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December 17th, 2014
07:01 am


The Interview New York City Premiere Canceled
Under threats of North Korean terrorist attacks, the New York City premiere of The Interview has been canceled.

And now the chickens of Benghazi 2012 have truly come home to roost.  Obama responded to the Benghazi terrorist attacks by persecuting a US-based film maker and leaving the terrorists responsible unpunished.  And we all told ourselves:  "It's okay.  We're still free.  We just can't criticize Mohammed.  It's just that one thing."

Nope.  That's not how reality works.  We've demonstrated to the world that we will roll over and submit to even weaker foes who threaten us based on being mad about our expression of ideas.  And that sort of admission of weakness is open-ended.  Once we've submitted to one such threat, why not the next, or the next?

If the threat were being made from someone in America, we could of course arrest and prosecute them.  When  sort of threat is made internationally by a Power, the remedy is war, or its credible threat.

The person in charge of prosecuting such wars so as to end such threats is the President of the United States.  But this President is not clear that he even supports America.  He's ashamed of America and would never consider killing people abroad to defend American liberties.

So he doesn't.

And a little more of our freedoms die.

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12:47 am


Aitzaz Hasan Bangash, age 14, died saving his school from a suicide bomber
cutelildrow pointed me to her post "These Were Heroes" about ordinary people who stymied Islamist terrorillyst attacks, specifically Aitzaz Hasan Bangash, a 14-year-old Pakistani who died saving his school from a Taliban suicide bomber.  Thanks to Aitzaz's heroic sacrifice, the bomber failed to kill anyone else.  He was by our standards a minor child -- but he made the decision of a man and he died like a man.

I salute him.

It is astonishing that anyone who is neither an Islamist or insane cares a whit for what happens to any Taliban, given that murdering schoolchildren is their intentional and deliberate policy.  In my opinion, Taliban and Taliban sympathizers alike deserve to die, in as painful and humiliating a fashion as possible.

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December 16th, 2014
01:02 pm


Sony Hackers Threaten Terrorist Attacks on American Soil
Hackers, very obviously agents of the North Korean government, have for a while now been trying to shut down a movie, The Interview, because it depicts an assassination attempt upon the Sacred Personage of the North Korean leader, mad tyrant Kim Jong Un.  Previous attacks on Sony included interference with commerce and other cyber-crimes committed against American soil.  Now, Kim Jong Un's stooges, the so-called "Guardians of Peace," are making explicit threats to make physical terrorist attacks on America should we dare to show the film.

In other words, Kim Jong Un is claiming the right to censor our movies.

These are the fruits of Obama's weakness being reaped.  The chances are that there will be no physical terrorist attacks.  But if they are, they will be because the mad Nork tyrant does not believe that bombs against American theatres will be followed by bombs detonating against Pyongyang, or even a reduction of tribute paid him by America and other Western nations.  And even the threat should be punished, lest it create a chilling climate in which we in the West fear criticizing the subhuman ape-thing that claims to be the Leader of North Korea, who should indeed be assassinated for the good of his people and all Mankind.

I can be very specific about what emboldens Kim Jong Un.  Obama tried to deflect criticism for his ineptitude in the Benghazi attack of 9/11/2012 by blaming a film-maker for making an anti-Islamic film.  He even, violating the First Amendment to the US Constitution, jailed the film-maker on a technicality.

What is Obama doing about this new threat to wage war against America? Nothing. As usual.

Americans, do you want this to continue?  Vote Democrat in 2016.

Do you want this to end, and the lives of those who would threaten us at home to end under American firepower?  Then vote Republican in 2016.

The choice is that simple.

Current Mood: angryangry
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December 14th, 2014
10:35 pm


Muslim terrorist holds 40-50 people prisoner in Sydney chocolate shop
According to Fox News, 3 people escaped the gunman.  He apparently forced several people inside the shop to hold up a black flag with the Arabic word "There is no god but Allah and Muhammed is his  Prophet" -- the famous Shitheada, or Declaration of Insanity that all Muslims learn to bleat.

No word on any casualties yet.  I hope that the gunman is killed, and that no humans are harmed in this affiar.

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December 6th, 2014
04:50 am


"Limerick on Michael Brown," by Ashley Ray Goldenberg (2014)
Ashley Ray Goldenberg has been subject to a lot of abuse by self-proclaimed Social Justice Warriors for having posted this poem.  Some of this abuse is extreme illegal, and I devoutly hope that the persons who engaged in it are arrested, convicted, and have the privilege of personally meeting and getting to know such nice young gentle giants such as Michael Brown.  Hopefully, the Social Justice Warriors will not be slain by them, but instead have to live their whole lives out with the trauma these pleasant young fellows inflict upon their trembling persons, waking late in the night decades in the future with nightmares about their abuse by them.

But enough happy wishes!  Here's the poem:

There once was a thug named Brown,
Who bum-rushed a cop with a frown,
Six bullets later,
He met his creator,
Then his homies burnt down the town.

Succinct and to the point, and I hope that Michael Brown is enjoying his new home in Hell.  I'm an atheist, so I doubt it -- but I can always hope, can't I?

Here's "Student threatened with rape, death after Ferguson poem," by Maggie Lit in Campus Reform, which describes the nature of this abuse in detail -- including its obviously misogynistic components.

Two of the SJW's are ‘agalaxtical’ and ‘slutsonlyclub’.  (*waves to them*)  I'm going to be warm and dry and happy and free when you get raped daily in prison by the kind of people you imagine are your allies.  Nice to meet you!  Have long and trauma-filled lives!

Comments --- from SJW's or decent human beings alike -- are as always welcome.  :)

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December 5th, 2014
11:09 am


"Ooze" (1923) by Anthony M. Rud, with Notes and Review, up on Fantastic Worlds
© 1923
Anthony M. Rud

In the heart of a second-growth piney-woods jungle of southern Alabama, a region sparsely settled by backwoods blacks and Cajans  — that queer, half-wild people descended from Acadian exiles of the middle eighteenth century (1) — stands a strange, enormous ruin.

Interminable trailers of Cherokee rose, white-laden during a single month of spring, have climbed the heights of its three remaining walls. Palmetto fans rise knee high above the base. A dozen scattered live oaks, now belying their nomenclature because of choking tufts of gray, Spanish moss and two-foot circlets of mistletoe parasite which have stripped bare of foliage the gnarled, knotted limbs, lean fantastic beards against the crumbling brick.

Immediately beyond, where the ground becomes soggier and lower — dropping away hopelessly into the tangle of dogwood, holly, poison sumac and pitcher plants that is Moccasin Swamp — undergrowth of ti-ti and annis has formed a protecting wall impenetrable to all save the furtive ones. Some few outcasts utilize the stinking depths of that sinister swamp, distilling “shinny” of “pure cawn” liquor for illicit trade (2).

Tradition states that this is the case, at least — a tradition which antedates that of the premature ruin by many decades. I believe it, for during evenings intervening between investigations of the awesome spot I often was approached as a possible customer by woodbillies who could not fathom how anyone dared venture near without plenteous fortification of liquid courage.

I know “shinny,” therefore I did not purchase it for personal consumption. A dozen times I bought a quart or two, merely to establish credit among the Cajans, pouring away the vile stuff immediately into the sodden ground. It seemed then that only through filtration and condensation of their dozens of weird tales regarding “Daid House” could I arrive at understanding of the mystery and weight of horror hanging about the place.

Certain it is that out of all the superstitious cautioning, head-wagging and whispered nonsensities I obtained only two indisputable facts. The first was that no money, and no supporting battery of ten-gauge shotguns loaded with chilled shot, could induce either Cajan or darky of the region to approach within five hundred yards of that flowering wall! The second fact I shall dwell upon later.

Perhaps it would be as well, as I am only a mouthpiece in this chronicle, to relate in brief why I came to Alabama on this mission (3).

What is the narrator's mission?  Will he succeed or fail?  Find out, on Fantastic Worlds!

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December 4th, 2014
04:11 pm


SF Lit-Critterdom and Political Correctness as a Means of Temporal Tariff
"SF Lit-Critterdom and Political Correctness as a Means of Temporal Tariff"

© 2014


Jordan S. Bassior


I was recently looking through the Table of Contents of Weinberg, Dziemianowicz & Greenberg's excellent anthology 100 Wild Little Weird Tales (© 1994) and reflecting upon the fact that almost all these stories were now in the public domain owing to the expiration of copyright.  And I thought that I was fortunate to live in an age where so many really excellent old stories were now available for free.  (In fact, I got the anthology as a present from someone who bought it at a library book sale, so it was close to free for both me and my benefactor).

Then (as I tend to do, because I take a relative and historical view of Time) it occurred to me to ask myself:  would the same thing be true if I were in the world of 40 years ago, when my 10-year-old self started to become seriously interested in science fiction, fantasy and horror?  And the answer is "No," and the reason for this answer is interesting.

What is the Reason?Collapse )


Science fiction is the most imaginative, highest and most extensive form of human literature.  It embraces within it as subgenres all mundanity.  Its fall would have been terrible; thankfully, because we do still live in a free society, it shall not fall.

A century from now, fans will still be enjoying the fun and exciting fictional settings great science fiction writers create today, and those which they created a century ago.  And, of course, new science fiction writers will be creating stories beyond our present imagination.

And the lit-critters will be, deservedly, forgotten.

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02:18 pm


Henry Kuttner's "The Elixir of Invisibility" (1940), with Review, up on Fantastic Worlds
"The Elixir of Invisibility"

© 1940


Henry Kuttner

Richard Raleigh sensed trouble the moment he entered the laboratory. His employer, Dr. Caspar Meek, looked far too pleased with himself. Either somebody was dead or else Meek had been pulling the wings off flies again. That was the way he was. A nice guy who would have got along swell with Torquemada or maybe Nero.

Besides, Raleigh was worrying about his frogs. They had vanished without trace. His bronzed, good-looking face wore an expression of bitterness as he sat down in a protesting chair and tried to marshal the innumerable things he wanted to say to Meek. After a while, he asked,


"Ah," said the scientist, whirling like a Buddha on his desk chair. -His bland, fat face shone in the sunlight. His bald spot glowed with an unholy light.

"Ah," he repeated, with more emphasis. "There you are. Rick. I — uh  — I have finally decided that the job you hold is unworthy of your talents."

"What do you mean, job?" Raleigh asked. "I'm assistant, cook, errand boy, bottle washer and general stooge. Five jobs at least."

Meek ignored the note of irony.

"I have at last decided to allow you to'aid me in niy experiments. You are promoted. We are' colleagues.  Your salary is' still the same," he hastened to add, "but what is money compared to the glory of serving science?"

Raleigh choked back.the impulse to remark that money would mean he could marry Binnie, Meek's lovely but slightly bird-brained daughter. How a heel like the Doc could have fathered such an angel as Binnie was an insoluble problem. It created its own problems too. For Binnie was an old-fashioned girl and wouldn't marry without her father's permission.

"Get Daddy to say 'yes'," she had murmured into her lover's ear, "and everything will be swell ... "

"Did you speak?" Meek inquired, breaking into his thoughts.

"'Frogs' was all I said," Raleigh grunted. "Two months I've been raising giant frogs to make some extra money, and now I find the frog pond empty." His gaze searched the room.

For some reason Meek chuckled.

"Never mind that. Look here."

He indicated several small glass vials that stood on his desk, some with red and some with green labels.

"Let's get to business. I expect some visitors shortly, and I want you to stay here till they go. Don't say anything. Jtist listen." - .

Raleigh stared at the vials.

"Oh. Your invisibility elixir. Who are the visitors?"


"Uh?" The young man goggled. "After what happened? After the gags the papers have been running—"

A singularly nasty gleam came into Meek's blue eyes.

"Yes. They called me a faker, I believe—a publicity-hunter. Well, I think they've changed their minds.

"Ah—there's the bell."

Raleigh sighed, got up, went into the outer office, opened the door. and was brushed on a wave of excited reporters. A dozen of them at least, yelping for Doctor Meek and with blood in their eyes. Vaguely hoping that they'd tear the scientist limb from limb, Raleigh let them enter.


How will this press conference go?  What will happen with the Elixir of Invisibility?  Will Raleigh marry Binnie?

Find out on Fantastic Worlds!

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November 24th, 2014
11:26 pm


Morons Riot in Ferguson to Defend Rights of Stupid Big People to Rob, Beat Up Small People
After Michael Brown, a really stupid big guy, strong-armed a box of cigars from a store, he was stopped by Officer Darren Wilson, who caught him with the cigars.  Because Michael Brown was a really big guy, and really stupid, he thought he could beat up Officer Wilson, and began doing so.  Officer Wilson then proceeded to demonstrate to him that force really does equal mass times (velocity squared), pumping six bullets into Michael Brown.

"Damn ... I'm real big ... this cannot be!" Michael Brown was not reported to say as the really small lead bullets, traveling at very high speeds, dumped large amounts of momentum into his body, because this was real life and Michael Brown was just an ordinary dangerously-violent bully, not a cartoon villain.  Nor did his body develop cracks, leak tremendous amount of energy, then erupt in a tremendous plasma explosion, though that would have been pretty cool.  Nevertheless, he died.  The average intelligence of the human race was reported to have slightly improved.

This was months ago.  Since then, mobs of morons, defending the rights of big people everywhere to beat up smaller people, have been looking to punish smaller people by devastating the neighborhood of Ferguson, MO, which is inhabited mostly by people smaller than Michael Brown and who he was in the habit of beating up whenever he felt like it.  They claim solidarity with the people of Ferguson, who are apparently dim-witted enough not to notice that this is where they LIVE and it's THEIR stuff getting destroyed.

Today a grand jury, responding to the demands of the law instead of the whining of morons, refused to indict Officer Wilson because he engaged in a perfectly legitimate self-defense shooting of a dangerous, violent and let me add very stupid felon.  The whiny morons have now picked up guns and are shooting randomly in Ferguson.  Hopefully, the National Guard will march in and further increase the average intellect of the human race by shooting the morons, but who knows?  We live in a time of arrant stupidity at the highest levels these days.

There was probably a more dignified way of reporting this, but I've utterly lost patience with these fools.  If you want the version where Michael Brown was a poor widdle gentle-giant and Darren Wilson a cruel killer who ate babies for breakfast, just turn on CNN.  They'll explain why this was all about race and nonsense like that.  I can't be bothered to lie on my own blog.

Current Mood: annoyedannoyed
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November 10th, 2014
01:06 am


Mary Elizabeth Counselman's "The Smiling Face" (1950) up on Fantastic Worlds

“The Smiling Face”

© 1950


Mary Elizabeth Counselman

Sir Cedric Harbin, the British archaeologist, rolled his head from side to side irritably on the canvas cot. It was the scream of a jaru – jaguar – that had waked him this time. Two hours ago, it had been the chittering of night-monkeys, half an hour before that, some other weird jungle-noise.

From.the supine position in which he had been lying for eight sweltering nights already, he glared up at the young Chavante native who v/as fanning him with a giant fern, to keep away the mosquitoes and the tiny vicious little pmm flies that swarmed about him. At his look, the boy grinned apology and began to ply the "shoo-fly" with more energy, the capivara (1) tooth in his pierced lower lip bobbing furiously. Harbin cursed, blinking away the sweat that kept trickling down into his eyes. He tried to sit up despite the adhesive strapped over his bare chest like a cocoon, but sank back with a groan.

Instantly the tent flap opened and a girl hurried in out of the humid night.

“Darling? I thought I heard you groaning. Are you in pain?”

“Not miich. Just — bored! And disgusted! Haven't you gone to bed yet?”

Sir Cedric looked up at her wearily as she bent over him, jgently moppiqg the sweat from his face and neck. She was small and blonde and exquisite,.strikingly beautiful even in her rumpled shirt and jodhpurs. It was when she smiled, however, that one stopped seeing anything else. A quiet humor seemed to emanate from her broad sweetly-curved mouth and sparkling blue eyes, as though they invited one to share some joke that she knew and was about to tell. The Brazilian Indian boy beamed at her, visibly attracted. Harbin, her husband though he looked old enough to have been her father — caught at her hand gratefully.

“Diana,” he sighed, “my dearest. “How the devil you can be so bright and cheery, after the confounded mess I^ve made of this expedition? Walking into tliat boa constrictor like a — like a damned tourist who'd never set foot in the Matto Grosso interior!”

He scowled in self-condemnation. “Don't know why I ever let the Foundation talk meinto tliis jaunt, anyhow. On our hoiieymoon! What was I thinking of, dragging you out into this steaming hell?”

“Now, now, darling!” Diana Harbin laid two fingers over his mouth. She lifted his head tenderly, gave him a sip of herva matte through a bombilla (2) stuck in a gourd, tlien riffled through a month-old magazine.

“Here; do try to read_and relax. You can't go hunting your precious Lost City with three broken ribs, and that's all there is to it. So stop fretting about it! Mario has. the situation well in hand.”

A look flashed over Sir Cedric's middle-aged face. It was gone before his wife observed it, but she did notice a peculiar tense note in his voice.

“Mario — Oh yes,” the archaeologist drawled. “Our handsome and dashing young guide.”

“Handsome?” His wife laughed — so lightly that Sir Cedric gave her a quizzical look. “Is he? I hadn't noticed . . . Why, Cedric!” She returned his look, eyes twinkling. “I do believe you're jealous! Of Mario?” She half-closed her eyes, imitating the sultry attitude of a screen Romeo.

“ ‘Ah-h Senhora! You are like jongle orchid!’” she mimicked,_then_burst out Jaughing. "Darling, he's so corny!"

Harbin did not share her mirth. His gray eyes iced over, and narrowed.

“The devil!” he exploded. “Did he really say that to you? Insolent half-breed swine! Send him in here; I'll sack him right now!”

“You'll do nothing of the kind!” his wife laughed,, kissing him on the forehead.

“Cedric, don't be absurd. All Brazilians makes passes at every North American girl they meet. It's—-it's part of the Good Neighbor Policy!” She gave him another sip of the nutritious tea, looking fondly amused.

“Mario,” she pointed out, "is a very efiicient guide. He's kept these war-happy Chavantes from traipsing off to start something with other tribes we've passed. He's kept: a supply of mandioca and rapadura (3), without trading half our equipment to get it. And he's the only guide in Belem (4) who had the vaguest idea how to reach that Lost City of yours – if there is one,” she reminded drily. “Remember,, all you have as that silly old paper in the Bibliotcca Nacional in Rio. Mario doesn't believe it exists:”

“Mario!” the archaeologist snorted. “It Lt.-Cpl. Fawcett and his sons died trying to find it in 1925 (5), there must be something to — Oh, if only I were off this ridiculous cot!" he fumed. "We're only two days’ march-from the place; I'd stake my life on it! I —

“Oh well,” his pretty wife patted his arm soothingly. “There'll be other expeditions, dear. We'll try again; but right now you must get well'enough to be carried back to Belem. There may be internal injuries we don't,know about. Ugh, that horrible snake! Dropping on you, from that tree, crushing you —” She shuddered, then knelt beside him with a little sob, pressing his hand to her cool cheek. “Oh Cedric, you might have been killed!”


Wow, it sure seems that Sir Cedric is having a rough time of it on his expedition!  Maybe his luck will change?  In some direction?  Find out, on Fantastic Worlds!

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