ask after a long minute. My tongue felt like a strip of rough cotton.

“They dated two Muslim women – Thomas while he was in London on business, Daniel while visiting his aging mother, your daughter, in Canada – without first converting to Islam. That part of sharia, Islamic law, is called hudud, and we know quite a bit about it in my time. Your grandsons didn’t know the young women were Muslim since they both were dressed in modern garb - -thus violating their own society’s ironclad rule of Hijab — modesty. The girls, I hear, also died, but those were not sharia sentences. Not hudud. Their brothers and fathers murdered them. Honor killings . . . I think you’ve already heard the phrase by 2006.”

If I were to shoot him, I had to do it now. My hand was shaking more fiercely every second.

“Of course, the odds against one sharia court in London sentencing both your grandsons to death for crimes committed as far apart as London and Quebec City is too much of a coincidence to believe in,” continued the Time Traveler. “As is the fact that they would both be introduced to Muslim girls, without knowing they were Muslim, and go on a single dinner date with them at the same time, in cities so far apart. And Thomas was married. I know he thought he was having a business dinner with a client.”

“What . . .” I began, my arm holding the pistol shaking as if palsied.

The Time Traveler laughed a final time. “All of your grandsons’ names were on lists. You wrote something . . . will soon write something . . . that will put your name, and all your descendents’ names, on their list. Including your only surviving grandson.”

I opened my mouth but did not speak.

“According to their own writings, which we all know well in my day,” continued the Time Traveler, “ ‘Hadith Malik 511:1588 The last statement that Muhammad made was: "O Lord, perish the Jews and Christians. They made churches of the graves of their prophets. There shall be no two faiths in Arabia.’ And there are not. All infidels – Christians, Jews, secularists -- have been executed, converted, or driven out. Israel is cinders. Eurabia and the New Khalifate is growing, absorbing what was left of the old, weak cultures there that once dreamt of a European Union. The Century War is not near over. Two of your three grandsons are now dead. Your remaining grandson still fights, as does one of your surviving granddaughters. Two of your three living granddaughters now live under sharia within the aegis of New Khalifate. They are women of the veil.”

I lowered the pistol.

“ Enjoy these last days and months and years of your slumber, Grandfather,” said the scarred old man. “Your wake-up call is coming soon.”

The Time Traveler said three last words and was gone.

I put the pistol away – realizing too late that it had never been loaded – and sat down to write this. I could not. I waited these three months to try again.

Oh, Lord, I wish that some person on business from Porlock would wake me from this dream.

It was not the horrors of his revelations about my grandchildren that had shaken me the most deeply, shaken me to the core of my core, but rather the the Time Traveler’s last three words. Three words that any Replayer or time traveler visiting here from a century or more from now would react to first and most emotionally – three words I will not share here in this piece nor ever plan to share, at least until everyone on Earth knows them – three words that will keep me awake nights for months and years to come.

Three words.

This One Is For The GOP Getting Too Big For Their Britches...

In my opinion, the GOP has assumed that their voter base is so stupid that they are not paying attention to their abuse of their power in DC, but tonights election returns have slapped them in the face with the cock of reality. Mebbe they will wake the fuck up in the next two years and get their heads outta their asses and remember that they work at our pleasure and that they are not Overlords For Life.

Wednesday Weird Al - Headline News

With the telly being ate up with the dumbass of talking heads going on and on for hours and not saying a fucking thing while they waited for election returns to come in, I figgered that this would be a good Wed. Weird Al selection...


05 November 2006


Inside every older person is a really confused younger person wondering "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!?!"


02 November 2006

When There Was Music Still On MTV

I found this old home movie of my Ol' Lady singing my praises and thought I'd share with you just how fuckin' fantastic I am...