Raconteur Report

Tears For Fears' first chart hit from 1982, and just as true now as it was forty years ago.

Jimmy Buffett's Top 30 classic from 1974.

 h/t 90 Miles From Tyranny , Common Cents

In a letter from his legal counsel to the chairmen and ranking members of Senate and House Oversight and Finance committees, a senior IRS whistleblower alleges that criminal prosecution of Hunter Biden is being politically hindered by his father, Emperor Stumblefuck Poopypants Ist.

This is the exact crime, Obstruction Of Justice - 18 U.S. Code 1505, for which Nixon was going to be impeached when he resigned.

But that won't happen in today's Chiquitastan. The (wholly-owned propaganda arm of the DNC) media will never even mention this as a thing. Woodward and Bernstein are nowhere to be seen, and if they or anyone else made so much as a twitch towards talking about this (which they wouldn't) they'd be found hung from their shower heads, wrists wired together, after committing suicide by shooting themselves in the back of the head seven or eight times apiece. Like happens every day if you cross any of the Five Families of the D party.

That this will continue to be a non-story is yet another nail in the coffin of proof that you are living in a banana republic, with all the trimmings, and have been for quite some time.

In fact, Emperor Poopypants' mouthpiece has already tried to flip the script, and is accusing the whistleblower of being the crook in this drama, and committing a crime by revealing what's going on.

Deny. Obfuscate. Make counter-accusations.

All that remains now is to wait for the shooting to start.

Plan accordingly.

Laissez le bon temps rouler.

We notice with complete lack of surprise that any number of bloggers who stepped all over their wedding tackle with football cleats times without counting over the Baldwin case, who gave us endless rations of shit and bile over our concisely and exhaustively pointing out the actual facts of the case, and who got served a Jurassic park-sized portion of shitburger with yesterday's announcement that all criminal charges have been dropped against Baldwin, and have since then owned up to their errors with even a fraction of the diligence they displayed in making them, can be counted, to date, on our thumbs. And that the story is about as well-covered by the right side of the blogosphere since it broke with almost as much diligence as the MSM has covered Hunter Biden's laptop.

[Pro Tip: If you're just as bad as the Leftards, don't stare off into space wondering how on earth you always manage to get represented in politics by people just as bad as the Leftards. It's not that much of a mystery, is it...?]

Take your lumps and own them, kids. We all know who you are. Everyone knows who you are. Don't be chickenshits about it, or get dug out of your pillboxes with flamethrowers and pitchforks. Just issue your mea culpas and Page B87 retractions, resolve to think with your big head instead of your little one next time, and move on with your lives with a slight stinging sensation in the back of your neck to remind you why thinks are better than feelz as a system of jurisprudence.

Instead of silent butthurt, you should be rejoicing that the criminal justice system, at least in Santa Fe, has at least one prosecutor who can tell their ass from a hole in the ground, can read the cards of a recockulous indictment without having to play that hand, riding their retarded boss' flaming trainwreck over the cliff, and railroading an innocent man in the process. And relax; Baldwin's still just as much of a flaming asshole today as he was two years ago, so you don't have to like him to admit reality. Delusion is the last refuge of a psychotic. C'mon back over to the side of sanity. The water's fine.

This is especially true when you consider that some D.A.'s posse may be coming for one of you next time something goes down. At that point, the rule of law is a better option than the Two Minutes' Hate, don'tcha think?

 h/t horsewithnonick

BREAKING:

All Criminal Charges Against Alec Baldwin Dropped By Santa Fe D.A. - NY Post

Pardon me for a moment.

Surprising me with the speed of the collapse, but not the outcome, it appears obvious that after all the prosecutorial dipshits who ramrodded this witch hunt lost interest and bailed out some weeks back, the flunkie assistant D.A. who caught the case has no great love for watching their own legal reputation blown to fucking doll rags by Baldwin's defense attorneys, and has elected to get the fuck outta Dodge, rather than face the High Noon courtroom showdown that would have ended their legal career.

Boo frickin' hoo.

All of the naysayers and online legal eagles, including a certain Branca-hole, can now bite my shiny metal ass.

Exactly as I told you ought  to happen, because the midwit NM authorities in charge of this monumental clusterfuck never had a legal leg to stand on, from the get-go, and the plea bargain by Dave Halls literally shot a gaping hole in their case before it ever got out of the starting blocks. {Not because of some mythical "let's not prosecute the washed-up second-rate movie star" clause in the NM state constitution.} The second biggest crime in this case was anyone ever indicting Baldwin for any crime, when it was clear within minutes who the actual culprits had to be, necessarily.

Exactly as we told you, and told you, and told you, and told you, and told you, and told you. Many of you, happily, listened. The rest should now stock up on ice bags for your 'roids.

You can't charge someone with criminal negligence with neither a criminal act, nor any duty to be negligent in performing. No elements, no crime. QED

Not content to walk away, the D.A.'s office dropped the charges "without prejudice", probably hoping against reality to someday find or concoct some way not to look like enormous jackasses for filing those idiotic charges in the first place, and so as not to admit the obvious, and open themselves up to a yuuuuuuuge civil suit by Baldwin for false arrest and malicious prosecution, and end up paying him in the bargain. But unless they come up with Baldwin on video loading live rounds into his own gun while cackling like Senator Kneepads, and bragging while twirling the loaded gun on his finger that he was going to kill the whole camera crew, the chances of that are lower than the odds of Hunter Biden discovering a cure for cancer. And if they don't refile by Halloween 2024, the statute of limitations in NM will preclude any further legal action.

The worst thing anyone can pursue will be against the LLC as a whole, which, by definition, has no assets but a cheesy script, a half-completed movie, a cursed production, and a completion bond payout if it's not finished, and a claim against the profits (there won't be any) if it ever is, and gets released. (Ask Art Buchwald how that works.)

All of the Legion Of Butthurt, and those possessed of second-rate intellects, please enjoy a 12-foot-long party sub of Shit Sandwich, with my most extreme compliments.

If Reed, clearly and primarily the actual homicidal criminal in the trial, has the wits God gives any jackass, she'll rapidly plead guilty, take the lumps, and depart the film industry for the rest of her braindead life after prison, other than catching a flick on the tube waiting for her sentence to end, knowing to her grave that her colossal ignorance got an innocent person killed.

Baldwin, meanwhile, deserves all the karma on the planet for being the actor unlucky enough to be holding a prop mis-supervised by such a pair of criminal lackwits, which got cinematographer Hutchins killed, and with a body count as high as Teddy Kennedy, his voice and opinions on gun control are forever silenced. Better late than never.

Take that win in this case, and walk away, instead of trying to gold-plate the turd while holding it from the clean end.

Dulce et decorum est.

And not in a good way. Likely not COVID, just garden variety crud, courtesy of at least one of any number of folks I was around over the weekend.

Nothing I can do about that but guzzle gallons of water and Gatorade, and pop ibuprofen and acetaminophen on schedule.

And appreciate the fact that this is the first time I've been sick at all in about 4 years. Almost like handwashing works or something.

But I've got metric tons of sick days banked, so I think I'ma take a few.

Best Wishes. Regular posting will resume when I feel like it, if anything strikes my fancy.

Totally not missing the ongoing SSDD vibe of the banana republic. Things will continue until they cannot. Then times get interesting. In a Chinese curse sort of way.

Mike wrote this hit, for which the Monkees played their own instruments, as the band escaped the lab, and became the actual group the network never counted on. Peter Tork had the ultimate take "For a group the critics said was no good, we sure sold a lot of records..."

After six days at work, literally saving lives in what was a never-ending conga-line of ICU patients trying very hard to die (and bonus 20-somethings with cardiac complaints, which couldn't possibly be related to the Death Vaxx they all got, nosiree. /sarc), we're off all weekend continuously, for the first time in ages.

Forecast is for bright sunny days, 79°, and non-stop IDGAF until next week, other than Sunday Music. Which general Spring Fever seems to be going around the blogosphere, looking at the usual haunts, and the doldrums most people are blogging who're actually bothering.

If anything catches our interest, we'll get to it. Probably.

But not until we overdose on solar-powered Vitamin D, eating our way around a couple of local fairs and festivals, and generally doing WETF we feel like.

Which isn't likely to include touching a keyboard. Drumsticks, maybe. Both nylon-tipped, and turkey-encased varieties, to a metaphysical certainty. Walking sticks and fishing poles may make an appearance as well.

We heartily commend anyone who's able to similar pursuits, and if anyone just can't take their pack off, go get in some good practice turning ammunition into noise, do more cardio, stock up on canned goods, whether #10 or olive drab, and generally fortify your position for whatever is coming.

Nothing we've seen suggests anything happy or peaceful anytime in the future, other than this weekend's forecast, which is why a lot of outside time is a great way to deal with the impending doom and gloom.

Best wishes.

I've posted this one before. And may do it again. I heard it live and in-person, when it was still fresh news to me. The song still rings true, pushing towards 50 years later, and with where the world is careening day after day, it's ever more necessary to note it on this Day Of Days. What you do with it is your business. Truly.

But as the seismic foreshocks keep hammering away to anyone not catatonic, Spicy Time is definitely approaching, based on current course and speed. We are in unquestionable full Banana Republic status. All it needs now is a currency collapse or revolution to cement that in concrete to the neck. We may yet get both.

Even a few Normies are starting to twig to it. Just a bit. (Hell, who knows? Maybe Hannity or VDH will trip over it at some point, hopefully before molotov cocktails are the local drink of choice.)

But given a little prompting, and a day that's been an embarrassment of riches for commentary and public mockery? Yeah, I'm thinking I'm back.

 Waitwaitwaitwait.

Please, Sweet Jesus, for the love of sanity, for his children's sake, on general principles alone, the Secret Service, somebody, ANYBODY, TACKLE HIM AND DRAG HIM TO SAFETY WITH ALL DISPATCH!!!

1) He's an anti-Not-A-Vaxxer

2) He's going to run as a Democommunist to challenge Emperor Stumblefuck Poopypants Ist, after the crookedest fakest election in US history (and after his uncle's and grandfather's shenanigans in 1960, that's saying something).

3) He's a Kennedy, FFS.

You gotta know, in your bones, exactly as 3000 stand-up comics are going to tell you by dinnertime tonight:

To the small yappy dogs on the porch, and the inertia-laden sophomoric layabouts first to chirp "You first" in every single conversation about anything: No one's asking you to charge cannons all by yourselves. Heaven knows, most of you wouldn't even put on your pants and shoes to try.

Just get off your ass a bit, shift a handful of metaphorical gravel now and then, and maybe give a helpful shove once in a great while.

That's all that's required. Truly. That's the whole secret.

The weight of both Judgement and fecal material stored up and waiting to be unleashed from a great height upon this corrupt shambling corpsified regime is quite sufficient to take care of the rest, far beyond any one person's meager efforts to shift the rudder of human events.

And who knows but that the pebble you dislodge, or the most meager pressure you apply, may be the last tiny bit needed to tip the scale, and change things far beyond your feeble imaginings. If you'll simply get off your brains once or twice, and remember what your limbs are for.

But if you don't do anything differently, you won't get anything different. Inaction reveals the roots from anyone's ass down to bedrock, and explains much of why things are as they are.

If the shoe fits...

h/t Irish of Feral Irishman

With Nike's announcement today that, despite the backlash against Butt Light's choice of a transdelusional fruitcake to front for their product, they too would go with the same...thing, [in this case for their women's wear line(!)] they have effectively just buttf**ked Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, Michael Jordan, Amazon Pictures, Warner Bros. Studios, and half the population of the planet. Without lube. And probably sabotaged both a multi-million dollar picture, and any merchandising tie-ins.

Damon and Affleck were doubtless just trying to document the hagiography of a sports legend and cultural icon. But instead, they got run over by the Woke Train. Hollyweird will double down, but the box office isn't as transfixed by transdelusionality.

Oh, well. Lie down with queers, wake up with monkeypox, I guess. It's gonna leave a mark.

Going with a white delusional cosplay queer as the spokeshole (no pun intended) for a product aimed primarily at young black males? What could possibly go wrong there? And I'm sure no actual biological women will find it offensive that Nike hired a cosplaying mentally ill MAN to shill their women's wear, amirite?

h/t WRSA 

But nota bene: If so much as one Boris is deployed successfully anywhere, Tannerite or components will be illegal to possess in 50 states and seven U.S. territories in the blink of an eye.

Or "BFYTW!"

 h/t John Wilder

Image copyright Paramount Pictures: IJ4: Indiana Jones And The Temple Of What The F**k?

Saw the trailer for IJ5 last week ahead of the final John Wick installment. No word yet on whether the stunts will be CGI, use 80 year-old Harrison Ford himself, or if they'll just sub in a stunt cripple. But word to SNL: If you need a guy to do Biden in comedy sketches, while Harrison's about the right age, Nick Nolte is the right age and identical mental status!

Unnamed White House service personnel reported that Dr. Jill Biden was sedated, after it took seven Secret Service uniformed and plainclothes agents to pry her fingers off the Resolute desk in the Oval Office, as she cried "Mine! Mine! Mine! You can't take it away from me!" 

All financial trading on Wall Street will be suspended on Monday, though overseas markets unaffected by the U.S. freeze have soared to record highs, but Acting President McCarthy, flanked by Majority leader Bitch McConjob and several prominent GOPe senators, requests calm at this difficult time, pledging that "nothing in D.C. will change. It will be business as usual, for the foreseeable future."

In a triumphal procession led by the last three running T-34s in the Russian Army, with a line of FSB security police in armored trucks helpfully goading them along, the Russian Army took full control of Kiev today, to cheering thousands in the capitol of the former Ukraine, and warming the hearts of dozens of people worldwide giving Putin a daily tongue bath for over a year.

Despite no visible evidence of any Russian winter offensive at any point in the last six months, and with Russia still unable to fully control the long-disputed city of Bakhmut, the entire Ukrainian Army - both of them - went home, after halting the advance of the entire Russian Army with just slingshots, water balloons, pointed sticks, and occasionally jumping up out of hiding and yelling "Ooga Booga!" for most of that time, according to some of the internet's foremost military experts.

No explanation was forthcoming from Moscow as to how their advance was restrained for so long, what with all the other four Ukrainian soldiers being dead twice over for months now, but authorities from Marshall Shoigu's office expressed frank astonishment that they had finally managed to get their tanks to go in a gear besides reverse, and even more so that they had managed the entire trip from the border to Kiev, almost an unbelievable 170 miles - shorter than the distance from Disney World to Miami, and almost as far as two day's ride in the Tour De France - without breaking down or running out of gas.

"Sometimes," said a senior aide, "you just don't look a gift horse like that in the mouth."

In a clear demonstration of Russia's goodwill and friendship with Ukraine, and following their centuries' long tradition, the entire former government of Ukraine down to mayors and dog catchers were rounded up and shot, including their spouses, children, and anyone who looked vaguely related.

"Good enough for the Czar, good enough for these local apparatchiks" said one local military commander.

In paroxysms of glee and ecstasy, five more Russian generals committed suicide, three by shooting themselves in the back of the head 5-8 times apiece with their hands tied, and two more by throwing themselves through closed windows 10 stories up in their apartments.