Yep I really hate cats & love these pair of commercials.
https://youtu.be/hLIkjWFNAKI
Month: February 2019
Presented, with my own commentary, is “Things No Wife Wants to Hear” from some website I’ve never heard of called BestLifeOnline.
What’s really frustrating about this article is that the things to never say are pretty reasonable (though it could have been cut down to fifteen items).
The explanations, on the other hand, are absolute rubbish, provided by professional therapists who make money by convincing people that they have perpetual problems which can only be fixed with more therapy.
So without further preamble, and in the style of Larry Correia, here’s my take on twenty things to never say or not say to your wife. The original article’s points are in bold, my responses are in italics.
- You remind me of my mother.
Yeah, don’t ever do this. Also, don’t say that she reminds you of her mother either. No good can come from either of these sentences.
- Get over it.
Don’t say this either. - Don’t take this personally.
Look, just don’t say this to anyone, ever. Because any statement that you have to preface with this phrase, the hearer is going to take personally. Better to just not say it. - You’re just better with the kids than I am.
You’re only saying this to get out of something you don’t want to do with the kids. Man up and do it. - I want a divorce.
The article says don’t say this if you’re serious. They’re wrong. Don’t say this. Period. Even as a joke. It’s one of those things that gets inside your brain, and once it’s spoken, even as a joke, it’s going to start percolating back there. This sentence should be entirely obliterated from your conversation, unless you are absolutely, 100% serious about following through. - Relax!
This is just another way of saying “Get over it.” Don’t do it. Why you wanna go through it? - Why don’t we have sex like we used to?
Do you want all sexytime to come to a screeching halt? No? Then don’t ask this. Things change, people get busier. Sex drives adjust. It’s reasonable and healthy to talk about what frequency you’d like to be doing the nasty, but before you to that, take a look in the mirror. Are you still the young stud you were when you two first met? Or have you put on a few pounds, maybe stopped trimming that unibrow as much, and are once again wearing that ratty t-shirt that she keeps telling you she hates? Fix yourself first, then have that conversation.
Also, women are not automated loving dispensers where if you do the flawless ten steps, you get the same results every time. Sometimes you can do everything right, and something really is going on. But before you jump to that conclusion and start thinking zebras when you hear hoofprints, see the advice above. Look in the mirror. When’s the last time you did the dishes, put away your shirts, or actually did one of those things she keeps asking you to get done? Fix yourself first. - You were so hot when we met.
Key word here: “Were.” Past tense. As in, you’re not that hot anymore, what happened? If you say this, you’re an idiot and deserve to sleep on the couch. - Is that what you’re wearing?
This is another colossally dumb thing to say. If you absolutely must question her choice of attire, frame it in the form of a compliment, i.e. “Honey, you look great, but I’m not sure your black cocktail dress is appropriate for an afternoon BBQ party at Bob’s house.” Either she’ll change, or she’ll tell you why you’re wrong. Either way, shut up and do not proceed further with this conversation. - Stop nagging me.
Maybe she really is nagging you, but the odds are, she isn’t. Shut up, say “Yes, dear” and move on. Better yet, get organized, start a Bullet Journal, and actually start getting things done around the house. Hey, it might solve phrase seven while you’re at it! - Yes, that outfit does make you look fat.
See also when to tell her “Relax”, or “Get over it.” - What did you say?
Now here’s the thing: you really should be paying attention, not half-listening for something important while checking the game scores on your phone. But, it’s better to stop, admit you weren’t listening, and ask her to repeat the past statement, rather than agree to host a play-date with the Millers next weekend because you weren’t really listening, and just mumbled “Okay” to her question. Also, she already knew you weren’t listening. And if you’re only selectively listening to her, why exactly is she supposed to be paying rapt attention to your words? - We’re out of money.
If the budget is empty for the month, she needs to know. Financial responsibility conversations suck, but you absolutely have to have them, regardless of who the spender is. Ignoring the problem or covering it up will only make things worse later. - In a minute
Do you mean you’re actually going to do it as soon as you finish whatever task you’re doing now? Say that. Do you mean you’re going to get to this new thing when Hell freezes over? Don’t say that, but at least acknowledge truthfully that you’re not going to get to it in her immediate timeframe. Also see thing #10. If you just got off your ass and did the thing, you wouldn’t feel like she’s nagging you to do it. - Did you finish?
If you have to ask, you’re doing it wrong. - I know I said I would do it, but…
See #14, In a minute… - I’m not attracted to you right now
See “Yes that makes you look fat”, “I want a divorce”, “Relax”, and “Get over it.” - Calm down
See “I’m not attracted to you right now”, “Yes, that makes you look fat”, “I want a divorce”, “Relax”, and “Get over it.” - I have an STD
Did you get this from a past partner? Then it should have come up WAAAAAAAAY before getting married. Did you get it after you got married? Then you’re an unfaithful dumbass not even smart enough to properly use protection for your idiotic dalliances. Prepare to get screwed in court when the next words out her mouth are “I want a divorce.” - Silence
After all of these things to not say, a reasonable man would conclude that if you are inclined to respond with any of these things, it would better to stay silent. No, says the article, you must say something! So damned if you do, damned if you don’t. If you absolutely must say something then, use something honest to buy time like “Can I think about this and get back to you? I’m not prepared to answer that right now.”
This rifle would make an excellent starter rifle for a new Rookie.
Categories
Just because NSFW
It’s not a real President’s birthday (Lincoln was the 12th, Washington is the 22nd), but everyone wants a day off, so sorry Abe and George, but we’re taking it today.
But in the spirit intended for the holiday, let me offer up Borepatch’s bestest and worstest lists for Presidents.
Top Five:
#5: Calvin Coolidge
Nothing To Report is a fine epitaph for a President, in this day of unbridled expansion of Leviathan.
#4. Thomas Jefferson.
Jefferson is perhaps the last (and first) President who exercised extra-Constitutional power in a manner that was unambiguously beneficial for the Republic (the Louisiana Purchase). He repealed Adam’s noxious Alien and Sedition Acts and pardoned those convicted under them.
#3. Grover Cleveland.
He didn’t like the pomp and circumstance of the office, and he hated the payoffs so common then and now. He continually vetoed pork spending (including for veterans of the War Between the States), so much so that he was defeated for re-election, but unusually won a second term later.
This quote is priceless (would that Latter Day Presidents rise so high), on vetoing a farm relief bill: “Federal aid in such cases encourages the expectation of paternal care on the part of the Government and weakens the sturdiness of our national character.”
#2. Ronald Reagan
He at least tried to slow down the growth of Leviathan, the first President to do so in over half a century (see entry #5, above). He would have reduced it further, except that his opposition to the Soviet fascist state and determination to end it cost boatloads of cash.
It also caused outrage among the home grown fascists in the Media and Universities, but was wildly popular among the general population which was (and hopefully still remains) sane.
#1. George Washington
Could have been King. Wasn’t. Q.E.D.
Bottom Five:
#5. John Adams.
There’s no way to read the Alien and Sedition Acts as anything other than a blatant violation of the First Amendment. It’s a sad statement that the first violation of a Presidential Oath of Office was with President #2.
#4. Woodrow Wilson.
Not only did he revive the spirit of Adams’ Sedition Acts, he caused a Presidential opponent to be imprisoned under the terms of his grotesque Sedition Act of 1918. He was Progressivism incarnate: he lied us into war, he jailed the anti-war opposition, he instituted a draft, and he was entirely soft-headed when it came to foreign policy. The fact that Progressives love him (and hate George W. Bush) says all you need to know about them.
#3 Lyndon Johnson.
An able legislator who was able to get bills passed without having any real idea what they would do once enacted, he is responsible for more Americans living in poverty and despair than any occupant of the White House, and that says a lot.
#2. Franklin Roosevelt.
America’s Mussolini – ruling extra-Constitutionally fixing wages and prices, packing the Supreme Court, and transforming the country into a bunch of takers who would sell their votes for a trifle. At least Mussolini met an honorable end.
#1. Abraham Lincoln.
There’s no doubt that the Constitution never would have been ratified if the States hadn’t thought they could leave if they needed to. Lincoln saw to it that 10% of the military-age male population was killed or wounded preventing that in an extra-Constitutional debacle unequaled in the Republic’s history. Along the way, he suspended Habeas Corpus, instituted the first ever draft on these shores, and jailed political opponents as he saw fit. Needless to say, Progressives adore him.
So happy President’s Day. Thankfully, the recent occupants of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue haven’t gotten this bad. Yet.
Just remember that a little knowledge can be very dangerous & expensive too! As I have learned repeatedly over the years myself!
This looks like a good solid field gun to me! But there have been rumors that the Bolt Handle had some problems.
Today we will ponder America, a country, even a civilization, that existed long ago where the United States is today, but bore little resemblance to it.
It will be like studying cave drawings, or Sargon of Akkad. Pay attention. The is original source material of historical importance.
I was there, in America: Athens, Alabama, at age twelve.
Athens was small and Southern, drowsy in summer, kind of comfortable feeling, not much concerned with the outside world. It left the world alone and the world left it alone. In those days, people in a lot of places figured this was pretty workable.
Kids went barefoot. So help me. After about two weeks in spring your feet got tough and you could walk on anything, except maybe gravelly black asphalt that got hotter than the hinges.
Parents let you do it. Today I guess it would be a hate crime, and you’d get an ambulance, three squad cars and Child Protective Services all honking and blowing and being important. We didn’t know we needed protecting. Maybe we didn’t.
It wasn’t like today. When your dog wanted to go out, she did, and went where she thought was a good idea, and nobody cared, and she came back when she thought that was a good idea, and everybody was content. She probably slept on your bed, too.
Today it would be a health crisis with the ambulance and squad cars. We just didn’t know any better. I don’t remember anybody dying of dog poisoning.
Now, BB guns. We all had one, every kid that was eleven years old. Boy kids, anyway. Mostly they were Red Ryder, for four dollars, but I had a Daisy Eagle, that had a plastic telescopic sight, and was no end uptown. I was always aristocratic. Anyway, you could go into any little corner store and get a pack of BBs for a nickel.
In downtown Athens–there was about a block of it, around the square–there was the Limestone Drugstore. It’s still there, like them pyramids at Geezer. Kids came in like hoplites or cohorts or hordes, or anyway one of those things in history and leaned their BB guns near the door, with their baseball gloves too usually.
Nobody cared. We didn’t shoot each other with the BB guns because we just didn’t. It’s how things used to be. We didn’t need the po-leese to tell us not to do it because it wasn’t something we did. Shooting another kid was like gargling fishhooks or taking poison. You could do it, but probably wouldn’t.
Anyway the man that owned the Limestone was about eighty or a hundred years old and had frizzy red hair like a bottle brush and his name was Coochie. It’s what everyone called him anyway. He liked little boys–not like those Catholic preachers always in the newspapers–we didn’t do that either–but just liked kids.
There was this big rack of comic books that nobody ever bought but you just took them to a table and read them till they fell into dust and drank cherry cokes and ate nickel pecan pies. I think Coochie used comic books as bait so he could talk to us. It was mighty fine.
We all had pocket knives, or mostly anyway. If you were rich you had a Buck knife. That was the best kind. We’d take them to school because they were in our pockets and it was hard to leave your pocket somewhere even if you thought of it. You could carve your initials on your desk when the teacher wasn’t looking.
Today if you had a knife in school you’d get the squad cars and ambulance and get handcuffed and have to listen to a psychologist lady until you wanted to kill someone. Probably her.
It was different then, back in America. We didn’t think of stabbing anybody. It would have seemed like a damn fool idea, like eating a peanut butter sandwich dipped in kerosene.
It wasn’t how people were. I guess how people are is what they’re going to do, not what laws you have. You can tell a possum to sing church songs, but he won’t, because a possum just doesn’t have it in him. It’s not how he is.
When you shot a BB gun at something that needed shooting, like an insulator of a telephone pole, it was like a thing of beauty. You could see the BB sail away, all coppery and glinty against blue sky and it was like a poem or something.
Maybe anyway. You could see it start to drop when the speed wore off and go sideways a little with the wind where there was any. You learned to calculate and you could hit just about anything.
Lots of things was different. Water fountains on the town square said White and Colored, White folks and black people didn’t mix at all.
I thought it saved trouble for everybody but people from up North said it was wrong and I guess it was.
Now the black folks up north are killing each other by hundreds, the papers say, and I’m not sure why that’s a good idea, but then blacks in places like Newark and Detroit have really good schools because Northerners really care about blacks and they mostly go to Harvard, so I guess it’s a lot better.
Another thing you could do with a BB gun was to get a twelve-gauge shotgun shell which you could do in several ways. You might steal it from your dad’s gun rack if he had one, or stick it inside a roll of toilet paper in a store and buy the toilet paper. But I don’t know anything about that.
Anyway you could cut the shell off just in front of the powder and put the powder and primer on the end of the barrel of the BB gun. Pow! A spray of orange sparks would shoot into the air. It was real satisfying. It may not have been real smart.
Finally, manners, morals, and language as practiced in America. As boys, which is to say small barbarians in need, when alone together, of socialization, we insulted each other. “I’ll slap the far outa you, you no-count scandal.” I will slap the fire out of you, you scoundrel of no account. Or, “You ain’t got the sense God give a crabapple.”
But, barefoot and tatterdemalion though we might be, or in fact certainly were, the elements of civilization had been impressed on us. We did not cuss or talk dirty in the presence of girls or women. We didn’t curse out teachers neither. I don’t rightly know what would have happened if someone had tried it.
No one did. We weren’t that kind of people. It’s the kind of people you are that counts.At least, that’swhat I reckon. Even at twelve, I had that figured out.
It will be like studying cave drawings, or Sargon of Akkad. Pay attention. The is original source material of historical importance.
I was there, in America: Athens, Alabama, at age twelve.
Athens was small and Southern, drowsy in summer, kind of comfortable feeling, not much concerned with the outside world. It left the world alone and the world left it alone. In those days, people in a lot of places figured this was pretty workable.
Kids went barefoot. So help me. After about two weeks in spring your feet got tough and you could walk on anything, except maybe gravelly black asphalt that got hotter than the hinges.
Parents let you do it. Today I guess it would be a hate crime, and you’d get an ambulance, three squad cars and Child Protective Services all honking and blowing and being important. We didn’t know we needed protecting. Maybe we didn’t.
It wasn’t like today. When your dog wanted to go out, she did, and went where she thought was a good idea, and nobody cared, and she came back when she thought that was a good idea, and everybody was content. She probably slept on your bed, too.
Today it would be a health crisis with the ambulance and squad cars. We just didn’t know any better. I don’t remember anybody dying of dog poisoning.
Now, BB guns. We all had one, every kid that was eleven years old. Boy kids, anyway. Mostly they were Red Ryder, for four dollars, but I had a Daisy Eagle, that had a plastic telescopic sight, and was no end uptown. I was always aristocratic. Anyway, you could go into any little corner store and get a pack of BBs for a nickel.
In downtown Athens–there was about a block of it, around the square–there was the Limestone Drugstore. It’s still there, like them pyramids at Geezer. Kids came in like hoplites or cohorts or hordes, or anyway one of those things in history and leaned their BB guns near the door, with their baseball gloves too usually.
Nobody cared. We didn’t shoot each other with the BB guns because we just didn’t. It’s how things used to be. We didn’t need the po-leese to tell us not to do it because it wasn’t something we did. Shooting another kid was like gargling fishhooks or taking poison. You could do it, but probably wouldn’t.
Anyway the man that owned the Limestone was about eighty or a hundred years old and had frizzy red hair like a bottle brush and his name was Coochie. It’s what everyone called him anyway. He liked little boys–not like those Catholic preachers always in the newspapers–we didn’t do that either–but just liked kids.
There was this big rack of comic books that nobody ever bought but you just took them to a table and read them till they fell into dust and drank cherry cokes and ate nickel pecan pies. I think Coochie used comic books as bait so he could talk to us. It was mighty fine.
We all had pocket knives, or mostly anyway. If you were rich you had a Buck knife. That was the best kind. We’d take them to school because they were in our pockets and it was hard to leave your pocket somewhere even if you thought of it. You could carve your initials on your desk when the teacher wasn’t looking.
Today if you had a knife in school you’d get the squad cars and ambulance and get handcuffed and have to listen to a psychologist lady until you wanted to kill someone. Probably her.
It was different then, back in America. We didn’t think of stabbing anybody. It would have seemed like a damn fool idea, like eating a peanut butter sandwich dipped in kerosene.
It wasn’t how people were. I guess how people are is what they’re going to do, not what laws you have. You can tell a possum to sing church songs, but he won’t, because a possum just doesn’t have it in him. It’s not how he is.
When you shot a BB gun at something that needed shooting, like an insulator of a telephone pole, it was like a thing of beauty. You could see the BB sail away, all coppery and glinty against blue sky and it was like a poem or something.
Maybe anyway. You could see it start to drop when the speed wore off and go sideways a little with the wind where there was any. You learned to calculate and you could hit just about anything.
Lots of things was different. Water fountains on the town square said White and Colored, White folks and black people didn’t mix at all.
I thought it saved trouble for everybody but people from up North said it was wrong and I guess it was.
Now the black folks up north are killing each other by hundreds, the papers say, and I’m not sure why that’s a good idea, but then blacks in places like Newark and Detroit have really good schools because Northerners really care about blacks and they mostly go to Harvard, so I guess it’s a lot better.
Another thing you could do with a BB gun was to get a twelve-gauge shotgun shell which you could do in several ways. You might steal it from your dad’s gun rack if he had one, or stick it inside a roll of toilet paper in a store and buy the toilet paper. But I don’t know anything about that.
Anyway you could cut the shell off just in front of the powder and put the powder and primer on the end of the barrel of the BB gun. Pow! A spray of orange sparks would shoot into the air. It was real satisfying. It may not have been real smart.
Finally, manners, morals, and language as practiced in America. As boys, which is to say small barbarians in need, when alone together, of socialization, we insulted each other. “I’ll slap the far outa you, you no-count scandal.” I will slap the fire out of you, you scoundrel of no account. Or, “You ain’t got the sense God give a crabapple.”
But, barefoot and tatterdemalion though we might be, or in fact certainly were, the elements of civilization had been impressed on us. We did not cuss or talk dirty in the presence of girls or women. We didn’t curse out teachers neither. I don’t rightly know what would have happened if someone had tried it.
No one did. We weren’t that kind of people. It’s the kind of people you are that counts.At least, that’swhat I reckon. Even at twelve, I had that figured out.