Neanderpundit

blissfully free of lawn maintenance, I am gonna have to mow or be dealing with a bigass mess.

I suppose at least the garden will be green, the tomatoes look nice and there are plenty of bean blossoms.

I would plant the whole backyard in sweet corn, even the slope, but I know the damned raccoons would be in there eating like crazy. Not many people have ever experienced real, fresh sweet corn an hour after it’s picked, it loses a huge amount of it’s flavor and sweetness, and once you’ve had it this way you get spoiled for the crap at Jewel. If I could leave the daughter out there with a 22, I think I’d be OK, but otherwise I’d lose the whole crop. So tomatoes and beans it is, for the forseeable future.

are more startling when expecting one thing and being given another.

Across the street from the house I mostly grew up in, there was a little summer cottage owned by a lady who lived up in Argo. Her husband had died and left her a few dollars and she bought the house and property, a two bedroom cottage with a fireplace and a window air conditioner. Their name was Profit, she lived with her two almost-adult sons.

it was a bit odd, to have people come spend their summer vacations where we lived every day. It didn’t seem- somehow right. But still, they were nice people. So much so that we went and visited them at their “Winter” home, and she made hamburgers.

Now, I loves me a hamburger. I love them fried, grilled, broiled, I love them on seeded buns with cheese or without and with condiments or by themselves. So having homemade burgers at the Profits was an adventure to which I had aspired for a couple weeks. And yes, I was drooling when she brought them to the table.

I took one off the platter and put it on the bun, and put on a generous squirt of Ketchup, and we said grace. And then I took a big bite.

And almost threw up.

it wasn’t that it was bad; in fact, in retrospect, I’d probably LOVE to have one now, because of the way it was made. See, it was made like meatloaf.

I love Meatloaf. I love a meatloaf sammich, both hot and cold. And had I been expecting a meatloaf sammich, I probably would not have had so much difficulty eating that one. But i did. It took me a little longer, but I choked it down and never said a word.

See, I was expecting a hamburger. I had my mouth all ready for it. I was expecting a certain flavor, and when that meatloaf flavor hit my tongue it was like being offered sex with Zooey Deschanel and instead Maxine Waters shows up and giives me a handjob wearing a pair of scratchy burned charred oven mitts.

The left has won a lot ofbattles lately, big and small, and they are grinning like fools, believing themselves superior in every way.

It is our job to make sure they taste the meatloaf. It is our job to make them not get what they expect. And if you are not thinking about this every day, you are not doing your job.

Find a bunch of sick illegals and take them to a hospital, and do so as often as possible so the system becomes overloaded. Make your local burocracy a living hell to the people who work there. Don’t let a moment of your day go by without thinking of a way to make them taste the sourness and hollowness of their victories. And remember it isn’t you you’re fighting for, it’s for the generations yet to come who have not experienced the freedom you have experienced, a lot of which, as B says, is gone already.

Roll up your sleeves. Let’s get it back. If we’re not smart enough to annoy them into capitulating, we don’t deserve the freedom.