I wish I could say that it absolutely amazes me how this guy gets away with it. In fact,, it doesn’t amaze me at all when you consider that I could die of old age before the mainstream media get around to calling The One on his bullshit. I’d also be willing to lay some serious odds that the average Joe Blow has no idea what the “public option” or “single payer system” is. Free stuff!!

Verum Serum via Gateway Pundit

It is truly difficult to decide which is the bigger piece of shit: Levi Johnston or CBS “News.”

For my part, I believe that CBS as a news source has become a running joke and that Levi Johnston is a detestable punk who needs — I mean really needs – a world-class asskicking.

What the hell can be said of a society that makes the likes of Levi Johnston a goddamned celebrity?

I have written a bit about how much I enjoy Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka (and its flavor variations). Apparently lots of peeps feel the same way, thereby creating a national market for the product. Under our blessed free-market system (while it lasts), a successful product is sure to attract competition (from a non-governmental entity), which ultimately benefits the marketplace and the consumer.

Such is the case with Sweet Tea Vodka. The Jeremiah Weed Bourbon folks have gone national with Jeremiah Weed Sweet Tea Vodka. My daughter, knowing that I am a vodka swashbuckler, gifted me with a large bottle of the stuff, which I promptly placed in the freezer for the initial chill to be eagerly followed by a generous portion poured over ice – clear ice, of course.

It was excellent. I have not done a side by side comparison with Firefly’s product, nor do I know whether it offers a distinct advantage in price. I do know that it’s a mighty fine drink, well worth your giving it a try.

Here is a video of the intentionally mysterious “Mr. Weed” describing the origin of the stuff. I suspect that this “Down Home” video was produced on Madison Avenue, but I thought you might like to see it anyway.

Last night’s rain squall brought with it a beautiful autumn morning. It’s always great to be awake early enough on a Sunday to have the streets largely to myself. Normally this street is heavily traveled, and the cars are often driven by people who confuse the brake pedal with the horn. Clear day, with cool, comfortable temperature and a rare bit of quiet made for a great Sunday groundpound.

Virtually every sewer grate looked like this one. Last night’s rain took down many of the color-changing leaves, which is a bad thing, and it clogged the storm sewers resulting in many flooded streets and horrendous driving conditions, which was a really bad thing.

My thoughts meandered, but they tended to drift in the direction of the excellent peeps I didn’t have a chance to see this weekend in Tennessee, as I absolutely, positively had to be somewhere else. It was the first gathering there that I’ve missed. I look forward to reading all about it.

Probably NSFW.

From da Mailbag.

President BARACK OBAMA was invited to address a major gathering of the American Indian Nation two weeks ago in upstate New York . He spoke for almost an hour about his plans for increasing every Native American’s present standard of living. He referred to his time as a U.S. Senator and how he had voted for every Native American issue that came to the floor of the Senate.

Although President Obama was vague about the details of his plans, he seemed most enthusiastic and spoke eloquently about his ideas for helping his “red sisters and brothers.” At the conclusion of his speech, the Tribes presented Obama with a plaque inscribed with his new Indian name, “Walking Eagle.” The proud President then departed in his motorcade to a fundraiser, waving to the crowds.

A news reporter later asked the group of chiefs how they came to select the new name they had given to the President.

They explained that “Walking Eagle” is the name given to a bird so full of shit it can no longer fly.

Rimshot!

Thanks to Captain Artie.

Thanks to JerseyJerry for the cool rimshot sound effect.

Hey, Gang. It’s time to play “Death is Not an Option” again. Remember, the rules are you must choose one of the options provided, and keep in mind that death is not an option.

Would you rather:

(a) Be Mr. Pelosi; or
(b) Be Mr. Bobbit?
Remember, death is not an option.

(a) Watch a non-stop DVD of an entire year’s worth of Keith Olbermann’s “Special Commentaries”; or
(b) Passionately mug it up with Joy Behar?
Remember, death is not an option.

(a) Listen to Yoko Ono’s “Greatest Hits” repeated non-stop for 72 hours; or
(b) Have one of your ears bitten off by a rabid raccoon?
Remember, death is not an option.

(a) Watch Barbra Streisand pole dance naked; or
(b) Pour gasoline on your stindeens and light them on fire?
Remember, death is not an option.

(a) Spend an evening with Bill Maher; or
(b) Have a ten penny nail driven into your forehead?
Remember, death is not an option.

(a) Work as a New York Times reporter; or
(b) Shovel elephant shit at the circus?
Remember, death is not an option.

Tony Williams has been banging around in my cruller all day.

Tony Williams, a Jersey Guy by birth, was the lead singer in the Platters in the fifties and sixties, and, quite simply, it is difficult to find a more gorilla stompin’ voice. He could sing the shit out of a song. Here is one of my faves.

Ready for another?

Here he is singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Unfortunately, the video cuts off, by milliseconds, the last note in the song, but you get the idea. Tony Williams had some chops. Snoop Dog and Kanye just don’t pack that kind of farookin’ gear.

If you’re still with me, take a listen to Tony Williams singing “Harbor Lights.”

They just don’t make ’em like Tony Williams any more.

This morning, as I went out the front door for my groundpound, I noticed that there was a bit of frost on the grass. I had already changed my morning wardrobe to include sweat pants and a long-sleeved top under my nylon shell, but today was the first day where the autumn snap in the air was more than evident.

As I was walking, I began to cogitate about yet another impending winter, and I got to thinking about maybe writing later about the things that really stink about winter. So, that’s what I’m doing. Off the top of my cruller, here they are:

1. Bone-shattering cold: Groundpounding in the cold weather can be invigorating, particularly after one gets moving and the blood circulating, but once the temperatures head into the single digits and the hawk appears in full force, groundpounding requires several layers and takes some serious grit.

2. Snow: Yes, it is beautiful when it first falls and covers the ground with an undulating sheet of white, but all that ends when you have to drive in, shovel, pile, or snow blow that crap. During a snowstorm, I’ve marveled at peeps from Florida who have never seen the stuff spread their arms out with joy and do a slow circle dance with their tongues out to catch some flakes. WTF?? I suppose it isn’t much different than how we Northerners look to Floridians when we venture to the Sunshine State to break our asses giving ourselves second-degree burns in the summer sun.

3. Cabin Fever: The winter often limits one’s outdoor time to running to and from the car to attend to necessary things like working, shopping or trips to the doc. The rest of the time is spent squirreled up in the house, which, after a while, can make a person a bit nuts. Alcohol and a nearby friendly saloon help.

4. Dark: It is really depressing when it becomes dark at 4:30 in the afternoon. I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in a place like farookin’ Greenland where it is dark for months at a time.

5. Ice: Most of us can drive pretty well in the snow, having driven in it from Day One, but ice is something else. You could be Tony Stewart, but when the car hits a big patch of ice, all bets are off, and your four-wheel drive is useless. Ice also makes groundpounding all but impossible, particularly when the ice is not readily visible. It can keep me inside (see above), rather than risking breaking my ass on a frozen sidewalk. Oh, then there is the joy of scraping ice off the windshield and windows of the car in the morning and evening. Hell, Florida peeps don’t even own an “ice scraper,” while most of us have several of them, including the fancy ones with a broom on the other end of the scraper.

6. The hustle and bustle of the “Holidays”: “Hustle and bustle” my ass. The run-up to Christmas the Holidays is pure chaos and commercial lunacy. Many of the local stores have already dragged out the Christmas Holiday stuff. I sometimes with I could just sleep through it all.

7. Christmas “Holiday” commercials: They are endless and positively sickening. “The Ajax Extension Cord! It makes a wonderful Holiday gift! Get one for dad.”

That is all.

He gets an “A” for determination.

Swiped it from Denny.