For this reason God sends them a powerful delusion so that they will believe the lie (2 Thessalonians 2:11)

Aug 19, 2009

Going, going...

I never tire of watching it. I've watched it probably twenty times...or more. Even Glenn Campbell's awful performance fails to detract me when it comes to True Grit. With T.G. I've become something like Mel Gibson's character in Conspiracy Theory who is compelled to purchase copies of Catcher In The Rye: When TCM or AMC show True Grit, I have to watch...even if it's in the middle of the last night. Though fighting to stay awake, at two a.m. I found myself chuckling at the fantastic exchange between Mattie and Col. G. Stonehill after Mattie had out haggled and brow beaten Stonehill.

Mattie: Do you know a Marshal Rooster Cogburn?
Col. G. Stonehill:
Most people around here have heard of Rooster Cogburn and some people live to regret it. I would not be surprised to learn that he's a relative of yours.

There are too many great lines to recount. John Wayne was born to play Rooster Cogburn. Hell, he played him in one variation or another in nearly every movie he made. But Rooster is special. He operates out on the fringe. He's a rogue cop that gets results. He's out taking care of things we'd rather not entertain. It was his "grit" that attracted Mattie to him for the task of finding Tom Chaney.

Judge Parker he's an old carpetbagger, but he knows his rats! We had a good court going on here 'til them pettifogging lawyers moved in!

And it's the "grit" that keeps me up in the middle of the night watching; because I know that that kind of "grit" is fading away in America. The Rooster Cogburns of the world have become marginalized in the great metrosexual revolution. It's not much of a revelation to say that the American man ain't the man he used to be. And, even worse, he's been usurped by a kindler, gentler man; a man glued to gadgetry and the promise of a gravy train from womb to tomb. But there's a nagging thought in every yankee's mind: He knows he's a soft man, nestled in his air conditioned world, and he looks at himself and wonders if he could survive if either hell or high water came his way.

So, at the end of True Grit, as Rooster Cogburn, reins in teeth jumps Mattie's four rail fence, I calm myself with the thought that, come what may, I would eschew the modern man, that I would stare into the face of impending disaster, and with the help of God All Mighty, say, "fill your hands, you son of a bitch!

But for fewer and fewer of us, it is only a fantasy.

Aug 17, 2009

Another Cluster*%#@ brought to you by Barry Obama:

For those of you who believe in the benevolence of our dear leader(s), get a load of this bend over and grab your ankles waste of taxpayer money brought to you by Obamanation. A tid bit from the article:

Here's how it works: If you're eligible, the government will pay to weatherstrip your doors, insulate your walls and ceilings, fix your windows and, in some cases, buy you a new refrigerator and heating system -- all for free. You just have to sign up with a local community-action group (bold - mine...ACORN anyone?), which will send over workers to do the repairs.
It's proving a rip-off -- the government is spending a fortune for each household that benefits. A quarter of the money is squandered on a vast bureaucracy of regulatory field staff, administrators and training
(imagine that?). Also inflating the costs are prevailing-wage mandates and provisions that encourage states to spend the most money on the fewest homes. With $400 million, New York state intends to repair 45,000 units, or nearly $9,000 a home.

Of course, lefties everywhere will opine that this Titanic waste of taxpayer's money - is a good thing because Bush lied and people died, Bush wiretapped people (Of course Bammy is still doing it, but it's OK now), Katrina, etc, etc!


Read the whole nauseating thing here.

Aug 10, 2009

Boy, it sure is bright out here...

I haven't blogged for a while now. It seems I experienced a raging case of information overload. One day I just shut off the tube, the computer, the phone and the lights and crawled into the broom closet. There I assumed the fetal position and stayed that way for 2 weeks, taking only intravenous feedings. Looking back, Id say the tipping point was the whole Gates affair. When highly regarded (and paid) black men, men of great fortune I might add, morph into ghetto banging, head wagging victim mongers, its time to go comatose. So, there in my closet, which strangely resembles my house in shape, size and comfort, I gave up on the blitzkrieg of elitists talking heads groveling before the king...that is, until I stopped drooling and was able to feed myself. Which, in reality, took about two hours.

Actually, I took advantage of a few much needed business opportunities and, just to spice up life a bit, added two daughters, one son in law, a granddaughter, three cats and a dog to the mix in the Three Ball Dead household. So, I've been doing the family thing: meals (the S.I.L. can cook!), picking up, dropping off, going to church with the whole Mr's TBD and I had been an island of two for some time; hence, going from library quiet to Grand Central Station loud has taken some adjusting say the least. But it's a glorious time to be alive; and so it could be said that living life took me away from the blogosphere. As an aside, while I convalesced, I think I downloaded the entire Beatles catalogue to my IPOD (or is that uploaded?). I played the lads at high decibels too: It was a yeah, yeah, yeahfest all throughout the house for days...and all at the expense of (or more aptly for the benefit of) my high school aged daughter and her shaggy boy friend. Lord knows they need some music education...know what I'm saying dog?

But one can't hide from the world forever; and as Barry continues his relentless push to cloth us in those drab Soviet pajamas while waiting for our hip replacements, and to force us into those Not So Smart Cars, I had to suck it up and get back in the game. There's corrupt, hypocritical, sniveling, elitists, limp wristed (think Barry's All Star Game first pitch), Marxist bureaucrats to rant and rave about. There's freedom to defend, legs to break and minds to change. With some of the Obmatrons I've met, the leg breaking option has far more appeal. Their minds are too far gone for them to be of any use...they may as well limp in pain as they line up to bow before the One. Hi Ho.