Showing posts with label F150. Show all posts
Showing posts with label F150. Show all posts

Sunday, August 30, 2020

A Sunday Sermon

Shadow LSP

Conversation in the sacristy before Mass #2 went like this:

"Have you seen the video of the Portland execution last night?"
"Another shooting?"
"Yes, dude rolled up on a skateboard and shot a Trump supporter who was crossing the road."
"Yes, they cheered afterwards."
"Keep this going on and there's gonna be pushback, serious pushback."

A beautiful unicorn

Said the former artillery officer. "Let's think happy thoughts before church," replied the MC who's also a retired rodeo star, bronc. Not being slow to listen to the laity I replied, "As in unicorns, rainbows and bunnies?" The MC, who gives as good as he gets, wasn't slow either, "Just say your prayers, LSP."

A typical defense rifle

Here endeth the Lesson and while we're at it, "Get thee behind me Satan!" Vade retro Satana! 

Be brave and rebuke the unclean spirit, a murderer from the beginning and Father of Lies. Say no to the world, the flesh and Devil, say yes to the Way of the Cross, of sacrificial love which is the way of light and life.


Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Lube Up

Walmart's lube experts were overwhelmed today, unlike the nation's hospitals. But I persevered, don't give up in the face of adversity, buddy. That meant get outta the rig, "Hey, you guys open or what?" They were, but it'd take awhile to put oil in the engine. "We're swamped, unlike ICU, so go shopping for a bit," said the masked bravado. "You bet, I'll do that."

Which I did. Walmart's got all these stupid arrows everywhere because they think that'll stop the invisible China Virus which doesn't kill anyone. 

You know, if you walk along the path of the arrow you won't get sick. Like inverse Dojo wisdom. Whatev, I ignored this nonsense like everyone else who wasn't getting sick, and headed for the computers.


There they were, glistening and new, kind of. Well, "gently used." Didn't take long to direct their MS search engines to LSP. And I noticed, weirdly, that the annoying "Bing" loves this mind blog. Google? Not so much. Thanks, Big Tech censorship.


One small act of subversion over, the store speaker blared out, gulag style, "LSP, your vehicle is ready!" And so it was. Thanks, grease monkeys, for keeping the 270+k rig in working order.

And there you have it. Crush the NWO underheel.

Your Pal,


Friday, July 3, 2020

A Stroll To The Shop

The day dawned, with an already fierce sun rising above the treeline, a portent of heat to come. Undaunted, resolute, I loaded the Blue into the rig and drove to the "shop" to get the truck's indicator lever fixed.

Blue liked the ride, an adventure for him these days, and then we walked back to the Compound through the sylvan streets of old Lspboro. Great exercise for the furred Eschaton and good for me too, furthest I've walked since getting kicked off an Arab a year ago.

Safely back at the security of the Compound, I caught up with email, read the news, pondered the iniquity of Marxism, called up the flock, said the Office on the porch, and generally made myself useful until the "shop" called back, "All ready to go, buddy, $360." 

Pretty much exactly what I'd figured. So, off I strolled through the leafy boulevards of this small farming community to the jolly old "shop."

The sun was already rising high and its heat beginning to bounce and shimmer off the roads, paved and unpaved. It's a fierce climate, no doubt about it, which says something about the country people who live in it. 

A tough crew, for sure, but mostly friendly with it. Maybe that's because of a "we're all in this together against the climate" frontier spirit, sort of thing. 

Perhaps. I walked past the site of our old cotton gin, which closed in the 1950s. Good work, proto-globalist asset-strippers. It's becoming a storage facility for broken AC units and U-haul trucks. 

Around the corner from what used to be industry is a kind of open air market, or Suq. No one steals from it, for some reason, and there it sits, rusting metal under a hot, dry sun.

You can buy round bales too, though I don't, shamefacedly, know the cost. Hey, lotta money in grass and I'm glad it's not my job to shift it on and off the trailer.

A few shacks and an RV at the "shop" later, the mission was accomplished. One bright, shiny and working indicator lever achieved. It felt good to have it working again, though I resented having to unlock the safe and pry out cold, hard cash to pay for the plastic miscreant. Made in China? Better not be, and that's for sure.

Next stop? Walmart, where I have a virtual chapel and the wherewithal to buy steak in honor of the 4th, Independence Day. But what's that line?

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Gentlemen and women, you have a Republic if you can keep it.

Your Patriotic Pal,


Friday, May 31, 2019

Another Day At The Compound

The day started off ferociously stormy, with high wind, driving rain and thunder clouds rolling in from the south. A good opportunity to set up on the porch, say Morning Prayer and behold the fury of the elements. 

Then the climate changed, the turbulence in the heavens was stilled, the sun came out, and it became ferociously hot. Time to set up on the back porch for Evening Prayer. Such is Ascensiontide.

MAGA Troopers And A Fiddy

Prayer no sooner said than a couple of kids rode into the Compound's car park. They were checking out an appallingly chromed up One Fiddy that's been inexplicably parked on the gravel for the last two weeks.

Being an amiable LSP, I didn't activate AI controlled perimeter miniguns or call the MPs. No, I strolled over, congratulated the boys on their horses, which were in excellent order, and asked if they knew about the mysteriously chromed One Fiddy. 

Rodeo Rocks

It belonged to them, apparently, and still doesn't work despite a certain lack of attention on the part of the person who placed it in the DLC (Dallas Light Cavalry) vehicle park. Well, the Fiddy might not work but the horses did, and off they rode into the arbored boulevards of the rural Texan haven that is this town.


I tell you, I've got a lot of time for these youngsters and, in case you didn't know, there's a long tradition of black cowboys in this neck of the woods. And I don't want to be controversial, but if there was more of it, Texas, to say nothing of America, would be a better place than it is already.

Ride on,


Friday, February 22, 2019

Need A New Rig

Here's the thing, readers, all five of you, I think I need to get a new rig. Don't get me wrong, this one's been great. Thanks, Ford and Oncor for an awesome vehicle.  But it's coming to that put money into it end.

So, a new rig. I want something that's able to get in and out of the mud at the range and everywhere else besides, that likes dirt roads in the rain, has the wherewithal to deal with horses and all of that. 

I'm thinking a RAPTOR would do the trick. Or maybe a fleet 4x4? OK, a Raptor would be cool, no doubt about it, but a regular work truck 4x4 would get the job done and still be cool, with far less things to go wrong. Like electric windows?

Also, a fleet 4x4 would cost appx $10/20k less, leaving plenty of room to buy a BOAT.

What's it to be, a RAPTOR or a FLEET 4x4, BOAT included?

Help, please, and don't fear the reaper,


Thursday, February 15, 2018

A Day Of Clouds And Thick Darkness

That pretty much described the route to the first Mass of Ash Wednesday, as smoke filled the air and trucks came to a stop to make way for various first responders; I was afraid I'd be late for Mass.

Not to worry, before too long the road was clear enough and we rolled slowly through the smoke, hazards on.

Just in time for Mass but speaking of smoke, do you you remember the FISA Memo and the attempted coup against the President? For that matter, did you see Susan Rice's curious memo to self? Some say it paints Barack Obama in an unfavorable light. 

God bless,


Sunday, December 31, 2017

New Years Eve Ice Age Eschaton

Thanks a lot, so-called General "Flynn," if that's your real name, which we doubt. Thanks to you and the Russians we're entering a new Ice Age and no, this isn't Oymyakon, it's rural Texas and there's ice on the rig.

In fact there's snow, drifting wildly against Blue Icebreaker's leash on the front office porch. I know, it's badly in need of paint and that should have happened by now; who knows, maybe it'll all be over by Spring. In the meanwhile, c'mon, Lupe, finish the job.

Ice, paint and snow aside, there's a roast in the oven and Yorkshire Pudding batter chilling in the fridge. Our plan is to eat like warriors. But in the meanwhile, where's that good old Global Warming?

Have a blessed and happy New Year.

Rave on,


Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Ghost Town

This place has become a Ghost Town

We do not know when the mist will lift or what it holds.

Smart people are saying their Rosaries and blessing Holy Water.

Be safe.


Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Go Fishing

"Time to go fishing," said a noted member of the mining community, who may or may not be raising a pack of white wolves somewhere in Arizona. So I took that advice and paid a visit to the lake after visiting the sick.

It was good to get out and try my luck against the watery opposition and perhaps you know the feeling, that sense of quiet excitement, maybe this time you'll catch the best fish ever. Or not.

This time fell into the "not" category, though I tried my best with the kind of juicy worms that fish are known to love. But they weren't having it, if they were even there at all. 

Still, getting out by the waters of the vast inland sea that is Lake Whitney made a welcome change and no one else was catching anything either, by way of consolation. 

We were in it for the Texan air, with its hint of sage, cedar and mesquite, taking a needed break from Chelsea Handler and all the other NWO stooges gloating over Alabama.

Don't worry, fish. There will be a rematch, you may be sure of that.

Fish on,


Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Last Rites

Sometimes clergy are asked to administer the sacrament of extreme unction, of anointing the sick when they're close to death. It's a powerful and, for me, emotional rite. Consider this prayer:

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, let there be extinguished in you all power of the devil by the imposition of our hands, and by the invocation of the glorious and holy Mother of God, the Virgin Mary, and of her illustrious Spouse, St. Joseph, and of all the holy Angels, Archangels, Patriarchs, Prophets, Apostles, Martyrs, Confessors, Virgins, and of all the saints together. Amen.

I tell you, these prayers have great efficacy. Or, to quote a Baptist friend of mine, "You sure prayed the Devil out of her!" The woman in question made a full recovery, leaving the doctors relieved if bewildered. 

I'd gone to the hospital straight from a ride, all Wranglers, boots and hat. I don't know if there's a corollary between that and the miracle.

God bless,


Monday, September 25, 2017

Ball Joint Apocalypse

While everyone else was busy "taking the knee" or burning NFL logos, I was taking the rig to the shop. You see, the front suspension was sounding rough and creaky.

Where was the creak coming from? Sure, somewhere at the front but where exactly; hard to tell. I rocked the stationary leviathan back and forth, trying to pinpoint the apocalyptic creak. Like a hot coal falling from a smoking thurible, it seemed to be coming from behind the wheels.

Underneath an F150

So I climbed under the thing and had a look, all the while pushing up on the Beast to provoke the eschatological creak. Was it the shocks, tie rods, sway bar or ball joints? 

Not The Problem But Change Out The Ancient Shocks Anyway

With a sinking feeling that the end of the world was near, I figured it was probably the ball joints. But, hope against hope, I sprayed lithium grease and WD40 over everything, all on the off-chance that a miracle would occur and lube would magically cure the hideous creak.

 Note The Eschatological Bottom Ball Joint

It didn't, no more than words like "millionaire socialist hypocrite" would cure the concussed minds of our nation's baller geniuses. That's because Ford, in its wisdom, doesn't build grease inlets into F150 ball joints. You can spray all the lube you want and it's not going to grease up the interior of the joints, which dry out and die.


I know, you'll scorn me for not attempting the job myself but I took the rig to the Shop of The Brazen Pineapple that rests upon the Seven Hills of this rural haven and they quoted me $700, mostly labor.

Genius Patrol

The moral of this end-times tale of country life in Texas is simple. Built-in obsolescence is evil, and learn how to replace your ball joints or pay the price.

Here endeth the lesson.


Wednesday, August 30, 2017


In Aberystwyth you're not allowed to shoot Glocks or AR15s because they're far too dangerous. So when my brother drove over from Dallas, where he's taking a vacation from "Aber", I loaded up the rig with some deadly assault rifles and a couple of .45s. And off we went to the range.

First off, we tackled a green silhouette at 30 and 50 yards with a banned-in-the-UK carbine, topped with a Primary Arms red dot. It's a fun gun to shoot and my brother did well, handily putting down the green terrorist. Take that, paper aggressor, you lose.

Note Cooking Glock

Then it was time for some banned-because-Brits-can't be-trusted-with-pistols Glock action. Mostly against steel plates at 10, 18, 24 and 30 yards. Big excitement as the workmanlike bit of Austrian engineering roared in the hand with explosive fury. Great enjoyment.

The best shots of the day went to my brother, who scored a series of headshots at 100 yards against the green enemy. Not bad, given no magnification and a dot.

Moral of the story? Shoot more.

Gun rights,


Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Touring the Grounds

Word to the wise. If you're fixing to have all your teeth out, don't plan on chewing anything for a while.

Making high quality custom infovideos? Different story.


Saturday, December 17, 2016

What is Texas?

What's it like, living in a rural farming community in Texas, where not having a pick up truck marks you as weirdly eccentric. I went for a walk to find out.

Irish Texas

Apparently it's about Ireland, which is why the local filling station's called Shamrock, or is it? The Shamrock may be Irish but it sure sells a lot of Mexican food. It's also run by Nepalese; I know this because I've asked them and we talk about the Gurkhas. Sometimes they salute me, Brit style, which is appropriate, if weird.

Dog Texas

I pondered that as I made my way back to the Compound with Blue Congressman. Why would a family from Nepal end up running a pick 'n steal in rural Texas, selling Mexican food in an Irish filling station. For that matter, why is there a Mongolian "buffet" in the town, run by real Mongolians as opposed to Mexicans? (don't eat there...) Why are people from the farthest reaches of the world coming to the Lone Star State?

Well, the answer's obvious. Because Texas is awesome.