Okies for sure


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Helium Bier – hilarious

English subtitles.


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Coming and going


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Meanwhile, at the alleged Jedburger Academy…..


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I’m fixing to fuck your shit up


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Ground Solar Part VI, Wiring, Connectors and Tools

Old School Tech has released a new article, this time on solar wiring, connectors and tools. Although this is the final article in the hurricane ground solar series, it isn’t our last article on solar.

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Somebody caught a picture of my ex’s kitchen


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Yeah, half the country turned their backs on her


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Holy shit


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Another “Aw fuck” moment in time


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And now you know

Farting, breaking wind, cutting the cheese, or gas. The English language has numerous words for flatulence and this is even before we devolve into the subcategories that make up the genre. Whatever you call it, farting is a taboo act, but it is also a source of fascination. It’s not for nothing that there is a popular children’s book series called Fart Squad or that the preview of the most recent installment of the Alvin and the Chipmunks dynasty led with the punchline, “Sorry, pizza toots.” Today farting is something for which we perfunctorily ask forgiveness, but in the past it has been the subject of legislation, the cause of wars, and even theologized. We might think of farts as trapped gas, but the history of farting is more than just hot air.

Posted in WTF?, You can't make this shit up | 4 Comments

On This Day

On this day in 1864, eight days of cavalry clashes in Georgia come to an end when Union General Judson Kilpatrick and Confederate General Joseph Wheeler skirmish for a final time at Waynesboro. Although the Rebels inflicted more than three times as many casualties as the Yankees, the campaign was considered a success by the Union because it screened Wheeler from the main Union force as it marched to Savannah, Georgia, on General William T. Sherman’s famous March to the Sea.

In 1872
The Dei Gratia, a small British brig under Captain David Morehouse, spots the Mary Celeste, an American vessel, sailing erratically but at full sail near the Azores Islands in the Atlantic Ocean. The ship was seaworthy, its stores and supplies were untouched, but not a soul was onboard.

In 1928
“Dapper Dan” Hogan, a St. Paul, Minnesota saloonkeeper and mob boss, is killed on this day in 1928 when someone plants a car bomb under the floorboards of his new Paige coupe. Doctors worked all day to save him–according to the Morning Tribune, “racketeers, police characters, and business men” queued up at the hospital to donate blood to their ailing friend–but Hogan slipped into a coma and died at around 9 p.m. His murder is still unsolved.

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Your Good Morning Girl


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Oh, join your ex and go suck a dick

Deep breath. Exhale. Out with the bad…
I was an American abroad, working overseas on this recent election night 2016. By midnight Dublin-time, having watched tidbits of news coverage, I was able to put myself to sleep, confidently, arrogantly, supremely certain that the election would go to Hillary Clinton, if not the Democrats at large.
When I woke, I woke to the new norm. Donald Trump, a petty, narcissistic, hate-mongering, reality show star who had spent his entire business life ripping off the less-privileged had prevailed. I went numb, then got up and like many, I suppose, dragged myself through a day of utter bewilderment.

Posted in Liberals, Politics | 36 Comments

Liberals – over-analyzing shit

I’m writing a book about Appalachia. More specially, I’m writing a memoir of my family, which helped settled what is now the poorest county in the country: Clay County, which The New York Times  dubbed “The Hardest Place to Live in America.” The book,  called So Far Appalachia, is almost done. You can sign up for the newsletter if you’re interested in more discussions about what I guess we’re now calling the “poor, white, rural voters.”

That’s the context for why we’re here.

I’m writing this post because since the Presidential election, in which our country choose Donald J. Trump as our next leader, so many of my liberal friends have been struggling to understand why — WHY? — so many working class white folks voted against Sec. Hillary Clinton.


Posted in Liberals, Politics | 7 Comments

My day

Rolled out of bed about 7 and fucked off til about 10, then went into town to the post office to mail off some Christmas packages, then came home to wait on the woodcutter.

Let me back up a minute.
When we first moved in, the brush and undergrowth in the treeline was so thick I couldn’t get into it but I could see wood that had been cut laying on the ground. Cool, there’s my winter wood. Only thing I didn’t figure on was that as soon as that shit hits the ground here, it starts to rot. It ain’t like California where it don’t rain and the wood actually seasons when it goes to ground.

Okay, trying to be practical I figure I can heat the house a lot cheaper in the long run with the wood stove than I can with central heating and air. Not only that, but the area is known for ice storms and power outages in the winter. Generator? Check. Gasoline? Check. Propane stove and fuel? Check. Wood? Uh-oh.
Gotta be prepared, right?
So there’s a woodlot in town with seasoned firewood for sale, sold by the rick. For those of you that don’t know, a rick is a face cord – 8 feet long, 4 feet high, 18 inches deep. Don’t be ashamed of being ignorant, I didn’t know what a rick was either – the only dealings I’ve had with wood was cordwood. But it makes sense when you stop and think about it. Most wood stoves can only handle wood up to 20 inches long.
I called Bubba yesterday and found out the price and then ask if he delivers because for me to go pick the shit up I’ve got to unload the toolbox on the truck, take the box out, then make a couple trips back and forth to town and then reload my toolbox and….. you get the picture. Bubba says he’ll deliver the wood for 10 dollars extra cash money but it’ll be Saturday after dinner before he can do it and he’ll call first to make sure I’m home.

Dinner here is the noon meal. About 1:30 I still ain’t got word from Bubba so I call him. Did I mention that Bubba is the grumpiest motherfucker I’ve talked to since I hit Tennessee? No? He tells me that he’s not entirely sure where I live and I need to meet him at such and such a place in an hour and he’ll follow me home. Shit, where he wants to meet is about a half mile from his woodlot so I tell him I’ll just meet him there.
Me and Miss Lisa leave right then because she needs to start on our monthly shopping. We go to the canned foods store, do that and then head over to the woodlot where Bubba is splitting wood. I walk over and introduce myself and tells me “Go pick yer rick and I ain’t gonna hear no bitching and whining because it ain’t all split. Everybody wants split wood but damnitall, you cain’t split everything. Yer gonna getcha some rounds whether you like it or not. Some of that shit is either knotted up or too small to split.”
Hey, no problem, man. I pick my rick (easy, I picked the one I was leaning against because I ain’t in the mood to be gunshot) and he pulled his flatbed up and started tossing wood and actually looked surprised when I started throwing logs too. What the fuck, the dude’s about my age and twice as bitchy. I’ll give him a hand. Again, I ain’t in the mood to get gunshot.
When I tell him where we’re headed he looks surprised – “You told me it was 5 miles outside of town!” Well yeah, 5 miles from the other side of town – 7 miles from where we’re standing on his woodlot – on the far side of town. “Don’t trip, I’ll kick you another 5 bucks for gas.”
Okay. We get out to my place and I tell him to just pull up in front of the woodshed and we’ll dump it there. I’ll stack it inside later. Again, I’m helping. Bubba finally lightens the fuck up and starts talking, telling me about his day working as a handyman and his kids and his grandkids and his great grandkids and now I can’t get the motherfucker to shut up.
I hand Bubba his money – the price of the rick, 10 bucks for hauling it and 5 for gas just like I said. He counts it, looks puzzled and says it ain’t right. Huh? This fucking hillbilly’s gonna hold me up for more? He peels off the 5 extra and hands it back. “We had a price and you paid me too much.”
“Naw, it’s further out than you thought. I’ll pay you for your gas.”
“Nossir. We agreed on a price. I’m a man of my word.”
“Well, let me buy you a beer” and I try to give him the 5.
“Don’t drink.”
“Let me buy you a soda pop then.”
“Got me one in the cab.”
“Let me buy you a hamburger.”
“Done et.”
Well, fuck you then. “How ’bout I give you my wood business next time?”
“That’ll work” and he jumps in his truck and roars off.

Shit, after all that, I’m dying for a beer and I mention it to Lisa. “Do you want to go back into town and buy some? Because we’ve got our canned goods but we still need dairy and Christmas dinner stuff.”
We head back into town, my third fucking trip of the day. Third. Some weeks I don’t even make it to town once and now I’m on my third trip that day and we’re headed to the Walmart.

Here’s where my day got strange.
We’re pricing hams and I look up and see Sammy Kanada. I haven’t seen Sammy Kanada (we called him Frenchy, I don’t know why, he was an Okie) since man, 1986? Funny thing is, last time I saw him he was fucking dead. I mean laying in his casket dead. You can’t get a whole lot deader that that. And I know for a fact he was dead because when I bent over to kiss him on his forehead before they closed the casket, he was colder than a motherfucker. Dead. No life. Fini, bro.
Yet here he was in the Walmart in middle Tennessee. Same height, weight, greasy-ass 1960s style ducktail, same slouch, everything.
Fuck me running.
It took me awhile to realize that I was seeing the 1980s Frenchy, not the Frenchy that he’d be today if he was still alive. He was 45 then, he’d be in his 70s today. Plus this imposter was wearing a brown leather jacket and Frenchy wouldn’t be caught dead in brown leather. And he didn’t have a Model 19 in his pocket. Yeah, I checked out the dude’s ass. Sue me.
It still sent shivers down my spine.

A couple quick things about Frenchy and I’ll get back to my day.
Frenchy was an old school 1960s hoodlum. Carried a 357 and a switchblade but preferred to beat the shit out of people with a chain or an ax handle. He drove Panheads or Lincolns and wore a black leather jacket, wore his hair in a ducktail and combed it about five every minutes or so. Lived in a single wide. Smoked other people’s cigarettes but left his daughter over $200,000 when he died.

I remember one time me and my connection was driving down the road and saw a car fire in front of us. As we’re idling by, Randy says “Hey, ain’t that Frenchy?” so I pull over and bigger than shit there’s Frenchy sitting on the curb with his chin in his hands looking all glum and shit. “Hey bro, what happened?”
He didn’t even look up. “Overheated, man.”

When he died we held a Dead Man’s Auction, the kind where you auction off his possessions and forward the proceeds on to his survivors. I bought his sheath Buck knife for something like $180 for a 50 dollar knife but what the hell, it was for a good cause. I’ve still got it somewhere. I can remember Red the auctioneer selling his shit saying “Ten dolla, ten dolla do I hear fifteen, come on you cheap cocksuckers, give it up, I got fifteen, how about 20, 20 motherfucking bucks, the price of a quarter gram…..” Strangest auction I ever been to.
When we gave the proceeds to his daughter she looked kinda puzzled and said that the reading of her daddy’s will was just that afternoon and he left her 200+ thousand dollars….. and that cheap bastard used to bum cigarettes off of me.

Okay, back to my day.
Once I got back home I realized I’ve got a shitload of logs but no small splits or kindling so I got my maul and wedges out and started splitting wood. Turned out I didn’t need the wedges – seasoned wood splits easy but it was still a workout. I haven’t done any serious splitting in 30 years and I remembered that even then I didn’t like it. That was back when I was in my 20s and I’m 57 now. I split enough to get week’s worth of fire going and said fuck it.
Tonight I got online and checked the weather – there’s 90% chance of rain and then I remembered all that wood piled in front of my woodshed. You gotta be fucking kidding me.
My original intent was to gather up all the loose wood, pile it up and then throw a tarp over it until I could stack it inside tomorrow, but I realized that I could throw it in the shed just as easily, so I ended up tossing it most of it in a pile in the shed. It ain’t pretty but at least it’ll stay dry until I can stack it tomorrow. The rest of it I hauled up to the porch and filled the wood box inside the house.

So that was my day – handling a face cord three times, three times into town, two shopping trips and a motherfucking ghost.
I did buy my monthly six pack though so it wasn’t all bad.

Posted in True Stories, Wirecutter, You can't make this shit up | 23 Comments

Somebody’s gettin’ a ticket


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Can’t touch this

Just when you thought the lawlessness of the most lawless administration in history couldn’t get worse, the Department of Justice files another legal brief.

In response to a class action lawsuit by as many as 3,500 ready-to-hire air traffic controller applicants whose names were “purged” so the Federal Aviation Administration could hire based on race, federal lawyers asserted that the administration is immune from liability for denying constitutional equal protection because of sovereign immunity. In other words, they claim protection by the legal maxim rex non potest peccare, which means, “the king can do no wrong.”

Posted in Politics, WiscoDave | 14 Comments

Leech City Update, 3 Dec 2016 – STM

In the past week or so, Leech City has had a few updates. The most important of these is the satirical description of a theft of a log (yes, some people will steal anything). We’re still letting that one work its magic on the local criminal psyche. In the meantime, we think that how that theft was conducted indicates that the local crime organization has lost the support of a layer of thugs which had been used for terror and harassment missions. An upcoming article will discuss what we’ve learned of the criminal mind, and how to strip out layers of a criminal organization to both weaken and discredit it.

Also, the local .gov types must be feeling the heat, since we’ve heard reports that they’ve started a whisper campaign about why Audrey resigned her city council seat. In response, we’ve posted her uncompromising resignation letter in full, plus a few previously unpublished tidbits.

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I’m sure she’s taken, men



Posted in White Trash | 16 Comments