Category: Farce

Watching The Herd Stampede

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— by Wombat-socho


Silicon Valley delenda est.

IRS headquarters in Mordor-on-the-Potomac


This weekend the Senate passed, and Slow Joe signed, the so-called “Inflation Reduction Act”, and today the right side of the blogosphere was full of folks screaming about the part where the IRS will get funding for 87,000 new agents, which certainly seems to fit the complaint memorably issued by Thomas Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence:

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.


I first caught sight of this on Dana Loesch’s Instagram, and left the comment that as far as I was concerned this was no big deal. The IRS’ staffing problems are of long standing, and much of the problem boils down to the fact that very few accountants want to work for one of the most hated agencies of the Federal government when they can earn a lot more money and a lot less enmity signing up with Deloitte, KPMG, or some smaller accounting shop. The IRS was desperate enough to make me an offer this spring (almost a year after I filed an application with them while I was on unemployment last year) and I don’t even have an accounting degree. I do have fifteen years of seasonal experience preparing taxes, especially small business Schedule Cs, and I think that was what led them to make me an offer. Unfortunately for the IRS, the offer was for a position in Ogden, Utah, which is a long way from my current burrow in rural Nevada, and the pay for a GS-5 Step 1 is not much more than I’m earning from disability and my tax season work with H&R Block, so I turned them down. But think on it – they are so desperate for bodies they were seriously considering hiring a 62-year-old semi-retired tax professional who hadn’t held a full-time job sine 2009. Would they be doing that if they could find freshly-minted accounting majors from…anywhere?

Coming at this from a slightly different angle, there was no shortage of people in the comments to Dana’s post harrumphing “Well, they don’t need accountants, they just need activists to harass Republicans!” Yeah, sure, they’ll be issuing the brown shirts and Democrat Party brassards right after these people fill out their Standard Form 86. People need to tighten their tinfoil hats and consider that 1) nothing gets done quickly by the Feds, especially in the hiring process, and 2) the IRS can’t just hire unqualified schmucks to stand around and menace the taxpayers. I would be extremely surprised if the IRS managed to get the job requirements for the new meat done before the end of the calendar year/beginning of tax season, much less hire more than a few hundred agents. By then, assuming everyone on the Right has been out doing the necessary field work, the Red Tsunami should have swept a lot of Democrats out of Congress, and even if McCarthy & O’Connell can’t manage to outright repeal this shameful bill, they should be able to slice here, trim there, and tie up the IRS personnel bureaucrats long enough to keep anywhere near 87,000 agents from getting hired.

Finally, there’s no guarantee the IRS is going to use those agents the way the Democrats want them used. Right now the staffing crunch is so bad that a lot of paper returns filed in 2021 haven’t even been looked at, much less processed, and if they haven’t finished 2021, what do you think their stack of 2022 returns looks like? The IRS very badly wants those returns finished, because every one that doesn’t get done in a timely fashion means that either the IRS owes interest on the refunds or they aren’t collecting the debts owed by people with balances due. I suspect a lot of the 87,000 new chums are going to be handed a desk, a banker’s box full of returns, and told “I don’t want to see your face until these are done. You have until Friday – and don’t forget you’re on six-month probation, rookie.”

So be of good cheer. Maybe some of the crazies on the left want to use these new T-men to be goon squads in the service of the Great Reset, but I don’t think it’s going to work out that way.


Amazon Warehouse Deals




BREAKING: Critical Legal Theorists Seek 8A Theory Supporting Crucifixion

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by Sissypuss the Blog Kitty

Dr. Adrasteia von Kriegbeagle-McHaggis of NYU’s Brennan Center for Justice is researching a review of the 8th Amendment to the Constitution, which states:

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

This blog obtained a partial transcript from her recent speech at the International Women’s Organization Kraving Equality (IWOKE) which hinted at the topic of her research:
“…while the 8th Amendment certainly made sense in a cis-hetero, agrarian, patriarchal, pre-Information Age society, Progress demands that we question: What is cruelty? How are we to assess the aggregate cruelty afflicted on a population by an unhinged official who, ascending to power, proceeds to wield it in numerous ways that are tantamount to rape and torture of our most sensitive, triggerable victim groups?
“By the way: there is nothing unusual about crucifixion. It happens annually in the Philippines, not that we want to go “lifting up” Christianity (get it?).
“But let’s talk cruelty: hundreds in the United States are being driven to the edge of depression and beyond by scare-mongering, braggadocio, and atrocious tweets. What about them?
“No, the time has come to admit that these are not normal times. Testosterone has failed. The sun has set on the days when the U.S. can tolerate such effrontery in silence.
“Therefore–despite our proper aversion to capital punishment in the general case–we must re-think the possibility of resurrecting a cathartic method of redress, that can balance the scales of cruelty, and bring some desperately needed social justice to this country.
“We need to crucify anyone found guilty of  Holocaust-Grade Cruelty, or HGC, quickly. Colleges have been carefully prepared to handle HGC cases, by dispensing with much of that “due process” claptrap that kept so many violent men on the loose for so long. The 9th Circuit will uphold an HGC ruling, as long as we take care of matters in the West. The other reason for speed, besides the cruelty itself, is that the “reliability” of the Supreme Court is worsening with every trusty liberal that retires. We may not be able to “nail down” the necessary support unless we act now.
“So, join IWOKE in the struggle for Higher Truth, as we seek to progress forward together into a glorious, cruelty-free world.”
—
The tweet that inspired this post:

George Soros’s Diary Hacked! Ominous Revelations Abound.

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by Sissypuss the Blog Kitty

The recent operation to that special place on Martha’s Vineyard bore fruit.

13 Mary 2016

There are few joys in life like a long-term plan coming together.

Especially when the plan involves having your enemies cheerfully support, even DEMAND!, a plan that is destroying them.
The Bushes thwarted me in 2004, but the joy of setting my tool in the White House in 2008 was worth it. Sure, Hillary hated to be told to wait, but, hey, I told her: hatred ages like wine, if the plotting and timing right. My skill and patience since the demise of the Reich have paid off in ways that Hitler never could have dreamed.

But the shrew is greedy, which may yet prove her undoing. Of course I knew she had the email server, and told her it was a risk. Fortunately our people at State are keeping that particular email fully redacted. It’s also been cute to see the arrogant hussy try to run a few games on the side, to hustle some cash from the Davos crowd, as though they don’t fear me far more than her.

Sure, my idea of running Trump was rooted in the need to repeat our 1992 triumph. A classic, no? Alas, Ross Perot is my age, where it’s more interesting to make the publicly famous crawl on their knees in private than it is to be among the publicly famous. The GOP mob wasn’t interested in another Bush anyway, but were pleased to see a Bush-devouring tumor. So the fools let the cancer grow. My media properties, of course, have helped Trump metastesize, and he’s now nearly irreversible.

After the Tuesday winnowing, the only thing left between the GOP and the Void is Ted Cruz. He’d make a great servant if he could be turned. Which will make having him nominated VP, and then destroying him, sweeter still.

The fools don’t understand the hedge right under their noses. If they demand Hillary’s head on a silver charger, I can go on and let the email server and Benghazi hang out in plain sight. The truth of the banal encounter between Reggie Love and Barack would be so bad that Obama may just resign in shame rather than be stared at during every public appearance? Should I release the video? Two guys playing cards while heroes dies in a firefight, waiting for a rescue, while Valeri Jarrett, that Sarabi Mastiff, throws the heroes under the bus in the Situation Room? We’ve made Obama bullet proof, but even his career could not survive that level of blowback.

A few months of a Biden administration won’t make any difference to anyone living outside of former Communist Bloc countries. Vladimir plans to strike while the iron is hot and the White House isn’t during the summer months. Just to keep the chaos maximally high ahead of November.

No, Hillary might not drag her pant-suited carcass across the finish line that first Tuesday. Trump was fine with the throwing the election to her after the date to replace him with an actual candidate was past in most of the states. While he hates the rigidity of public life, he’s realizing that the office would feed his ego at a much higher rate than his reality show piffle, and growing a taste for it.

But can more damage be caused than by just installing this lout? Sure, Hillary would have continued the Obama descent into thuggery, but where is the art in being Northern Venzeula? No, it would have pleased Def Fuhrer more to follow the Manchurian Candidate with the München Candidate; to slide into fascism by veering from faux Socialism to faux capitalism. And have such a goody-two-shoes as Cruz in the co-pilot seat while everything spins seemingly out of control. He’ll be seen as the sanity check. At Miskatonic University.

And if those GOP fools go ahead and use the convention as a final anti-Trump effort, we just run him independently and repeat 1992. Hedge, I win; tails, they lose. And lose. And lose.

Meet ‘Tony’; Senator Reid’s Occasional 6’2″, 225lb, Taciturn ‘Exercise Instructor’

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by Sissypuss the Blog Kitty

Tony Scambilloni isn’t the sort of chap that gives interviews. He operates in that twilight realm at the edge of the law and traditionally documented society. Where everyone is “workin’ real hard, tryin’ to keep ‘the business’ legal”, and failing more often than not. Too many rules, changing way too often for a reasonable man even to read them all, much less keep up, you know?

I caught up with him at his posh little villa between Searchlight, Nevada and Lost Wages, from which Tony’s fourth wife had recently fled. He’s currently batching it with this cat named Guido. A black cat, about my size, who really needed to get his Brian Setzer on, if you know what I mean. So I paid Guido to go out and find some entertainment while I, suitably dyed and lensed, stroked Tony’s ankle. He was relaxing in his art studio. He never noticed the extra charm I’d put on the collar I’d borrowed from Guido, which let me silently beam questions into Tony’s mind. Ah, those clever ancient Egyptians!

While nobody’s art aficionado, it looked to me like Tony was forging ahead on Peace and War, by Reubens. He appeared a relaxed Robert DeNiro, in a comfortable, paint-speckled seersucker robe and slippers, hair jet black and combed straight back. My excellent sense of smell detected some kind of Rémy Martin in the snifter.

“A little frisky tonight, Guido?” he seemed mildly surprised, but not irritated as he fussed with Minerva’s helmet on the canvas. The ancient Egyptian charm worked well.

 

“Sure is shame, all that news about Harry Reid. . .” I prompted. The charm worked for light prodding, not mind-reading. The target required gentle encouragement to divulge information. Which is why, if you’re not Cleopatra, your best bet is not even to be human, and have someone in a moment as unguarded as this one. Especially when ‘someone’ is a promising mid-career thug like Scambilloni, who thought waterboarding is what the President does in Hawaii when he needs a break from the links.

“Yeah, Harry sure is tough sunny beach,” muttered Tony, putting down the brush and reaching for the snifter. “Goes without saying, though. You aren’t Kermit the Frog and Senate Majority Leader.”

 

“Some would argue that we now have Bunsen Honeydew for a Majority Leader.”

“Heh. This Rémy sure is packin’ the heat. I better lay off if I want to get this Reubens out by Monday.”

 

“A lot of people sure are laughing about Harry Reid’s excuse for his ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown’ look in the new Congress.” I was circling his right ankle, looking up at him. He looked right at me, but was lacking the imagination to grasp that I might be the one whispering in his head.

“See, the funny thing is, Reid’s being more honest than usual about this. Which is commendable. A businessman has got to be about keeping his promises.”

 

“Ah, but to whom?” I threw in a little purr as he scratched behind my left ear.

“Yeah, there’s hardly a thug in Vegas without a hook in Harry. Now and then I think I should be more curious about who makes these calls, but why bother? The simple truth is that Harry Reid had some commitments, and I was tasked to remind him of them by my union buddy Joey.”

 

“And how does one manage these. . .reminders?” A little meow, but not too wild.

“It’s always tricky with clients, especially politicians–they’re such sociopaths and narcissists, Harry Reid is a poster child. I guess that implies Harry Reid must have had a mother at some point? Poor woman. Anyway, it wasn’t my first visit to his ranch, so I knew where I was going, and the guards new my mug. Only this time there was nothing in my gym bag that wouldn’t pass muster with those grabby jerks at McCarran Airport–just gym gear. The guards would’ve objected to me packing heat, of course, so I left that in the lockbox in the car. As though I need a gun to conduct business, anyway.

“The gym’s down in the basement, I knew, with the usual sauna, jacuzzi, massage, and changing room amenities. I hadn’t myself worked out there previously, but the client had had trouble getting time with Harry before the Christmas shutdown. Harry was all blustery about being too busy, not having the time, the usual run-around we get from people who don’t want to fulfill their obligations. So Harry was going to ‘sqeeze’ the client in during a workout. I guess Harry still thinks he’s 35, or just doesn’t respect the client. Or didn’t understand that he’d gone far enough over the line that a helpful reminder was  deemed necessary.”

 

“So Reid is on the treadmill, getting his sweat on. . .”

“Yeah, I changed in a flash and walked into the fitness studio. Madonna. He’s got vintage Madonna on the speakers, which works great for my mood: I hate that little strumpet as much as I hate little weasels that don’t meet a commitment. He’s walking on the treadmill in a wife beater and shorts. He’s a bit too old to jog, so he does a brisk walk at 3.8 miles per hour.

“‘Happy New Year from M.W.,” I says.

“‘Well, I was led to understand that he was coming personally. Does sending a lackey indicate that he finally calmed down and decided to be reasonable?’ Reid came out swinging like usual. There was  no point in me discussing anything with him whatsoever. So I reached down and cranked the treadmill up to 6.8 miles and hour. Arrogantly, refusing to give anything, Harry tries to keep up, and can, initially.

So I crank the thing up to 10.0 miles an hour. If Harry could have ever supported a six minute mile, it was probably back during the Ford Administration. He tries to put his hand down on the treadmill’s handhold, but he kinda ‘misses’. With some help from me. The belt kinda flings him off the back end, where he SPLATS! on the foam rubber mat.

He’s got a pretty nice gym, including a big crossover frame facing a mirror wall, and the exercise bands he mentioned to KNPR. Seeing the racks of dumbells bolted to the floor in front of the mirror, it wasn’t hard to make a human-sized slingshot with the big rubber bands, and pull them back to the crossover frame. Harry was dazed, and picking himself up from the mat when I set him inside the band and let go.

So he’s being really honest when he says he did it to himself, as his image rushed up in the mirror and really hit him hard by the eye. He bounced off, tried to control his motion, and staggered over into some cabinets holding towels and water bottles and wipes. He’s all laying on the floor real still. I checked to make sure he had a regular pulse, wasn’t bleeding too profusely, wasn’t going into shock, and such. Threw some towels on him for warmth while he lay there on his back, just to be on the safe side. Then I asked him that burning question on the tongues of all the wise guys:

‘What does Marcellus Wallace look like?’

Of course he’s too knocked out to answer.”

 

“Really? Are gangsters all Tarantino fanatics?” I’d just stopped and stared at him.

“Yeah. Well, I’ve got to change Cognac brands. This stuff must’ve been sitting too close to the absinthe, the way I’m blubbering on like some easy mark that came in on a bus from Duluth to blow his rent check in the slot machines. Guido, do you want the rest?”

Leave Mary Landrieu Alone!

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by Smitty


Hot Air reports on AFP’s praisworthy ad for Mary Landrieus’s re-election campaign:

For crying out loud, Americans: Mary Landrieu is the MOAST HONEST POLITICIAN EVAR! She openly doesn’t care about the benighted peasants of the swamp that hatched her. She’s an aristocrat now; all full of indigna-tion at the situa-tion of the humilia-tion at the thought of losing the election.

In these trying times, we need to preserve the integrity of the Ruling Class contempt for the serfs out there in flyover. That’s why this blog hopes that the continued repression of reform-minded Americans results in another reliably corrupt Congress on our way to the fabled hothouse in this here handbasket.

Château de Raceur

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Château de Raceur

Those burdened with all manner of guilt, but most especially guilt stemming from birth to 1% parents of European extraction, are flocking to upstate New York’s famed Château de Raceur to indulge our vast range of karmic cleansing packages.

Who

Academics, bankers, stock brokers, venture capitalists, union leaders, and civil servants flock to our rural setting, modeled after Long Island’s Sylvester Manor, an interesting piece of history that is far too conveniently forgotten in the rush to pour hatred on the South.

Where

We’re located just up the Hudson from another institution people go to purge themselves, the U.S. Military Academy at West Point

When

De Raceur has been in operation since 2009, and ensures its visitors get serviced year-round. While other agriculturally oriented venues might pare back operations during winter, we find that harsh conditions enhance our product.

What

De Raceur features a fully functional, pre-Civil War plantation. That means that it amounts to a subsistence farming village, with all of the argicultural and light industry trappings. Visitors arrive and, after a legal briefing, sign a waver that permits our Karmic Cleansing Consultants to offer support that might otherwise appear to violate their Constitutional rights.

Why

We live in an era of guilt. After allowing Godless Commies like Howard Zinn to sodomize American history, our elite are now awash in externally imposed feelings of culpability for events of prior centuries. Never mind the good that the United States has done historically, continues to do today, and will do for humanity in the future. No: here at de Raceur, the glass is always half empty.

Testimonials


Sterling Stradivari
Art Historian		 “Having my teeth loosened by a hulking minority for looking directly at him really helped me deal with issues pertaining to my high station in society.”
“De Raceur both revealed and relieved unknown vistas of guilt I had been harboring as a member of the partiarchal oppressors.”

Thurston Rigginwort
Venture Capitalist

Josephine Llewwellynne
Federal Deputy Assistant Sub-Undersecretary for Affordable Care Act Aromatherapy Policy		 “They hated me; they hated my face. And by swimming the seas of hatred, and with time to recuperate from the floggings, I at last found an island of peace, despite the fact that I come from a long line of Baptist preachers.”
“It was like my karma hit some large dogma, and the radiator was wheezing like anathema sufferer, ya know? So they make me a share cropper for a while, get it? I totally got rid of any bad feelings about doing my job supporting the Democratic Party and skimming money from honest workers. And that’s how de Raceur prepared me to head down South and pull in some new suckers in the name of doin’ them a solid.”

Antonia “Toni the Slicing Hammer” Jabruzzi
United Auto Workers Capture Leader

Come to Château de Raceur, and let us assuage your guilt

 

Update: I stand accused of plagiarism for using the four mug shots from The Onion, while only linking, and not explicitly crediting the source. My degenerate crapsack of an accuser seems less worried about the NYU pic at the top of the post, but I didn’t take that one myself, either.

I deeply regret any reader confusion as to whether the non-verbal content of this post, which I did not initially credit to my name, and on which I have made exactly $0.0, was my personal product. I don’t think any “reasonable” people are in any way taken in by the content of this post, verbally or photographically. It is intended as a humorous jibe at precisely the sort of degenerate twit I’m dealing with on Slashdot. If you have a moment, please feel free to navigate to Slashdot and tell damn_registrars that, when you’re so jacked up as to make Rachel Maddow seem a straight shooter, you know you’ve got issues.

Thanks,

Smitty

VIDEO: NSC Meeting On Ukraine; BHO & Biden Have A Wee Jog

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by Sissypuss the Blog Kitty



When done with the fun run, Sissypuss heard, Obama and Biden were to hear about plans to blame the Ukrainian crisis on some random B-movie film maker. “It’s one way to get attention off ObamaCare,” said Greasy Joe.

via Gateway Pundit and Pat Dollard

Hey – Maybe It’s Just A Sandwich

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— Wombat-socho

“There are some ideas so wrong that only a very intelligent person could believe in them.”
-George Orwell

Which is about as good an introduction as we’re going to get for the mind-numbingly ridiculous The McRib: Enjoy Your Symptom, an essay for The Atlantic scrawled by one Ian Bogost, whose surname is reminiscent not only of “bogosity” but of the Britishism “bogroll”, which is our English cousins’ word for the household item commonly used to remove things most similar to this essay from your rear end.

“Lacan is a tyrant who must be driven from our shores. Narrowly trained English professors who know nothing of art history or popular culture think they can just wade in with Lacan and trash everything in sight.”
-Camille Paglia

Bogost would like us to take him seriously as he delivers a post-modernist philosophical critique of McDonald’s, that food emporium so often mocked by the intellectualoids as a threat not only to the diet and health of America but the very world, so he drags in the French pseudo-philosopher Lacan and the deranged, posturing Slovenian Communist Slavoj Zizek to “prove” that we don’t really know what we’re doing when we order the McRib, Chicken McNuggets, Double Quarter Pounder, or the other items on the menu. No, we’re just slaves to our unconscious, which desires things that aren’t on the menu but are rather marketed without being marketed. This is obvious nonsense, and Bogost teases us with the notion that he knows it’s nonsense before dancing away on another binge of free-association tarted up with art history and pseudo-paradoxes that exist only in the mind of people without the brainpower to do their own thinking without the crutches of Lacan, Saussure and their ilk.

Most people don’t want to know how the McRib and McNuggets are made for the same reason they don’t like hanging around slaughterhouses and meatpacking plants, and to suggest that there’s something wrong with this is itself wrong. It’s a clear signal that the writer doesn’t understand ordinary folks and how they think and feel. Unfortunately, this is a common problem with the academic Pecksniffs among us, who can’t understand why Americans prefer tasty, affordable mass-produced hamburgers and pork sandwiches to tasteless, expensive “organic” foods that can’t be easily consumed while on the road in the family minivan. Or, for that matter, a preference for clinging to guns and religion in a time when the intellectualoids and their Lightworker are in charge and straining to produce a national transformation.

Bogost drivels on about the seasonal appearance and disappearance of the McRib as if it were some kind of overwhelming cultural event, fraught with significance and weighing heavily on the American id. Clearly, he has zero understanding of the fast food business -or of any part of the food business, I daresay- and its attention to the changing tastes of the American consumer. Even a decade ago, the menus at McDonald’s and Burger King featured nothing more spicy than ketchup and pepper packets, but now both chains (and their competitors) boast barbeque sauces (hot and mild), jalapeno and habanero pepper-spiced items, and various Southwestern and Buffalo-style chicken items that leave a definite burning sensation behind on their way to the digestive tract. Items rotate in and out of the menu on a seasonal basis: you won’t find egg nog shakes in the middle of summer, or the regional specialty McBrat outside tailgate season in the Midwest.

There are many reasons to visit a McDonald’s: cheap, tasty food served fast; large sodas sold for cheap in the pit of the summer; free wifi when the home internet is down. Nobody goes there for the ambience or to experience a gastronomic thrill, and only a deluded intellectualoid like Mr. Bogost would think anyone would go there driven by the unquiet urges of their id. In the end, the McRib is just a sandwich.