Laying Down Smoke

 

A sister flies in from the Old Country, so whaddya do? Climb in the rig and strike out for the Metrosprawl. Once there, fire up the Weber Thesis, enjoy some of the right stuff and apply beer can chicken to the grill when the coals have done their thing.

It's not hard. Brush the chick with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Admire your handiwork as you insert a can of beer into the bird's crevice, maybe drink some beer while you're at it, and then place the thing on the grill over indirect heat. So important, indirect heat.

Then cover the grill and let heat do its magic for 1 hour, 15 minutes, turning the chick around at half point so that the breast faces the coals. Take it out. Let it rest. Then fall upon your scoff like a warrior, job well done.

But of course you know all this, beer can chicken, a go-to here in the States. In the UK? Maybe not so much. Speaking of which, this sister's in the process of relocating to Reading, not far from London, where house prices are nosebleed high. Well done her, but how do the Brits afford it? They can't, not really, at least not most of them, and the same thing's not far off here too. Solution?

Easy. Our Beloved Rulers at Black Rock et al own everything and rent it back to us, at extreme profit. And guess what, you won't be able to afford meat anymore, much less chicken, and half the country will vote for it because Climate Change. Then wonder why they're only allowed to eat bugs as they glory in their tiny 1500 USD pcm studio apartment. 

I won't bang on, 

LSP

Look At This Corrupt Fraud

 

Dear readers, all two of you, I don't think our friends in England, the UK, really get it. As in, CONUS metrosprawl megacity and all of that has gone. Sure, it seems OK, like civilization, with roads and stuff, at least in parts, for now, but it's all going DETROIT. 

You know what I mean, nice people flee, bye-bye tax base, leaving a corrupt crew of bruvvas lording it over an urban apocalypse of burned out shells of former greatness as urban hipsters reinvent downtown to serve their technocrat they/them masters, Good work, vote blue someliers. 

Let's cut to the chase. What are we, Grand Zimbabwe or something else. I call in between. But over to you.

Your Best Friend,

LSP

Clubland Forever

 

An old friend asked me over drinks at the Club, "I say, are you a, a... a Putinist?" and I looked him straight in the eye and asked, "Do you think whipping P. Riot was a good thing and that a flat 13% tax is a bad thing, to say nothing of supporting the Church? Perhaps you're on the risible side of Jarvis Cocker and the rest of the Trans Rainbow GloboHomo collective."

Damme, Guinea on the Monkey and Twice as Fast

My friend, who learns Sanskrit by way of hobby, replied, "Maybe you need to grow up, so-called 'LSP.'" I looked at him, silhouetted by Midlothian axes and life-sized marble statues of Gladstone, "My dear fellow, I'm afraid that boat's already sailed."

Clubland forever,

LSP

Shake 'Em On Down

 

And that's just the State Department. Rock on, let's hear it for Samantha, and do you not think her skirt is neat?

Shake 'em down. Just some random nonsense.

Your buddy,

LSP

Happy Fathers Day

 

Well done, Fathers, you've brought life into the world, keep it coming. And what better prayer could we have for the day than the Pater Noster? 

PATER noster, qui es in cœlis; sanctificetur nomen tuum: Adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas tua, sicut in cœlo, et in terra. Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie: Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris: et ne nos inducas in tentationem: sed libera nos a malo.

 

I'll spare you the sermon, but how blessed beyond reckoning we are to be adoptive sons of our heavenly Father in Christ. Elevated, dear readers, into the very life of the Trinity itself.

You will note, in passing, that Satan, much like an English schoolboy or Argentinian bishop, hates Latin.

God bless,

LSP

What A Mess

 

What, you say, the state of this great nation, which is apparently hellbent on going to Hell by the nearest available off ramp? No, that's a different post, I'm talking about the Compound. You see, what happened is this. I went off to visit my pal's Battle Farm in Paris Texas, all well and good, and then stayed the night in Dallas by way of filial piety. Nice, but guess what happened? It rained, and it rained mightily.

Then the rain stopped, like the Flood itself, and back we went to this bucolic slice of rural paradise in North Central Texas. Except it wasn't paradise, far from it. While I was away the church basement had flooded, wrecking the AC units cunningly stationed in its flood plain, and so had the basement in the house. In both locations our sump pumps had pathetically broken and there were the basements, awash with around three feet of water.

Worse than this, the sewer line from the Compound was partially blocked with debris, which would explain partial backups onto the kitchen floor when you run the clothes washer. Huh. Better call an electrician and a plumber, which we did.

Long story short. We pumped out the water, Electrics is looking to fix the AC and a crew of plumbers has been working pretty much around the clock to fix the sewer line. No kidding, they were here till almost midnight yesterday, digging up the line. I asked them, "I hope you're getting overtime," and they replied, "No, it's for a good cause, the Church."

Right on, and by the grace of God and sheer dint of hard work those boys cleared the line today out to the mains, some 100 feet away, and set the thing up for a dual clean out. Good work, kids, over and above the call of duty. And let's thank God for this too, the pipe in question is PVC, not clay or iron.

So that's what's been going on here in the country since Wednesday, electricians, plumbers and our ongoing war against the Weather. We shall prevail in this particular skirmish, and emerge stronger. In related news, our Beloved Rulers seem all in favor of the draft, as in "draft all the young people to fight a war."

"Why," asked my eldest, "should I fight a war for Rainbow Corporate GloboHomo and it's transnational rulers?" You see, he was thinking of getting out into a lucrative IT job, let the reader understand. I replied, quick as a flash, "You won't, you'll be part of the training cadre. Stay in and get the most out of it." He seemed to get the sense of that.

Regardless, we're approaching full water here unlike, say, Idaho. Speaking of our Rulers killing some 500,000 square acres of farmland in the Potato State, do you think they really hate us or just don't care, which is the same thing.

Cheers,

LSP

Nashville Shooter

 

Do you remember the Nashville killer who shot up a school last year? Perhaps not, because the story was ignored by our fearless, objective, truth seeking, non-partisan Press. So strange, why would our fearless reporters ignore such a story? Surely not because the deranged killer was a suicidal girl to man troon.

Or, because the FBI told our brave friends in the "report the news" industry to shuddup about it. A psychotically depressed troon on psycho drugs killing kids didn't fit the narrative, apparently. Well, you can read all about it here, now that the killer's manifesto's been leaked.

We can't have that now, can we, true story of psycho troon going AR troon on a bunch of kids in a gun free zone, because, you know, the less we're armed the safer we are. Go on, ask a Red Indian. That aside, how much longer will we have to endure this utterly bizarre psychosis. Viz. That gender is unmoored from biology.

Serious question. Maybe it'll take a generation of self-wounded kids to turn on the devils who encouraged, boosted and profited off this insane chicanery. I hope they do. "Why, Pharma, Pritzkers, Dems, RINO uniparty accomplices, media and associated NWO stooge goons, did you make me mutilate my God-given body?"

You get the point and I won't bang on, but there most definitely will be a reckoning.

Count on it,

LSP

Trebuchet

 

A few years back I asked LL, we were down at the range, "Are you a prepper?" He replied, "I am always prepared, so I am a prepper. But maybe preppers should take note. What if I turn up at your compound, your little fortress, with a trebuchet, what then?" Here's a video of what then, check it out:

Footage circulating on social media shows Israeli soldiers using a trebuchet to launch incendiaries at Lebanon. pic.twitter.com/PYMyCZcOWM

— Emanuel (Mannie) Fabian (@manniefabian) June 13, 2024

Hypnotic, do you not think?

Exactly, what then. Flaming balls of hell raining down on your position when cash for 155 doesn't work out. Well hey, maybe you should've thought twice about kidnapping all those girl hippies. Just saying.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

RESET

 

Did you enjoy the Updike? No matter, time for a reset. No, not WEF style, instead team LSP went on an exeat to Paris, Paris TX. By way of background: a few years ago, several people pounded the mahogany in the Compound's dining room over dinner. Fun, and here's the thing, they wanted to start a farm, a Battle Farm, which they did.

Some six years or so later, lo and behold, 80 acres outside of Paris, complete with a chicken operation, a good size tank with Bass and all of that. Sure, it's a work in progress, but hey, they actually went ahead and did it. Well done, kids.

CW caught a Bass, which is a fine thing to do

You'll be interested to know the prime movers behind this rural adventure are vets, they're also converts from Anglicanism to Orthodoxy. I wish them well, what a lot of fun to escape for a few days and not look at a computer.

Cheers,

LSP

Seven Stanzas Of Easter

 

Do you read John Updike? I don't, but I do like this:

Make no mistake: if He rose at all

it was as His body;

if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules

reknit, the amino acids rekindle,

the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,

each soft Spring recurrent;

it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled

eyes of the eleven apostles;

it was as His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,

the same valved heart

that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then

regathered out of enduring Might

new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,

analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;

making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the

faded credulity of earlier ages:

let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,

not a stone in a story,

but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow

grinding of time will eclipse for each of us

the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,

make it a real angel,

weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,

opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen

spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,

for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,

lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are

embarrassed by the miracle,

and crushed by remonstrance.

You'll be amused to know my Treasurer, a Vietnam vet artillery captain, forbids the use of simile and metaphor in sermons. "Don't do it," he says, "Or I'll leave." He has a point. Either we believe or we don't, and that's just it.

LSP

Well What Have We Here

 

A morbidly obese oddity who's the size of a Buick, behold Miss Alabama 2024. Let's zoom in on this new kegweight examplar of southern femininity:

Beautiful, isn't it, except it's not, and that's exactly the point. Destroy all objective value, truth itself, and arrive, apotheosis, at existential liberation from the bonds of oppression. Now, with Miss Alabama, wymxn are finally set free from slavery to look good.

Dam straight, you can win a beauty pageant even though you're fat and gross. Good call, ProgLeft, but is anyone fooled. Trot out all the obesity you like and call it beauty and see how far you go. Well, in this instance you'll destroy beauty pageants, in another, the Armed Forces, Judiciary, Press, Academe or the Episcopal Church. But even if the institutions are hollowed out, the truth remains.

spot the odd one out

Beautiful women are still beautiful, brave soldiers are brave regardless of the rainbow flags in their barracks, and on. Point being, you cannot destroy objective value even though you try your damndest to do so. Truth remains truth, regardless of the lies you tell. That in mind, at least Miss Alabama is actually a woman, unlike, say, Miss Maryland.

Your Pal,

LSP

LIARS

 

Do you remember when, what, 51 top US spies told the world that Hunter Biden's crack-whoretop was Russian disinfo, planted by GRU to interfere with our totally free and fair elections? Sure you do. There it was, yet more proof that Trump was and is a Kremlin agent. Fast forward to today.

The venerable crack-whore laptop's telling it's nasty story in a court of law and lo and behold, it wasn't a shameless plant, it's the real deal. Hunter got wasted, a lot, bought a gun illegally, made out with whores, and made a whole lotta cash while he was at it. And at it he was, smoking down that sweet, sweet crack every 20 minutes while raking in the money.

At least that's what his GF at the time says, and why should we doubt her. Maybe Hunter didn't give the poor girl enough money. More seriously, will all the senior spooks who lied and ran election interference in 2020 and beyond be held accountable? 

Don't be stupid, of course they won't. My money, and guinea on the monkey, is no, they will not. Of course we know who their Father is, he was a lying murderer from the beginning.

Still, Your Call,

LSP