Even when you did. Apparently, the Washington DC Police Chief doesn’t want people who dig out parking spots to reserve them.
She admonishes not the poacher who swings his car into the spot vacated by the person who put in the effort to get out and go to work, but instead scolds the shoveler. How dare you, despite the sweat equity you put into clearing all the plow residue from a parking space, feel any slight entitlement to reap the benefits of your work?
If there is ever a microcosm of the entire political philosophy of the Marxist clowns who run that benighted crap-hole of a city, and the even bigger Marxists living there who are supposed to run our country, this is it. In other cities, particularly northern ones, being a poacher will earn universal contempt. It can also be a leading cause of sudden tire deflation. And an occasional skull thumping. I have also seen nice cars packed to the gills with snow, presumably courtesy of the person who sweated and cussed and hacked at ice to clear the space now poached. A more helpful and realistic message from ol’ Chief Lanier would have been something like this:
@DCPoliceDept Chief Lanier: Though someone can’t technically “save” a parking space they just busted a nut shoveling, it would be wise not to be a d*ckhead by poaching the space. And if you do, don’t be surprised if someone dents their snow shovel on your head. #LazyPoachingBastard #ShovelYourOwnDamnedSpace
But when lazy poaching bastards who let other people do the work for them are a key constituency, I spose you aren’t so inclined.
…and have major-league senses of humor about their lot in the Corps and in life.
This belongs on the bulkhead of every barracks in the Corps. Wonder why Duffel Blog is so damned funny? Because the writers come from the superb young Marines (and other services) who can appreciate this kinda stuff. Damn, I sure do miss being around the young Marines. They are good for the soul. And I just wanna say one more thing:
Gents, you’re all doing a great job. I’m gonna let the 1st Sgt give you the details, but keep up the good work.
This kid, my nephew, will never admit to being a communist, it’s always this “moderate independent” crap. But his Facebook feed is full of Bernie Sandinista, if you know what I mean, and he recently tweeted some gibberish about riding the bus in Czechoslovakia and identifying as a “human being” instead of what he is, an American. He’s been a “student” at some Ivy League circle jerk for the better part of a decade. I think he’s 29, who the hell even cares? If he’s the future, this country’s digging its own grave and I’m glad I won’t be there when it finally kicks the bucket. When I was his age, I was flying Ranger battalions into Grenada in ’83. I spent Thanksgiving there, and believe me, we didn’t have any damn printouts. We had a war, son…
He’s gonna be all like “you’re just giving ISIS what they want.” I’ll come back at him with something like: “You know, you raise an interesting point there, Brayden. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you invite one of your ISIS pals around the house and we’ll see how much he likes it when I slash his guts out with the turkey knife. You think that’s what he wants? They want us to crush them? Tell me something, how did you feel when your Little League team got mercy-ruled by those country boys in the district finals? Is that what you wanted? Were you just phoning it in for the “participant” trophy?
…When’s the last time you got a blister on those hands? Don’t mention the time you tried eating the vegan hotdog at the WNBA game you made me take you to out of “fairness.” You didn’t even watch the game. You just tweeted about sexism on your iPad. You know, that little computer screen made by Apple, which last I checked was a corporation, Mr. Occupy.
I can understand how he feels. My brother’s oldest, lovely girl that she is, hasn’t seen much of the world outside the upscale Boston suburb she resides in, or a fully-funded semester abroad in Italy. So she is fairly convinced that all the progressive feminist bullsh*t she was taught in college is gospel truth. Because as soon as the discussion involves facts, interest wanes. Thankfully, her other uncle makes me look like a McGovern Democrat. 🙂
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I hope you are just as groggy and stuffed as I am!
A rich, spoiled, lazy, arrogant, self-centered, drug-addled hypocrite. The Daily Mail fills in the details, as if we didn’t really know. The rather amusing and altogether unsurprising piece is worth the read.
By the age of 25 he owned a Rolls-Royce and a Ferrari. When he was filming Help! in Bond Street in 1965, the director asked him to run into Asprey, the luxury jewellers, through one door and out of another. On the way, he contrived to spend some £600 — the equivalent of £20,000 today.
This is not, of course, the Lennon that his fans choose to remember. The real Lennon, we are often told, was an artist, an idealist, an ascetic who disdained possessions and rejected the hypocrisies of capitalism.
But this is nonsense. The real John Lennon always craved money. When their manager, Brian Epstein, secured them their first contract with record company EMI, Lennon’s telegram simply asked: ‘When are we going to be millionaires?’
As for political idealism, for most of his early life he never showed the slightest interest. As an art student he didn’t join the Labour Party, go on CND marches or demonstrate against apartheid.
It was only after he had fulfilled his primary ambition to become very rich that he began to indulge his artistic, political and spiritual enthusiasms.
There’s more. When that other foul-smelling hippie Yoko Ono arrived on the scene, it seems Lennon dived deeper into his hypocrisy and became more annoying.
It was in this capacity, as a self-appointed prophet of world peace, that Lennon wrote Imagine. Ironically, the hymn to purity and simplicity was recorded in the purpose-built studio at his country house, Tittenhurst Park in Ascot.
The couple had bought the house with its cottages, magnificent gardens and 72 acres of land from the entrepreneur and chocolate heir Sir Peter Cadbury. It was an incongruously splendid setting from which to lecture the world on the importance of no possessions.
I am of the age where more than a few of my high school teachers all but deified Lennon and the Beatles. I never cared for most of their stuff, for myriad reasons, and when I mentioned that to one fawning English teacher Freshman year, I was curtly informed that I could consider myself uneducated until I could appreciate their genius, particularly that of John Lennon. When Lennon was shot in 1980, another teacher told us it would be a defining moment in our lives. Words cannot express how wrong both of them were.
Some visitors were struck by the contrast between his millionaire lifestyle and the sentiments of his most famous song. Elton John was astounded to discover that Yoko had a specially refrigerated room just for her fur coats.
In 1980, to mark Lennon’s 40th birthday, Elton sent him a little verse: ‘Imagine six apartments / It isn’t hard to do / One is full of fur coats / The other’s full of shoes.’
An older friend, the Beatles’ former personal assistant Neil Aspinall, once heard Lennon moaning about the costs of running his business empire. ‘Imagine no possessions, John,’ Aspinall said. Lennon glared back. ‘It’s only a bloody song,’ he said.
So in the end, John Lennon was indeed a music pioneer. He was one of the first mega-stars of Rock and Roll who was in actuality a fraud; an annoying, self-centered jackwagon who needed someone to kick some of his teeth out for his troubles. All I can hope is that those teachers of my youth, now long retired, had some kind of epiphany at some point and realized “Geez, this guy was an a-hole!”
The American Revolution kicked off with the skirmishes at Lexington and Concord, but the first real battle between the colonials and the British Army took place on this day in 1775 with the Battle of Bunker Hill (which was mostly fought on Breed’s Hill). British forces in Boston were besieged by colonial troops on the hills around the city. To consolidate their hold on the city, and gain control over the entrance to the harbor, the British sought to occupy the hills. The first two British assaults were bloodily repulsed. The third assault carried the hills mostly because the colonials ran out of ammunition. While the colonial forces were defeated and forced to retreat to Cambridge, the heavy losses of the British, about 200 dead and 800 wounded, sent a signal that the colonial forces were every bit the match for the redcoats.
The battle also gives rise to one of my favorite (apocryphal) stories.
An American Marine officer found himself on temporary duty in England, and it came to pass that he was invited to the officer’s mess of one of the regiments that had fought at Bunker Hill. The British Army has a long, proud history, and the messes of the regiments are often repositories of many of the artifacts of that. And the British Army loves to take notice of the long history of many of its regiments, with a fierce unit pride that even the oldest US units can’t quite match.
And so, the British officer is proudly displaying these mementos to the American Marine, and comes across a flag captured from the colonials at the Battle of Bunker Hill. Alluding to the long service of the regiment, the Brit says, “And you’ll notice we still have the flag.”
The American calmly replies, “We still have the hill.”