Fresh Meat

Tarawa

Operation Galvanic, the code name for the invasion of Tarawa, was not the bloodiest battle in total numbers, 953 Marines and sailors KIA, 29 MIA, and 2,296 wounded, but when that casualty figure of 3,301 is out of a total landing force of 11,000, it’s one of the highest rates in the Pacific. Of the 4,707 Japanese Special Landing Force sailors (Jap marines, rikusentai), 4,690 were killed. Only 17 were captured alive, most all of them too wounded to carry on the fight or commit suicide.

Betio was the main island in the Tarawa Atoll and was less the two miles long and 600 yards wide at its widest point. In this space smaller than Central Park, over 20,000 men would slug it out at point blank range. More than 5,600 men would die there, and four Medals of Honor would be earned in the first assault against a heavily defended, fortress beach head of WWII.

The Japanese had fortified the small island with over 3,000 mines, miles of barbed wire and anti-boat obstacles, 14 coastal defense guns ranging in caliber from 80mm to 203mm (including British Vickers guns removed from Singapore after the Japanese conquered the city), 43 anti-aircraft guns, 90 anti-tank and anti-boat guns, and hundreds of concrete reinforced machine gun bunkers and rifle pits. Admiral Shibasaki, commanding the Japanese defenders, had boasted “A million men in a thousand years could not take Tarawa”. The Marines would do it in 76 hours. Betio

Betio Island, Tarawa Atoll

The 2nd Marine Division, comprised of the 2nd, 6th, and 8th Marines, would make the assault against three beaches, named Red 1 through 3, on Betio’s lagoon side. The beaches names were prophetic, the lagoons water would be churned milky white by the pre-invasion bombardment; a whiteness which contrasted greatly the blood that would tint it red.

During the early morning hours of November 20, 1943 the Marines of the assault force were fed the ritual pre-landing breakfast of steak and eggs while the Higgins boats and amtracs churned the bright blue Pacific waters getting into line. The traditional steak and eggs had started with the 1st MarDiv in Australia and was frowned on by the Navy medical staff who knew they would soon be treating stomach wounds. At 0300 the assault boats were in position and the long and laborious, intricate ballet of disembarking the troops began.

During the pre-bombardment briefings a battleship commander had bragged that he would bring his ship in to 6,000 yards because their armor could take whatever the Japs could throw at them. Not to be outdone. a heavy cruiser commander chimed in “I’ll bring her into 4,000 yards, her armor can take it.” General Shoup, commanding officer of the Marine landing force said “Just remember gents, when my Marines storm the beach, they’ll be at bayonet range, and the only armor they’ll have is their damned dungaree shirts.” Shoup knew what his Marines were going to face, and he also knew that Galvanic was a test bed for the amphibious doctrine the Corps had written in the inter war years and the tactics they had devised for storming a fortified position. It would be a first in Military history, and no one knew what would happen.

At 0500 a four hour bombardment by battlewagons, cruisers, destroyers, and even minesweepers began. So much high explosive ordnance was dropped on the island that many Marines felt the whole thing would just break apart and sink. They were convinced that the islands defenses would be totally obliterated; nothing could survive such a bombardment.

They were sadly mistaken.

At 0900 the boats began their six mile run for the beach. By now the merciless Pacific sun was beating down on the sea sick Marines. Betio lies only 80 miles north of the equator and November was the height of summer. Adding to the Marines’ misery was the fact that much of the water they had to drink had been contaminated by improper cleaning procedures of the 55 gallon oil drums it had been stored in. In addition to the rocking of the flat bottomed Higgins boats and the tossing of the LVT’s, the Marines were vomiting from tainted water and suffering severe stomach cramps.

Once they reached the line of departure there was a further 3 mile run to the beach itself. The Japanese were surprised when instead of the wooden boats they had expected, they saw steel boxes churning through the water carrying the assault waves. They were even more surprised when, instead of stopping at the coral reef 1,000 yards out, they churned over it and continued on. The Marines in the LVT’s were the lucky ones. The following waves of Higgins boats would not be able to cross the reef at low tide, and those Marines would be forced to wade ashore through 1,000 yards of fire swept and shell crater pocked lagoon. Weighed down with 80 pounds of gear, if they fell in a shell crater they would drown; if they made it that far through the murderous fire.

With_the_Marines_at_Tarawa_1944_-_Academy_Award_Winning_Documentary-1Wading ashore at Red Beach

The study of tides was an inexact and relatively unknown science and there had been no local guide to advise the planners of the depth over the reef. They had counted on at least 4 four feet of draft to allow the Higgins boats to make it over the reef. Instead they were going in at low tide and the coral reef was sitting just a few inches below the surface. Navy divers, who were tasked with blowing anti-boat obstacles as well as mapping the beach, had reported that the tide was out and that reefs would rip the bottoms out of the Higgins boats, but there was no alternative. There were not enough tracs to transport the entire force over the reef and through the lagoon to begin with. Losses to enemy fire would ensure that there would be even fewer. Those that survived would be tasked with ferrying the wounded off the beaches, and picking up the Marines that they could from the reef. Most of the grunts however would have to wade in, under fire the whole way.

As the assault waves churned forward at 5 miles per hour the Japs opened up with heavy machine guns and anti-boat guns. LVT’s exploded from direct hits, bodies and jagged chunks of aluminum flying through the air. The neat lines became jumbled and mixed, each coxswain struggling to maintain his place while he watched tracers reach out for his boat, or the boats on his left and right. The smoke from naval gunfire and air strikes obscured the beachhead, making navigation near impossible. Marines in the back of the tracs huddled against the illusory safety of the thin bulkheads, vomited and gripped their rifles tighter; waiting for the round that would blast their trac out of the water.

The first Marine to land on Betio was 1st Lt. William Hawkins. The 30 year old Texan, who had won a battlefield commission on Guadalcanal, was leading a platoon of scout snipers whose job it was to clear the long wooden pier jutting into the lagoon between Red 2 & 3. Any Japanese troops on the pier would be able to fire on the landing craft passing on either side of them. He and his Marines cleared the pier and began assaulting other positions. Wounded in the hand from a mortar blast that killed three of his men, he continued fighting until he was hit in the chest and shoulder by a burst of MG fire. He died later that day from his wounds. Lt. Hawkins was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously for his actions that day.

1st Lt William Hawkins 1st Lt. William Hawkins

Under fire from front and sides, the amtracs of the 3rd Bn. 2nd Marines stormed into the maelstrom of Red Beach 1. Jap machine guns and riflemen aboard the partially sunken freighter Niminoa, sitting just inside the coral reef, fired on them from the rear. Many amtracs exploded when their unarmored fuel tanks were hit, others churned violently out of control as their drivers fell dead, slumped over the controls. Others simply vanished in high explosive geysers of salt water as they suffered direct hits from Jap heavy guns. Rounds plinked as they tore through one side of the amtracs and out the other; except when they were stopped by a body. But they pushed forward, .50 cal guns blazing from their exposed mounts, tearing onto the narrow beach and stopping at the 3 foot high coconut log seawall to disgorge their sick Marines.

On all three beaches the Marines huddled under the sea wall, seeking the only cover available from the murderous fire. An amphibious operation is at best orchestrated confusion. When under intense enemy fire it disintegrates into sheer bedlam and chaos. Unit leaders that make it ashore alive are often at the wrong section of beach, separated from the units they are supposed to lead. Platoons and companies are intermixed and jumbled, often with no communication with the platoons that are supposed to be on their flanks, let alone company or higher levels of command. In this deadly symphony of confusion and chaos, with the screams of the wounded and the deadly fingers of rounds reaching out towards the Marines wading in through the strangely calm waters of the lagoon, is where the famed aggressiveness and initiative of the Marine came into play. Soon a Corporal here would point out a Jap machine gunner bunker a few yards away and organize an ad hoc assault party to take it out. A private there would leap over the seawall and charge an enemy rifle pit. A flame thrower team would take out an anti-boat gun. Small groups of Marines would push in past the seawall and clear a few yards of devastated beach, followed by a few more groups here and there. Soon, the whole Marine line was pushing forward, feet, inches, at a time. Assaulting unseen pillboxes with flame throwers, satchel charges, and rifle fire, they carried the fight to within feet of the enemy who stayed in place, firing until the last. The fighting was so close the Marines could smell the last breath of the rikusentai.

Sea Wall at Betio

Marines advance over the sea wall at Betio.

Staff Sergeant William Bordelon, of San Antonio Texas, was a combat engineer with 1st Bn. 18th Marines who had landed on Red 2. His LVT had stopped only 15 yards from a concealed Jap 40mm gun and a heavy machine gun and had suffered heavy casualties as it was torn apart by the concentrated enemy fire. S/Sgt. Bordelon was wounded four times; including having the blasting cap of a demolition charge prematurely explode in his hand. Refusing medical aid he pushed on and destroyed four enemy positions. He was killed taking out the fourth and was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously. In 1995, at his family’s request, his body was disinterred from the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in Honolulu and transferred to Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery. His flag draped casket was given the honor of laying in state in the Alamo. Staff Sergeant Bordelon

S/Sgt. William Bordelon

By afternoon the first of the 2nd Division’s M-4 Sherman tanks began to make it ashore. Specially trained platoons of reconnaissance Marines waded out to mark safe passage through the shell craters and other depressions that would swamp the tanks. The bright orange markers they were supposed to use soon failed though, so they posted a Marine at each crater to guide the tanks around it. As they got closer to shore though there were new, more gruesome obstacles to avoid, the floating bodies of dead Marines. At first the drivers tried to avoid the corpses, but soon there was no choice. Gritting their teeth the drivers pushed the accelerators, ignoring the human debris they were forced to crush beneath their tracks.

At Red 3 all but one of the eight Sherman’s made it ashore. The six tanks at Red 1 were not so lucky, four flooded out and they never made it ashore, their crews bailing out and taking up the fight as infantry. The two tanks that did make it, Chicago and China Gal, became valuable additions, even though Chicago was soon knocked out by enemy artillery and China Gal’s 75mm gun was out of action.

On the afternoon of D-day a keen eyed Marine spotted a group of Japanese officers and called in fire support from the destroyers Ringgold and Dashiell. A barrage of 5 inch shells slammed into the exposed men and killed them all. Unknown to anyone at the time, it was Adm. Shibasaki and his entire command staff. Because of this fortuitous event, the massive counter attack that most certainly would have materialized that night never occurred. The thin and hard pressed line of only 3,000 Marines was able to hold until the morning of D+1.

The Marine’s foothold was tenuous. At Red 1 they held a strip of land only 250 yards deep and 300 yards wide, surrounded by the sea on both sides. A 600 yard gap stretched to the west to Red Beach 2 & 3, where 2/2 and 2/8 held an area only about twice as large. The Marines had pushed inland to just a few feet of the main runway, but their line was broken and stretched thin. With the morning came the intense heat, and the overwhelming putrid smell of decaying flesh. It was too dangerous for the graves and registration teams to begin work, and the bodies would lie where they fell until battles end, permeating the entire island, and the survivors memories, with the awful smell of death. Red 1

Dead Marines at Red Beach 1

The 1st Battalion 8th Marines, unable to land on D day, were still aboard Higgins boats, having spent the entire night circling in the choppy waters without food or toilet facilities. At 0615 they were finally ordered in to Red 2, landing in a murderous fire of Japanese machine gun fire. They were angry, sore, sick, and ready to vent on the Japanese.

Two Navy Lieutenants from the transport Sheridan, John Fletcher and Eddie Heimberger learned that over 150 wounded Marines were stranded on the coral reef. Acting on their own initiative they commandeered an LCVP and began evacuating the wounded. Heimberger soon realized that he was making little impact with only one boat and collected several other LCVP’s to go back with him. As he approached the reef he came under fire from Japanese troops aboard the Niminoa. Returning fire with his boats .30 cal machine gun, he ordered the other boats to stay out 200 yards while he went in alone to take out the enemy. Working back to the reef and the Niminoa he came under fire from a Jap sniper who had swam out to a destroyed amtrac. Knowing that he was carrying eight drums of high octane fuel aboard, he quickly dispatched the sniper and went back to taking on the wounded at the reef. The Nimonoa would remain a threat until it was stormed by an ad hoc assault force of riflemen. Unwounded Marines stranded on the reef asked Heimberger to bring back weapons and ammo on his return trip. He also brought back with him the regimental surgeon who began treating the less seriously wounded Marines right there on the reef. In all Heimberger was credited with saving 15 Marines and was awarded the Navy Cross. After the war he resumed his acting career under his stage name, Eddie Albert.

By the end of D+1, the Marines were in a much more favorable position, having consolidated their lines and reaching the southern side of the island in the center of Red 2 & 3. On the far right of Red 1 an impromptu landing of 1/6 on the secondary Green Beach had secured the entire 600 yard long stretch of the western end, the widest part of the island, and had pushed in about 100 yards. The Japanese were now split in two, with the bulk of their forces caught around the airstrip between Red 2 and Red 1, with 1/6 pushing from the west, and 1/8 from the east.

On D+2 the Marines cleared the central part of the island in vicious fighting and a composite unit from 2/8 and 3/8 pushed down the eastern end of the main runway. They soon hit a complex of coconut logged machine gun bunkers in mutually supporting positions covering a large, sand covered concrete bunker. A lucky round from a mortar barrage hit a stockpile of ammo in the mg nest and the resulting explosion tore it apart, allowing a Sherman tank to assault it point blank range. The concrete bunker, defended by up to 200 hundred Japanese, proved to be a tougher nut to crack. For over an hour Marines assaulted it with flame throwers and satchel charges. Finally they were able to drop grenades down the ventilator shafts and swarms of Japanese ran out, only to be cut down by canister shot from M-3 light tanks. The Bunker

Marines assaulting the concrete bunker.

During the assault on this bunker, 1st Lt. Alexander Bonnyman led his grunts up the western side of the structure where they took out a machine gun nest and set off demolition charges at two entrances. There was an immediate Japanese counter attack from the opposite side, but Lt. Bonnyman stayed in place, repelling them at point blank range and preventing them from reaching the summit until he was killed. 30 years old and with a family, he could have avoided military service if he had wished, but he had enlisted in the Marines as a private and earned rapid field promotions to the rank of Lieutenant. He was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for defending the summit of the bunker.

1st Lt. Bonnyman

1st Lt. William Bonnyman

That night the Marines were in control of nearly two-thirds of the island. But the Japanese were still there in strength and at 1930 about 50 Japs crept out of the ravaged undergrowth and probed the front lines of 1/6. This probe developed into an hour long fight with bayonets, Ka-Bars, and rifle butts, fought in the bottoms of fox holes and shell craters. At 0300 a second and much larger attack developed as hundreds of screaming rikusentai charged the battalion’s front. Shrieking “Marine you die!” and “Japanese drink Marine blood!” they wildly fired their rifles and threw grenades in the infamous Banzai attack Marines would come to be so familiar with. It was a nightmarish fight of stabbing and beating and clawing with bare hands and entrenching tools against a maniacal foe that appeared out of the shadows like demons. They hurtled out of the darkness, throwing themselves at the Marine lines in a suicidal charge with the only desire to kill as many as Marines as they could before being killed themselves. The Marines obliged them with at least one part of their wish. When the sun broke the next morning over 200 rikusentai lay dead before 1/6’s line. Another 125 mangled Japanese corpses lay further back, cut down by naval gunfire from the destroyers Schroeder and Sigsbee.

With_the_Marines_at_Tarawa_1944_-_Academy_Award_Winning_Documentary

Dead rikusentai in front of the Marine line.

As D+3 dawned 3rd Bn. 6th Marines passed through the grisly remains of the nights fighting and advanced on a 300 yard front, pushing eastward towards Takarongo Point, the far eastern tip of Betio. In the 1400 yards from 1/6’s line to Takarongo Point lay a labyrinth of bunkers, dug outs and steel rifle pits manned by 500 Japanese for whom surrender was not an option. The Marines killed 475 of the enemy at a loss of 9 killed and 25 wounded. At one blockhouse 75 Japanese charged en-masse. One high explosive round from a Sherman killed them all. At 1300 a sweaty Marine washed the grime from his face in the water of Takarongo Point. The entire eastern half of Betio was now in Marine hands.

The only sizeable body of enemy left was holed up in a maze of formidable gun emplacements at the junction of Red 1 & 2 in a position called “The Pocket”. These rikusentai has already survived three days of concentrated attacks and were responsible for more Marine casualties than any other position. A determined assault from 1/8 and 2/2 was launched, supported by close range direct fire from 75mm artillery. Using flamethrowers and satchel charges the Marine infantrymen wore down the enemy positions and at 1300 the remaining Japanese committed suicide. Betio was declared secure. Mopping up operations of Japanese survivors continued for days, but Operation Galvanic was over.

With_the_Marines_at_Tarawa_1944_-_Academy_Award_Winning_DocumentaryFighting at The Pocket. (This is a frame from the only known footage from WWII showing both belligerents in action at the same time.)

Many hard learned lessons, paid for in Marine blood at Tarawa, would be applied to the rest of the island hopping campaign in the Pacific. A color documentary of the assault, “With the Marines at Tarawa” was released amid heated controversy, requiring President Roosevelt himself to approve it for the American audience. The images of bloated Marine corpses bobbing in the white surf of Betio Island shocked and horrified stateside audiences, and Marine recruiting slumped. Bloody Tarawa had brought home the cost of final victory over the Japanese to a relatively sheltered American populace. They now knew that it would be a long, hard fight against a determined and fanatical foe.

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Of This and That…

First off, His Curmudgeonly Eminence, Francis Porretto, has a few words to add to the ShirtStorm (as well as some other excellent points that you really ought not to miss).

Looks like he, ourself, Jeff Goldstein, Mike Hendrix and Sarah Hoyt, just for starters, ought to found an Outlaw Blogger Gang dedicated to not giving a damn inch to the Prozi thought police and the spineless wankers on the “right” who like to submissively urinate all over their own bared tummies every time the Glittery Hoo Has give them the evil eye. The logo on our colors could be a one-fingered salute offered by a scantily clad female suggestively hugging a gun. Or braining a baby seal.

Of course, the real challenge would be to convince Her Imperial Majesty that her Royal Husband really needs a bike. If we took out a $4 million life insurance it might work.

“Now I’m Just Somebody That You Used to Know…”

That ought to be the soundtrack of the following video neatly encapsulating, in two minutes, what GruberGate is all about and how the lying liars in the Lie House are once again lying about the lies they lied when they lied about their previous lies.

Herr Gruber ought to read up on Vince Foster. It might come in handy for him in the upcoming weeks.

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The lying liars in the ObolaMedia and their handmaidens in the Prozi Blogosphere are busy pretending that nothing in the above was ever said and that, besides, Herr Gruber, the “most brilliant economist in the universe” who, until recently, was “the architect behind ObamaCare”, is no longer anything but an unknown somebody who never had anything to do with ObamaCare at all, for which the Lie House paid him $400,000 and change.

The wheels of the Obola Bus go round and round…

Quit Calling Me Mean Names!

Kaci “Ebola Mary” Hickox who absolutely would not, under any circumstances, muster one single solitary fuck about her potentially infecting Americans with Ebola is now terribly upset that Americans won’t muster one single solitary fuck about her being upset about being called names.

Terribly sorry (no, we’re not, but our exalted station requires that we be able to at least pretend to decorum occasionally), Lady Kari of Ebola, but last we checked your hurt feelings don’t quite rate on the same scale as the potential for seeing innocent Americans bleed to death from their eyeballs just because you can’t be arsed to take three weeks off work with pay to watch Netflix.

We’d be happy to meet you halfway by not calling you “nurse” anymore, however. After all, being a nurse requires no small amount of consideration for your fellow human beings, not to mention at least a modicum of understanding of the dangers of infectious diseases, how to combat them, the precautionary principle and basic epidemiology, none of which are in evidence in your selfish, arrogant, narcissistic behavior.

So how about “Ebola Kaci?” “Ebola, E-b-ola Ebooola…” “Kaci the Ebola Snatch?”

Pick one.

Thatisall.

We’re Winning, and They’re Losing… It…

One of the clear signs of a Prozi (aka “modern liberal”) being pushed into a corner, knowing that it’s at the end of its rope, is that its mental faculties will start to melt down completely and it will start to lash out in ever more angry and insane ways.

A perfect example would be the Social Justice Warrior variant of the Prozi species and their antics as of late.

Beset by an overwhelming (and justified) sense of lack of worth, they’ve devoted their miserable lives to making sure that nobody else is enjoying themselves either.

Like any other Prozi subculture, they simply cannot stand anybody doing something they enjoy, because their happiness is a constant reminder of how utterly bereft of joy their own lives are, just as they cannot bear the thought of anybody being successful as that serves as a painful reminder of just how spectacularly they have failed to achieve anything of value themselves.

Thus they constantly strive to make others more unhappy than they themselves are or destroy the success of others.

Only in this, in bringing others even lower than themselves can they ever hope to feel superior.

As an individual, the Prozi is rarely more than an annoyance, easily avoided and best left to fester in its own self-hatred as time spent on trying to appease it or even convince it that it, too, might someday know happiness if it would just take action to stop its self-perpetuating cycle of ignorance and self-pity and get off its butt is utterly wasted. It has spent a lifetime building up its hatred as a defense against acknowledging its own deficiencies (and they are many), and it is not likely to give that up easily. And that’s assuming that it hasn’t regressed to the point where it actually believes itself superior, all evidence to the contrary be damned, at which point one might as well give up and wait for its inevitable suicide.

But in groups they can be quite dangerous, at least if one does not push back and push back twice as hard.

There are numerous examples of Prozi witch hunts that have destroyed lives, one high profile one would be former Mozilla CEO Brendan Eich, who lost his position because he dared express a political opinion in the United States, which caused a Prozi shit storm that didn’t end until the spineless cowards at Mozilla “convinced” him to “resign.”

The sort of behavior more suited to places like Nazi Germany.

Then again, it is no coincidence that the Prozis, or Progressive Socialists, bear remarkable resemblances to their predecessors, the Nazis, or National Socialists.

To understand the Prozi and thus be able to better destroy it, it is important to know that the Prozis didn’t go after Mr. Eich so much because he’d dared donate money to a campaign against gay marriage, but primarily because their victory when they got him fired made them think that they were mighty. There was a man who had been successful beyond most people’s wildest dreams, who had built something up from nothing to a giant of industry, so if they could bring him low, then their own sad and painful lives would seem better to them.

They were and are like the barbarians who think that by bringing down the castle walls, they’re as mighty as and mightier still than the brilliant minds who built the castle itself, like the howling savages of the Parisian banlieus who, by setting fire to a hundred cars, think themselves more accomplished and successful than the geniuses who designed and built those cars.

But sadly for the Prozi, this momentary high, like most other highs, is, indeed, very momentary, and they wake up the next day still $80,000 in debt with nothing but a degree in gender studies and a minimum wage job serving watery coffee for strangers at Starbucks. If they’re lucky. So off they go in search of new targets of opportunity.

That they have been so sadly successful so far is, even more sadly, entirely our own fault as a society, a fact we must come to grips with if we aim to rid the planet of this wasteful, destructive and utterly useless scourge.

Because they are cowards too. It is helpful to understand that the vast majority of those sad individuals didn’t just become worthless overnight. They have been so their entire lives, most often as a result of an extremely lax upbringing, bordering on child abuse if not, indeed, way across that line. Lena “the Sister-Diddler” Dunham’s “parents” would be a perfect example of how a Prozi is made. As a result of this pre-programmed inferiority and inability to fit in, they have been bullied relentlessly throughout childhood, which taught them early on that A) resistance is futile and B) vengeance is sweet.

B) explains their irrational hatred of anybody who is happy and successful, A) explains how they wither almost immediately when faced with real resistance, because they’re used to losing. It is the only outcome with which they’re familiar, and that is our most potent weapon against them, a weapon that we fail to use time and time again.

Call it “civility”, call it “pity”, but wouldn’t that pity be better spent on their victims? Does us feeling good about not having utterly destroyed these vile, hateful creatures justify the pain we allow them to inflict upon others by not crushing them underfoot every chance we get?

Allowing those creatures to run rampant, indulging them in their temper tantrums rather than punching them straight in the face allows them to go on to destroy good, decent, brilliant, innocent people.

But we guess that’s OK as long as it’s somebody else they destroy?

Just a few days ago, the ESA (that’s the European Space Agency, then one not committed solely to muslim outreach like our own NASA) landed a probe on a comet. Remotely. So far away that signals, the ones needed to navigate, reached it with a 28 minute delay. We’ll go over that again: Human beings managed to land a probe on a flying bullet, a bullet that was tumbling end over end as it was traveling at ridiculous speeds, and they did so by remote control blindfolded with one hand tied behind their backs.

That’s cause for celebration, isn’t it? It might have been, but thanks to Prozi SJWs, it was all about a shirt. A Hawaii shirt with pinups on it. Worn by one of the most brilliant scientists on the team who made it happen.

A few SJWs, this time of the “feminist” variety, but that really doesn’t matter, they’re just another subculture among the Prozis, started tweeting hateful remarks about how “sexist” this genius’ colorful shirt was, and immediately the hordes of utter failures, hungry for their next fix, piled on.

And mankind, once again, responded with cowardice and forced this man, this brilliant, one-of-a-kind genius without whom this mission would have not even happened, to issue a tearful apology for not having conformed to the arbitrary dress code thought up by a handful of hateful subhumans.

How long, exactly, are we going to allow this to continue?

Because it doesn’t have to continue. They’re really easy to defeat.

If you use their own methods against them.

But obviously it’s better to sacrifice a decent human being every once and again so we don’t have to feel “mean.”

Until their next target is you. Then we’d wager that your outlook would change just a bit.

How easy is it?

GamerGate. Now, if you’re not a “gamer”, then you probably either haven’t heard of it or are even now rolling your eyes because “gamers.” So what if they came for the Jews? I’m not a Jew.

But it’s important. Cliff’s notes version is some “developer” (in reality a talentless Prozi, but we repeat ourself, hack who’d used somebody else’s software to create a computer version of a Choose Your Own Adventure™ book) slept with 5 different guys in the gaming industry, including reviewers, to get publicity for her hack “game.” She was dating another guy at the same time, but we really don’t give a flying fuck about that. She’s not the first unfaithful whore to walk the planet. We did care about the fact that it put into question quite a bit just how much a review is worth if you have to wonder if the reviewer has been fucking the developer bowlegged before reviewing her dreck.

And so did quite a few other gamers. To which the same gaming “journalists” who’d just done their best to destroy their own credibility responded by calling all gamers misogynist, sexist, rapist, neckbearded losers living in their mommas’ basements. Which is dumb, really dumb, since gamers are the only ones reading those websites, and without page views they don’t get ad dollars and without ad dollars… Well it’s back to Starbucks, we guess.

It’s not that it was all that surprising. We gamers have gotten used to more and more “reviews” reading like a very poorly written Berkeley sophomore essay about how people playing the game are enjoying themselves wrong than an actual review of the game’s merits, but this time shit got real, because they were attacking us as gamers as a whole. They were spitting in the face of the people who provide them with a living because we’d dared question the propriety of a reviewer of a game being the game developer’s fuck buddy.

It was dumb from the point of view that you shouldn’t insult your customer, ever, but it was even MORE dumb when you consider just what gamers are and what they have in common. Gamers are a very diverse group of individuals, from far left to far right, from young to old, from highly successful adults to young teens, white and black, male and female, who in spite of all of these difference have ONE thing in common: They all play to WIN. It’s hardwired into a gamer. Without it, you won’t stay with the hobby to the point where it’s part of your identity. Losing is not an option, surrendering is not an option, there is only win. Gamers will determinedly grind away at the same game “boss” for weeks until they beat it, never giving one solitary fuck how many times they have to start over. They’re the kind of people who can lay claim to having beaten every single hand of FreeCell, who will not rest until they have finished every side quest in Skyrim, who do not have a game in their library where they have not unlocked every achievement, who will merrily stay up all night for a month to prove that you can win WWII playing as Belgium or, if they’re really in for a challenge, France (that hasn’t, to our knowledge, yet been done but we’re working on it), the kind of people who will not rest until they have a YouTube video of themselves defeating a Roman legion with nothing but one unit of Gallic archers.

Are they silly? You can certainly argue that. We’re fair certain that Dr Taylor of the Hawaiian shirt was far too preoccupied with, say, figuring out how to land a probe on a comet to have time for such, but you can’t argue that it’s a group of people that you’d do well to think twice about picking a fight with.

And this truly diverse group of people had the gauntlet of being called mouth-breathing, retarded, misogynistic, rapist basement-dwellers thrown in their faces.

Within weeks, those gaming sites had lost ad sponsors like IBM, Intel and Mercedes Benz, and we’re still counting.

Their targets had studied their tactics, copied them and improved on them because they saw an achievement to be unlocked and their answer was “challenge accepted.”

Not “can’t we all just play along to get along”, not “oh well, they’re entitled to their opinion”, but “fuck you, you’re going down, motherfuckers!”

That fight is not over yet, but the Prozis are reeling as they see their income disappearing and, more importantly, are seeing an enemy not willing to stop until the Prozis are begging for mercy.

And as to Dr. Taylor, we dare say that the backlash against the Prozi SJWs going after him has only just begun. Already they’re responding in their usual fashion by decrying as barbarianism and violence the very methods they themselves are using because now they’re on the receiving end.

In politics, King Obola and his Prozi Party just received the third beating in as many elections, their demented and narcissistic Führer is tripping over his own dick and inserting every appendage he can find into his mouth because he doesn’t know how to handle a rout (or anything else, for that matter), but the same principles apply:

The enemy line is wavering, and it’s only a matter of time until they make the step backwards. That momentous first step. Keep the pressure up at that point and that first step will turn into more of the same, and then comes the breaking of the line and the rout.

But it doesn’t end there. When the rout comes, and it will come if we seize this moment and don’t give in to our notions of “fairness” and “proportional response” (a concept thought up by losers to protect their own arses once they’ve already lost the field), then it’s time for the chase. That’s when you seal your ears to cries of mercy and unleash the cavalry to ride through them and slaughter them as they run.

Unless you cherish the opportunity to face them again on the morrow when they’ve regrouped, but we don’t understand the allure of masochism, so you’ll have to explain that to us.

Now is not the time to go wobbly.

Deus Vult.

Thatisall.

King Obola: “I Just Read About This Gruber Guy in the Newspapers!”

Filed as “most unsurprising headline of the year.”

“I just heard about this,” Obama said at a new conference, after wrapping up two days of meetings with world leaders here at the G-20 Summit. “The fact that some adviser who never worked on our staff expressed his opinion that I completely disagree with — it is no reflection on the actual process that was run.”

Oh, and by the way, Obola the senile demented also “has no idea who this Gruber guy is anyways”, of course. We can’t wait for him to let us all know how he himself is the angriest man of all in all of the land about this whole thing.

Just to make his usual trifecta of lies when he’s caught with his pants around his knees complete.

And the press will lap it up while the RINO Party sits by whistling and pretending not to have seen or heard a thing or, if pressed really hard, let’s us all know that they’d really like to do something and they promise that they will. After the next election, also known as The Glorious Election of Next Tuesday™, because right now “they just don’t have the power” and it’s just “fundamentally unserious” to suggest otherwise.

“Power of the purse? What power of the purse? Filibuster? What filibuster? Lalalalalala, we can’t hear you!

Now remember to vote for us again next time, because then we’ll do something, and you’re a traitor if you don’t.”

Please prove us wrong this time. We would so very, very dearly love to be wrong about the RINO Party’s deceit, cowardice and collaboration with our nation’s enemies just once in our lifetime.

Just ONCE!

Thatisall.

More Kibble

So There I Was…

As our Imperial Vileness will attest to, I have a vast repertoire of stripper stories. This is mainly due to the fact that for many years before I met Bangie Thing I was known to occasionally, only occasionally mind you, frequent gentleman’s clubs. This was done purely for altruistic reasons, but we’ll just leave that

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More Schick L. Gruber Videos

(Our thanks to LC Xystus for the new name for the smarmy, lying, Prozi bastard architect behind the Unaffordable Care Act) They’re coming out thick and fast, they are. Video after video of Herr Schick L Gruber laughingly explaining how he and Obola really got one over on the idiotic, simpleton U.S. voters who really

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Statism, Continued

You might say it’s a pet peeve of ours, having at least some experience with statism. We trust that you are, by now, familiar with our love of the British Understatement. If any might think that the state, the self-anointed elite, has anything but the utmost contempt for We The People, meaning you, I and

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Veterans Day

This year Veterans Day shares the week with the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, a moment that started the end of the Cold War. It was a moment that many of us didn’t see at the time for what it was, our victory over the Evil Empire. We had won. But

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How Statism Wins

And we deliberately didn’t name this “How Proziism Wins”, because it’s all the same in a nation where you have two parties that are both statist, the only difference being that one likes to take things a bit slower. In a free society, people make their own decisions and they pay for their own mistakes.

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Don’t Be Stupid Be a Smarty, Come On, Join the Prozi Party!

Next up: We need the Nanny State to control your food production and intake from taco to turd! Because yes, you idiot rubes (who we love so very much and fight, fight, FIGHT for every day!) can’t be trusted with what you put in your pie holes either. No, Prozis are not at ALL totalitarian!

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