Neanderpundit

an old Polish Priest- Father Stan- when I grew up, in the seminary I attended. He spoke english but haltingly, and spent a lot of time trying to get migrant workers fed and clothed and housed, at least temporarily. He was a big beefy Santaclaus of a man, white beard and broad shoulders and a gut predominantly constructed, I suspect, of vodka. He would get a couple dollars here and there from local patrons, rent a U haul and drive it to the big army surplus place in Indianapolis. There, armed with the spirit of a turkish carpet merchant, he haggled for bulk pricing on overcoats, pants, longjohns, etc, and would come home with literal piles of clothes. While he lived, I don’t think anyone ever went through a winter cold, in our area. He would sell the clothes to people that had a little money, or trade them for a few hours work. So our town was full of polacks and wetbacks and other displaced people wearing a strange mix of GI OD pants and shiny boots and Finnish Arctic parkas and russian wool trenchcoats. They worked anywhere they could get work, and they were warm.

God bless him, anyway. Still, he washed all those clothes before he distributed them, in the school’s big laundry, and lord, was it ever a mess. he wasn’t concerned so much about the look of the clothes as the cleanliness, so he just tossed all the shit in the washer together, with predictable results.

It was a school tradition- well, we were trying to make it a school tradition- to put a pair of really ugly boxer shorts on the bronze statue of the school’s founder, and we had done it often enough that we were getting good at it. Tired of having to crawl up onto the plinth to take them down, Fr Moskal finally rigged up a sensor to the statue, whenever you touched it an alarm would go off in the Priest’s quarters and a spotlight would go on.

We did not yet expect this.

When we got to the statue, a pair of purple polkadotted boxers at the ready, armed with needle and thread and tape (You had to sew the boxers on, you couldn’t exactly get the statue to lift one leg at a time) we managed to get all the way up onto the plinth before setting off the alarm and turning on the spotlights.

The faculty had been training for this for some time, thiough I don’t think they expected the extremely early hour (we were doing this before matins, and I suspect they were prepared for a more late night encounter) So all fourteen of them showed up on the front steps of the school, in full view of the floodlights. Father Stan had on his red drop-flap union suit, Fr Ernest his boxers, Brother Tom in his Y fronts, the rest in a combination of differing underwear/sleepwear.

We were used to seeing them all in blacks and dogcollars, so the sight of them in underwear was shocking enough, let alone underwear that had been stained the colors of the rainbow (assuming the rainbow was all Olive Drab and Grey) which was wrenching. The OD mottling and general grey of the assemblage, ranging from athletic brother Tom to the rotund Father Ed, was enough to give a pubescent kid nightmares and made me swear off gay sex right then and there, there was and has been since nothing I consider less attractive and erotic.

Fr Ernest had his shotgun- he half expected kids from another school doing this, and when he discovered it wasn’t, he was very annoyed. He marched us back up the school steps- quite literally at gunpoint- and phoned and got all our parents out of bed, which was a fate worse than death in those days. I know I got tuned up at school AND at home that day, and it was a tuneup I won’t forget easily, though still mild compared to the sight of all those Men of the Cloth in their BVD’s

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.