Showing posts with label apocalypse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label apocalypse. Show all posts

Thursday, September 3, 2020

RAIN



Thunder rolled across the sky like the opening barrage on the Kursk salient as lightning cracked and exploded, shaking the Compound's ancient timbers with primal sound and fury. Then it began to rain.


A typical Aberystwyth Street Scene

No, not Aberystwyth or Oxford drizzle, but real rain, big rain, Texan rain. And with it the temperature plummeted from high 90s to low 70s in a matter of minutes. Lone cowboys caught in the open froze instantly, "snuff" still their mouths, half drunk cans of Coors Lite turned to ice.


Well look at that, it's Oxford and it's raining

The storm's subsided now and this small rural farming community rejoices in the newfound cool of the morning. Thank you, God, for sending us rain and a respite from living in an oven. And yes, it may be a small victory in our bitter war against The Weather, but every advance counts.

From the Front,

LSP

Friday, April 3, 2020

Walking The Eschaton



It was like a midsummer day in Borth on the Welsh Riviera. Overcast, a drizzling rain, not too cold, not too hot but no, this was North Central Texas and time to take Blue Eschaton for a walk.




The streets were empty, because of the Chinese Virus or because they always are? A mystery, and so was our old friend the Meth Shack. The Shack's under new management, who've been busy gutting the place with a view, presumably, to newer and better renters. Good luck with that worthy project.




Mourning the passing of an age, we advanced to the Pick 'n Steal. It still stands, essential business in the midst of lockdown. I tethered the Eschaton to an empty newspaper vending machine and went inside for a coffee "refill" in an invincible Yeti mug. 




The store's Owl Idol looked down with unflinching eyes on its supplicants, the usual crew of pajama wearin', slipper shufflin', lottery playin', blunt buyin' punters. There they were and there it was. Reassured that some things never change, I walked the furry apocalypse back to the Compound, mission accomplished. And then a curious thing happened.




Within a space of minutes, clouds rolled in from the north and with them a fierce wind. The temperature dropped like a stone in seconds, taking us from Borth in August to Borth in April. Fearing a Polar Vortex, I showed the Eschaton inside to warmth and safety.

Poor dog. You can imagine, centuries later, explorers discovering an elderly Heeler encased in ice, the remains of a fried cherry pie in his mouth, frozen where he stood on the awful day the Climate Changed.




That aside, I hope you've all managed to recover your firearms from the lakes and rivers and sensibly saved on SCUBA by use of powerful magnets and sturdy ropes.

God bless,

LSP

Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Wash Out!



My youngest son, who's visiting from Canada, wanted to go for a shoot today and who can blame him. It sounded good to me too and the plan was to load up on clays, shotgun ammo, some .45 and head out into the wilderness for fun and adventure. Then it started to rain and didn't stop, it was like Wales, maybe Aberystwyth.




But the living room was dry, fortunately, and we looked out of its windows at the watery apocalypse. "Son, this isn't shooting weather." He agreed and I nodded grimly as the varied detritus of modern life flowed past the Compound, "That's an excellent point. Let's go to Karen's and get some food."




So we hydroplaned to Karen's Authentic Mexican Food in Itasca and bought a bag of bean and brisket burritos. Then we hydroplaned back and ate those bad boys like they were going out of fashion, which they're not because they're so tasty. Good work, Karen, you did it again.




The guns got a look-in too. Sure, maybe you don't want to shoot in the deluge but you can always clean the little blasters, which is what I did. Meanwhile, boy and dog amused themselves while the rain poured down.




They say, interestingly, that enough rain falls in Texas to keep the average house in water for a year. Of course this figure might be skewed by the population boom in the Lone Star Sate as people flee Illinois, California and associated workers' paradises for our sunny southern weather.




Gun rights,

LSP

Friday, November 16, 2018

The Restoration



There they are, three family heirlooms sitting in the back yard of your compound, rusting. And you look at the metal chairs which belonged to your Great Great Grandmother and think, it's high time these relics of a better age were brought back to life, restored.


Walmart

The next thing you know you're at Walmart, getting a haircut, taking care of business at the 1st Inconvenience Bank and buying sandpaper, primer and white enamel Rustoleum spray paint. Then what?


Sanded

Sand the chairs. I used 100 grit paper and a couple of sanding sponges, and wish I'd bought more; they're efficient. When the grit's gone, deploy them as blocks and that works too.


The Watcher

A hour or so later congratulate yourself, well done, you've finished sanding. Stand back and behold the improvement, a promise of things to come.

Apocalyptic reverie over, wash the beasts down with some kind of spirit and spray. Three coats took around two cans per chair and I think they looked sharp, but the third chair needed special treatment. 


Filthy

That's because it'd managed to get itself especially filthy and had to be cleaned before sanding. An old abrasive kitchen sponge did the trick and neatly removed flaking paint to boot. Result.


Clean

Chair #3 gets a sanding and spray tomorrow. In the meanwhile, #1 and #2 rest on the porch, looking good and ready for action. They'll be joined by a swing and #3 as time moves inexorably on towards its end.


Blue Eschaton

We'll watch that play out, on the porch.

God bless,

LSP

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

ICE



Was it celestial outrage over the British Army's new ad campaign, heavenly anger at the MillSoc antics of Moby and Sean Penn or just our old enemy, the weather, getting back at Texas for failing to pay a tribute tax? Who knows but for whatever reason, ice began to fall from the sky last night.


Apocalypse

It started off as freezing rain, driven by icy blasts of bonesplitting wind that swept the porch as though it were the open bridge of a ship in a winter gale. Then the rain turned to ice, followed by tiny shards of snow. 

Sure, if this was Calgary everyone would be heaving a sigh of relief at the warmth of it all but this is Texas and -9+ is something to be conjured with, to say nothing of Sky Ice.


Eschaton

The day dawned to a scene of frozen stasis. Nothing moved except a man and a blue dog on their way to the Pick 'n Steal, which was miraculously open. Then it hit me, an epiphany or eureka moment. Go to Walmart and buy a butt roast and slow cook that porcine beast until it's fall off the bone tender. And that's what I did.


The End of The World

Walmart was empty, you could fire off a canon and not hit anyone, but the pork was there. It's rubbed and ready for the Compound's oven, while we clean weapons, load magazines and dare the Weather to do its worst.

Invictus,

LSP

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,

LSP

Thursday, November 16, 2017

You Chicken



People often ask me, they say, "What's country life actually like, in Texas?" And I tell them, "It's like a game of chicken." No fooling, the birds are everywhere.

Blue Eschaton loves this. For him, there's nothing better than running full tilt at a terrified, squawking chicken, cornering it and then killing it. He doesn't eat them, he just stands there attempting to look innocent, with feathers in his mouth.




He tried it the other day and I managed to save the bird, much to the dog's annoyance and a bit of running around on my part.

Sometimes you'll see the poultry roaming around the center of town and I'm surprised resourceful live off the land, DIY, off-grid preppers don't eat them. I've done that myself, after Blue Marauder's done his work.




"Dad, how did you learn to do that?" asked my sons as I breasted an unfortunate fowl with a handy razor sharp folder, "It just happened, kids."

All this flashed through my mind this morning outside the town's food bank, where I'd gone to fly the flag, make a bereavement visit and do my bit for the needy. There it was, a random chicken by the dumpster. And I thought this.




We're devolving into something third world because the globalist NWO, transnational, Illuminati elite and their bi-coastal puppets have sold us down the river to make themselves even more stratospherically wealthy than they already are. Hence Mexico moves to Tejas, along with all their chickens.

After a moment of bitterness I consoled myself. When the center cannot hold, imploding perhaps under burgeoning debt, the rural parts of this country which have been gutted by our MillSoc (Millionaire Socialist) overlords will be OK. 




We'll have eggs and meat and feathers. And guns, lots of them, and horses. Expect a lot of irregular cavalry units.

God bless,

LSP




PS. Beer Can Chicken is simple and tasty. Heap coals to side of grill, rub butter/olive oil over bird, salt and pepper then put small beer can (with beer) up the chicken. Don't think Freddy Mercury. Place on indirect heat, drip pan underneath for gravy. Cover and cook for an hour and fifteen minutes, turning half way through. It'll be moist and delicious.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Sutherland Springs, Apocalyptic Reflection



Last Sunday we walked out of Mass uplifted, at least I did, refreshed in mind, body and spirit and then on arriving back at the Compound, pouring a glass of the right stuff and clicking on Drudge, things didn't seem so good.

There it was, Devin Kelley had killed 26 people and wounded at least 20 in an act of murderous, irrational, rage. "Why," asked one hardened LE Officer, "was it Satan?" Good question. Try phrasing the act another way. "A man of iniquity, full of bestial wrath, blasphemously profaned the Temple with the blood of the martyrs."


Satan

Put that way, Kelley's massacre sounds apocalyptic and it was, quite literally, for his victims; they met their last day. As such, Sutherland Springs serves as a partial type or prefigurement of the Apocalypse. What does this look like? We know the broad outline because Christ tells us, in Matthew 24.

Wars and rumours of war, earthquakes and false Messiahs. Here we find the birth-pains of the second Advent. Then follows the birth-crisis, the triumph of paganism and the setting up of idolatrous cult, the abomination of desolation on Mount Zion, accompanied by ferocious, such as the world has not yet seen, persecution of the Church. 


Virgins Wise And Foolish

The Apostle Paul and St. John The Divine  add to the mystery, telling us that this phase of blasphemous ascendance is led by a man, the son of perdition, or Antichrist, who is endowed with supernatural ability to "deceive the very elect." At this time there will be a great "falling away" or apostasy.

Then after the travail comes birth itself, the second Advent of the Son of Man, presaged by cosmic upheaval, who appears on clouds of divine glory to vanquish evil and vindicate the faithful. At last the Bridegroom returns. In the onrushing face of this, where do we stand?


A Typical Wise Virgin

Hopefully like the wise virgins who had the sense to stock their lamps with oil.  Herein lies a symbol. The lamps represent faith, which holds the light of good works, of mercy, love, forgiveness and compassion, all fueled by the oil of love and the indwelling presence of the Spirit who is the personification of love.

The message, then, is simple. We must be filled with the fire of divine love, as light shining in the darkness and then, when the Bridegroom finally appears, we will see Him and He us, granting us admittance into the marriage feast of the Lamb.


Bad Virgins!

To return to Sutherland Springs; those people, knowingly or not, were prepared for their apocalypse. They were loving God in worship. 

May God grant us grace to do the same. And, not to put too fine a point on it, if you're licensed, carry.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

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.


Brazen

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.

LSP

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Woman At The Well



In tomorrow's Gospel we hear the remarkable story of the Samaritan woman at the well. Consider the narrative's apocalyptic aspect.




At the sixth hour Christ meets the Harlot at the well and confronts her infidelity with truth. Likewise, at the sixth hour, Pilate condemns Christ, and the followers of the False Prophet Caiaphas write the mark of the Beast on their foreheads saying, "We have no king but Caesar!" Again, at the sixth hour, darkness fell over the land as Jesus was crucified and Antichrist triumphs, for a time.




The woman at the well, curiously, is venerated as a saint in the Eastern Church and is believed to have witnessed before Nero, a type of the Antichrist, before her eventual martyrdom. 

God bless,

LSP

Sunday, May 29, 2016

Basschaton



There we were , somewhere in Texas, fishing for Bass, and they weren't biting, until they did. Clamp! Vise-like jaws snapped shut on an alluring dark plastic worm and in came a fish, an apocalyptic leviathan of a Bass.




GWB soon caught up with some swift action, and after an hour at the lake we were neck and neck at 3 fish each. By then the sun was setting, the lake was still as glass and it just seemed right to try out the Tiny Torpedo topwater method.




A small strike, almost more of a gulp, later and kaboom! A big fish was on, leaping and fighting, playing out the drag as it stormed and thrashed out of the water. Excitement wasn't in it, this was a serious fish.




As if on cue, lightning flashed through the thunderheads, right there, at the Basschaton.

Tight Lines,

LSP