Note: A preview from my upcoming autobiography, Life’s Too Short to Smoke Cheap Cigars (Or to Drink Cheap Whiskey.)
This one time…
“You don’t really believe that crap, do you?”
Jon Hooper was pointing at the TV screen. A rare sub-zero winter evening found us indoors, watching television in Jon’s living room.
“You mean about the Volkswagen floating?”
“Yeah. No car is that tight.”
I reflected that Jon’s perceptions in this matter were probably less than completely reliable, given the size of the rust holes in the floorboards of his ancient van.
On the TV screen, a Volkswagen beetle bobbed sedately in the waves.
“Well, you can see it right there,” I pointed out. Jon responded with a snort.
“I’ll believe it when I see it for myself.”
Then Spring Came.
At that moment, I had no idea how that statement would bear bitter fruit. In my innocence, I simply took another slug from my Coke bottle and reached for another slice of pizza. I thought no more of floating Volkswagens for some time.
In due time, of course, spring came. The snow melted, our short season of mud passed on to the season of wildflowers, the redwing blackbirds returned to the creeks, and our thoughts turned to fishing. To that end, Jon and I organized a Mississippi River catfishing trip. One Friday afternoon in late May, a fleet of cars and trucks pulling johnboats on trailers left from our high school parking lot to cover the thirty-odd miles to the Waukon Junction boat ramp.
As coincidence would have it, one of those cars was a Volkswagen Beetle, driven by our classmate Bradley Stickleman.
I’d forgotten all about the controversial VW commercial we’d seen long ago on that frigid winter night. Jon hadn’t.
In a flurry of movement, johnboats were dropped off car and truck roofs and backed into the river on trailers; vehicles moved back and forth, outboard motors fired up, a general air of joking and camaraderie hung over the parking area. Coolers, tents and sleeping bags were loaded into the boats. Tackle boxes, fishing rods, and coiled trotlines joined the camping gear. We planned to make a weekend of it, fishing from an island in the backwaters, stringing trotlines at night to increase our haul of fish.
Jon seemed to be taking an inordinate interest in the parking area as I walked up behind him.
“What’s up? What are you looking at?” I noticed him staring at Brad Stickleman’s car.
“Nothin’, Jon demurred. “Tell you later.”
The location of the incident.
Brad Stickleman was one of those unfortunates life had cursed with a disability. This disability was worse than paraplegia, worse than cancer, worse indeed than any mere physical issue. No, Brad’s disability was social.
Brad was, unfortunately, what was known locally as a “Dork.”
Dorkage was an almost impossible stigma to overcome. But to give Brad credit, he tried. He tried tagging along on fishing trips; he tried volunteering to throw the first roll when we toilet-papered someone’s house. He tried everything he could think of to fit in, but to little good.
After all, this was the late Seventies, the era of the Muscle Car, of chrome, long hoods, and big-block V-8 engines. In these heady days of thunderous horsepower, Brad could never overcome the stigma of driving a pale blue Volkswagen Beetle. Little did he know the destiny Fate – and Jon – had in mind for his Beetle.
Darkness was beginning to fall as the tiny flotilla of johnboats left the vicinity of the boat ramp, bound for a large island in the heart of the Mississippi backwaters. The evening resounded with a chorus of sputtering outboards. We had the music of the boats, the river, the setting sun, and a boatload of fishing gear. What more could a group of seventeen-year old boys ask on a Friday night?
A little experiment in automobile design, perhaps. At least that’s what Jon had in mind.
A large wooded island near Mud Hen Lake was our destination. Two boats ran trotlines from our base island out to two other, smaller islets while Jon and I started a bonfire from driftwood.
“Where’s Dork-boy?” Jon asked, referring to Brad.
“He’s out in Dunk’s boat,” I answered. Duncan Dunkleman had been coerced into taking Brad along to set trotlines.
“Good. You and me, we’re going to take a little trip later.”
I could see Jon’s teeth gleaming in the gathering darkness. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, don’t you?” Jon’s practical jokes had a reputation for inventiveness, not to mention ruthlessness.
“Sort of. I’m just curious about something.” He tossed a large chunk of driftwood into the growing blaze. I wandered over to my old metal cooler, extracted two bottles of Coke, and tossed one to Jon.
“You’re never curious about anything, ‘less it’s what stewed badger might taste like,” I pointed out. “You’re up to something.” I knew Jon as well as anyone, probably better. That fact wasn’t always to my advantage.
Jon extracted an ancient, rusty Swiss Army knife from his overalls pocket, pried out the bottle opener, and spiffed the cap off his Coke bottle. He tossed me the knife as he took a long pull on the bottle.
“You know that Volkswagen commercial?” Jon asked. “The one where they put the Beetle in the water?”
I popped the cap off my Coke bottle and pitched it into the nearby trash box. “Yeah, so what?” I folded the opener blade back into Jon’s Swiss Army and tossed it back.
“I always thought that was a bunch of crap.” Jon squatted next to the fire.
“So?”
“So, don’t you wanna find out?”
“Not really.” I was beginning to see where this was going.
“Well, I’ve been wondering about that for quite a spell now. I figure the commercial’s lying, but I intend to find out, and you’re gon’ ta help.”
“Me?” I’d learned to steer well clear of Jon’s experiments.
“You. I need someone to ride on the car.”
“ON the car?”
“Trust me!” I’d heard that one before. Still, hanging around with Jon was usually anything but boring. It could occasionally be terrifying, but never boring. I decided, against my better judgment, to go along for the ride.
And Then This Happened.
A couple of hours later, the trotlines were set, hot dogs and beans had been cooked and eaten, a couple of the guys had set off for the other side of the island to spend the night rod-and-reel fishing. It was almost midnight and sounds of snoring emanated from scattered tents and sleeping bags. Apprehension had kept me awake. I was reclined in a grassy spot a few feet from the coals of our earlier bonfire when Jon popped out of the trees.
“OK, let’s go. Dork-boy’s over on the east bank fishing.”
Jon’s old johnboat was pulled up on the bank fifty yards or so from the bonfire. We clambered in, accompanied by the usual hollow metallic thumps our shoes made on the boat’s bottom. Jon yanked the cord on his elderly outboard once, twice, three times before the motor sputtered finally to life.
The flaw in Jon’s plan was too obvious to overlook but overlook it we did. The sounds of a johnboat being put into use are like no other sounds in the world, at least to the initiated. Brad Stickleman was a Dork, but he wasn’t stupid. On the other side of the island, he heard Jon’s motor kick over. We found out later what had aroused the suspicions of the nocturnal fishing party.
“Hey, who’d be taking off in a boat this late?” he asked Dunk Dunkleman. Dunk scratched his head. “Sounds like Jon Hooper’s boat. I guess Jon’s heading out to a fishing spot.”
“Jon knows good fishing spots out here?”
Dunk laughed. “Jon knows good fishing spots everywhere.”
“Well, why don’t we go follow him then?”
Dunk considered that course of action for no more than a moment. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Come on, we’ll take my boat.” Dunk and Bradley gathered their fishing gear and began to retrace their steps across the island.
Meanwhile, Jon and I had sputtered out of the backwaters, and entered the side channel that separated us from the boat ramp. Jon, at the handle of the outboard, took his bearing from the small yard light that Allamakee County had put up to dimly illuminate the boat ramp’s parking lot.
“So, what’s the plan?” I called from the bow.
Another view of the location.
Jon had to shout over the laboring outboard. “I’m gonna see if a Beetle really will float!”
“You’re kidding!” I shouted back.
Jon held up a roll of hemp rope in reply. “No kidding. We’ll just tow old Dork-boy’s Bug out into the river and see if she really floats. If she does, we tow it back to the ramp and push it back to the parking lot.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“No evidence!”
“You mean the evidence will be in the mud at the bottom of the river?”
“Something like that. Oh, hell, it probably will float, anyhow. No problem!”
“Yeah, that’s what you said last winter when you tried the build a plywood glider.”
“Hey, that would have worked if you’d have kept the nose up a little more.”
We passed the rest of the trip back to the ramp in silence but for the sound of the roaring boat motor.
On the other side of the channel, Brad and Dunk had piled their gear into Dunk’s boat and were chugging along after the receding mutter of Jon’s craft.
“Sounds like they’re heading back towards the boat ramp,” Dunk noted, frowning. “We’ll bend to the north of that last big island, catch them when they cut around north. I bet I know where Jon’s headed. There’s a creek comes into the river right up there, I bet they’re looking to fish the outflow.” Dunk altered course to lie in wait on the northwest bank of a small island a half-mile from the boat ramp.
We hit the boat ramp without incident.
Brad’s VW was parked in the last row nearest the river. It was the work of a moment with a bent coat hanger for Jon to pop the driver’s side door open. “Climb in,” he instructed, “And I’ll push. Let’s get it right down to the edge of the water.” With that accomplished, Jon rolled under the car’s front end with the rope. A couple loops around the front bumper, a couple half hitches, and Jon’s latest foray into scientific experimentation was almost ready.
The other end of the rope was fastened to a handle at the rear of Jon’s johnboat, and we were almost ready to begin. This, however, is where my role in the enterprise was supposed to expand.
“Now, when I get the boat motor going, you reach in and kick the shift lever to neutral. Then hop up on the roof. That way you’ll be able to see if any water comes in. Here, take this.” Jon handed me an ancient metal flashlight.
“What if it sinks?”
“That’s why you’re gonna be on the roof, see? You can just paddle away, and I’ll pick you up.”
“Yeah, right.”
Jon yanked the cord, and the motor roared to life again. He let out the throttle carefully, taking up the slack in the rope. I stood on the open door frame of the Bug; when the rope went taut, I stuck one foot in, kicked the shift lever into neutral, and scrambled onto the roof. I slammed the door shut just as the car entered the black muddy waters of the Mississippi.
Dunk and Brad had been listening from their ambush hide on the nearby island.
“There goes Jon’s boat motor again,” Dunk pointed out. “Whatever they’re doing, they’ll be on the way now.”
“Hey, that sounded like a car door.” Brad had heard the slamming door.
“So? Jon probably got something out of his van.”
“No, that sounded like MY car door. Head over to the boat ramp!”
Dunk fired his outboard, aiming the boat at the boat ramp’s light.
I didn’t hear the second outboard over Jon’s motor. I doubt I’d have noticed a jet airliner flying a foot over my head, preoccupied as I was with holding on to the roof of the bobbing, floating Volkswagen. I sprawled out on my stomach, both hands clamped on the edge of the windshield, my feet scrabbling for a grip on the downward slope of the roof at the rear of the car.
“Hey, Jon!” I shouted. “It floats. Get me back to the bank, already!”
“In a minute,” Jon called back. “I’m just going to tow it around a couple times.” He spun the boat towards the open water, yanking the rope taut with a twang, almost spilling me in the dark water as the VW lurched forwards. From my precarious perch, I was treated to the sight of a white wake foaming up from under the front bumper of a car.
“Look inside, tell me if there’s any water on the floor!” Jon called out of the darkness.
“You kidding me? I’m not leaning over the edge of this thing! It’s as slippery as snot on a doorknob!”
“Come on, don’t be such a wuss!”
Just then, a faint beam of light played over the scene, as the drone of another outboard became slowly audible. A querulous voice wailed out of the darkness:
“That’s my caaaarrr!”
Dunk’s boat roared up to the scene just as Jon chopped his boat’s throttle, allowing the boat and the car in tow to bob to a halt.
“You idiots! Pull over there next to my car!” Brad screeched at Dunk. Shaking his head, Dunk complied. As the boat pulled alongside, Brad pressed his face against the driver’s door window.
“Is there any water on the floor?” Jon called, his quest for knowledge unabated.
“I can’t tell! Anyone have a flashlight?”
Without a word, I handed Jon’s antique flashlight to Brad. He switched the anemic beam on and played it around the interior of the Bug while I tried to get a better grip on the edge of the windshield.
“I still can’t see anything!” Brad announced in a voice edging on panic. “Hang on, I’m going to try to get a better look.” He reached for the door handle.
“Stop!” I shouted at him. “Stop!” Jon and Dunk screamed, simultaneously. Lost in a haze of rage and panic, Brad didn’t hear a thing. He yanked the door open.
What was amazing about the whole thing, as I look back over the years, was the speed at which everything happened as soon as the door popped open.
At the very moment Brad pulled his car door open, some instinct possessed me to release my grip on the Bug’s roof. A good thing, too, as the car filled with water and sank in the span of time it would take for a beam of light to travel the length of a gnat’s wingspan. A swirl of dark water pulled me under, but only for a moment. The water was only about ten feet deep. As soon as the car hit the bottom, I floated to the surface, bobbing up between the two johnboats. Dunk held Brad back from trying to push me under again, and Jon dragged me out of the cold, muddy water.
“We’d have been just fine if you hadn’t opened the door, Dork-boy,” Jon informed Brad, somewhat unnecessarily. Brad tried to leap at Jon, but Dunk held him down.
“You #$*&%#)!!” Brad screeched. The force of his outburst sent Dunk’s boat drifting away from Jon’s and caused a flock of blackbirds to flush in alarm from the cattails on the island a half-mile distant. “You sank my car! I can’t believe you sank my car!”
“Hey, Brad, don’t worry about it,” Jon assured him. “See, I’ve got the other end of the rope right here. We’ll just tie it onto my van, and we’ll have your little car hauled right outta there.”
Brad launched another verbal attack, which discussed Jon’s and my ancestry in some detail before going into a rather lurid description of our personal hygiene, eating habits and other things I won’t go into here, in case children or persons of delicate sensibilities may one day read these words.
Fortunately, Jon’s rope was long enough to reach to the concrete boat ramp. He had to back his ancient Dodge van almost into the water, but we finally got the rope tied securely around the back bumper. The old slant-six engine started with a roar (the muffler had fallen off two weeks previously) and, thanks to some deft work with the clutch and accelerator, Brad’s Volkswagen gradually emerged, muddy and dripping, from the black waters of the Mississippi.
Still dripping and cold from my dip in the river, I dug in Jon’s van for matches and started a fire while Jon united the rope and turned the van around so that his headlights shone on the Volkswagen. A flapping sound led him to discover a ten-pound channel cat flopping in the back seat.
“Hey, Brad, ‘least you caught a fish,” Jon pointed out, holding up the big cat. Brad, strangely, didn’t find that comforting at all.
After That…
A contrite Jon organized the salvage effort. A bucket from Jon’s van caught the oil/river water mix drained from the Bug’s crankcase while Jon and Brad went over the interior with a few old feed sacks and a worn, aged blanket. By the time the sun peeked over the bluffs to the east, the VW was almost presentable, I was almost dry, and the local shops in nearby Lansing would be opening. Jon and Bradley set off in the van to buy motor oil, leaving Dunk and me to keep watch over the resurrected VW.
Dunk took a seat on the front bumper of the Bug. “So, what were you guys thinking about, anyhow?”
I took a seat on a concrete parking stop. “Hey, don’t ask me. I got dragged into it. You know how Jon is.”
“Yeah. Wanted to see if it’d float, didn’t he?”
We didn’t take note of the fact that the Bug was still parked on the sloping boat ramp.
“You know how Jon is,” I repeated. “He saw some commercial last winter, and, well, you know.”
A faint creak sounded from the Bug, which we ignored. Dunk adjusted his position slightly to a more comfortable spot on the bumper.
“Well, I hope the thing starts up again once they get some fresh oil in it.”
“It wasn’t under water more than a few minutes.” I was certain that no lasting damage had been done. Yet. “I bet it’ll fire up.”
Another loud creak came from the Bug. Dunk shifted again, looked back at the car for a moment.
“You know if the brake’s set on this thing?” he asked. Too late. With a loud clunk, the Bug slipped out of gear. Dunk slid off the bumper, landing on his backside as the VW rolled backwards down the boat ramp.
“Catch it!” I shouted, leaping off the parking stop. Dunk scrambled to his feet, and both of us went plunging after the Bug, but our efforts were in vain. Gaining speed as it went, Bradley’s Volkswagen rolled down the ramp, landing once more in the dark waters of the Mississippi with a loud splash. There was a final gurgle of dark water, and the Bug disappeared once more into the muddy water. Only the trail of Jon’s rope, still attached to the front bumper, revealed the Bug’s fate.
Dunk shot me a stricken look.
“Uh,” he offered, “I think we really ought to get back out to the island. Our gear’s out there, and we need to get those trotlines in, right?”
“You bet we do. I’m not hanging around here!”
We sprinted for Dunk’s moored johnboat, and in a matter of moments we had made tracks for the channel and safety.
In the End…
The actual by-gosh hills in question.
Brad’s Volkswagen was, amazingly, resurrected once again from the muddy Mississippi. He drove it through that summer and fall, and indeed for several more years, the sewing-machine sound of the air-cooled engine echoing through the hills. When he left for college two years later, it was in the same blue Bug, now packed to the ceiling with his personal effects.
It was only the following winter, though, that found Jon, Dunk and me sitting out a blizzard once more in front of Jon’s television, taking in a popular TV show of the day.
“Say,” Jon pointed at the screen. “That’s a load of crap. You can’t tell me a Dodge Charger would ever make a jump like that without busting in half.”
“I don’t know,” Dunk objected. By an amazing coincidence, Dunk drove a 1971 Charger. “They’re pretty tough cars.”
Jon looked over at Dunk.
“Wouldn’t be interested in finding out, would you?”
A vision flashed through my head, one of myself clinging to the roof of a Charger as it leaped Coldwater Creek where the bridge had washed out the previous summer. Suddenly the four-mile walk home in a blizzard seemed like a good idea.
It’s important to note that in this series I have changed the names to protect the… Well, let’s just say I changed the names and leave it at that,
Nobody was innocent.
Something like that, yes.
It’s a great story, but I probably would have murdered you both!
I actually had a pale blue Beetle back in the day. They were amazingly tough and easy to fix. Never could get the defrost to work right though…
My dad had a Beetle in his youth and said that the heater was too good – it would quickly heat the interior to the approximate room temperature of Hell. To balance it out, he had to frequently roll the window down while the heater was on.
They were amazing in the snow. Engine over the rear wheels, tall skinny tires. Even if you ended up in the ditch, they were light enough to push back onto the road. What a blast!
IIRC, VW Beetle heaters were actually gasoline-fired, rather than electrical. Yeah, they could get damned hot in a big hurry.
That was an option (or maybe aftermarket?). The gas heater, iirc, was a little scary.
Standard was just heat off the motor.
Can’t rightly recall, but see below — same buddy had the gas-fired one. It was appreciated at minus 30, but at minus 10, you were in a feckin’ sauna.
One of my hs friends had one. Yep, pale blue. I never let her drive, cuz I wouldn’t be seen in it. 😉
She told me a few months ago that it’s still sitting in her father’s garage.
Thing probably runs with a little work. Like most cars of that era, it was body integrity that was the issue. Mechanically, they were a breeze.
Like the Citroën 2CV “Deux Chevaux,” the VW Beetle had a rep around these parts of being repairable by any competent blacksmith. A buddy of mine who had no business owning a Beetle (he was 6’6″ tall) could testify to that sentiment, as he executed many “repairs” which were little more than the proverbial beer-can-and-baling-wire fixes you heard about but never actually saw.
https://frinkiac.com/caption/S07E21/1278493
Yeah, I told her she needs to fix it up and drive it. Just because it’s so old it’d almost be cool! 😉 It was SOOO her!
My Grandfather bought two VWs from the junk-yard for $50 (for the pair).
A nail file to the points of both and sparkplug wires on the 2nd one and drove them both home.
I learned to drive a manual on the first one.
Great story, Animal.
+1 I really enjoyed it
the posts are at the wrong hour.
Did you forget to set your clock forward?
He’s on Metric Time.
As long as he’s back in the box by BMNT.
Pie living in Arizona confirmed.
We’re all going to die of the Corona virus because our collective IQ has slipped below some sort of Darwinian standard. Family of Missouri’s First Coronavirus Patient Breaks Quarantine to Attend Father-Daughter Dance.
Tort. Or criminal charges. Its the only way to end that stupidity.
^^
Sue them for the resulting shutdown and sterilization costs. Idiots.
It is Missouri.
This is the correct response.
Another great Allamakee history lesson, Animal.
My kids are about the same age, even TX kids were dorks. Sure glad you lived a long ways from us, otherwise…
I don’t want to think about it, my hair turned white about the same time you and your friends were exploring science…
Enjoyed it immensely, different events maybe, but I lived some of that stuff vicariously, as a father
Great story Animal.
I was a boring kid compared to Animal.
we were not decadent capitalists who could afford to mess with cars.
I had a venturesome youth – how many people can say they’ve canoed on the Suez Canal? – but it wasn’t *felonious*.
Off-topic, but fun:
https://uploads.disquscdn.com/images/6c659cf041f9b61dc096eb07f1a8463b50b2b52ba2765c26d553c21c31bcfd7d.png?w=600&h=257
Joe Biden is Jeb Bush plus dementia.
i had no idea he was that far along.
new campaign slogan:
Biden 2020
Weekend at Biden’s
did he suffer a stroke?
“Dementia Joe” will be his nickname after the debates.
How have I not seen this before?
this
I googled Joe Biden dementia. It was one of the top returns.
I have never hear of Consortium News before. So, I don’t know their political slant.
Here is another interesting piece: DNC Scrambles to Change Debate Threshold After Gabbard Qualifies
he’s probably getting it harder from Bernie’s folks than Trump’s.
It is pretty evil to talk about how America just hates women, and “what will i tell my little girl” now that Warren is out, and at the same time be doing everything to make sure Tulsi doesn’t get on the stage.
We can’t have an Army Major who thinks our wars are bad.
I just think it’s also disgusting that these people think that we should all be telling our daughters that the pinnacle of achievement is becoming President.
Swiss,
I had to right click to get the joke.
It’s not even a new thing, he’s been confabulating for years, including in the 2008 VP debates. It’s just become much worse. Before it was mostly limited to making up stories to fill in gaps in his memory, which was largely overlooked because (D), and because politicians often make up stories (though usually they know they are doing it). Now he’s gone completely off the rails, and of course, the Democratic leadership knows it. I think the plan is to use Biden to stealth elect his VP, when he has to step down for “health reasons.”
A winning team.
Axios says that former Secretary of State John Kerry could return in that role, or be appointed to a new Cabinet-level climate change position.
Former National Security Advisor Susan Rice — who was never nominated for Secretary of State because of fears she would not survive confirmation after misleading the nation about the Benghazi attacks — could find her way to that position in a potential Biden administration, Axios claims.
There would also be room in the Biden Cabinet for some of his former 2020 rivals, including former South Bend, Indiana, Mayor Pete Buttigieg, who could be UN ambassador, or U.S. trade representative.
I just can’t wait for Susan Rice to be back in a position of influence where she can blatantly lie for whoever she works for.
That’s her raison d’etre.
Yep, and I am a flying reindeer with a glowing red nose.
*Puts on MAGA hat.*
OFFS. Do it!
Nice to see them being confident again. Both sides need to marinate in confidence for at least 6 months for the tears to be delicious come election day.
He can take his private yacht to the climate change love-ins.
Paging Mr. F**k, Mr. Cluster F**k.
Cory Booker✔
@CoryBooker
The answer to hatred & division is to reignite our spirit of common purpose.@JoeBiden won’t only win – he’ll
show there’s more that unites us than divides us.
He’ll restore honor to the Oval Office and tackle our most pressing challenges.
That’s why I’m proud to endorse Joe.
Fuck off, commie.
These are the same people pushing the 1619 horseshit, right?
“Honor”….oh, that’s rich. The guy who’s been lying for many years about the driver of the other vehicle in his wife’s fatal car wreck being drunk is honorable? Mr. “They gon’ put y’all back in chains!”? The guy who kept plagiarizing speeches and whose family is the dictionary definition of graft? That guy?
Great story, as always. Puts me in mind of a friend who insisted his diesel Mercedes could run underwater. He drove it into some standing water to prove it, and of course it stalled out.
LOL!
-1 snorkel.
As America-Hating Spreads, Slanted 1619 Project Meets Competition From Black Academics
The Bob Woodson Center and Washington Examiner is offering an alternative to The New York Times and Pulitzer Center’s “1619 Project.” Theirs is aptly named “The 1776 Initiative.”
Responses to the 1619 Project are popping up everywhere. Countless conservative scholars have weighed in, both Civil War and founding-era historians have teamed up to cry foul, Hillsdale College is offering an online course to counter the narrative, the Heritage Foundation has compiled a trove of essays titled “1776: A Celebration of America,” and the National Association of Scholars has started a “1620 Project.”
Sounds racist, sexist, and probably homophobic.
The British left eats it’s own. Labour Party Expels Anti-Racism Campaigner for Criticising Pakistani Grooming Gangs.
Racist for criticizing serial rapists of underage British girls – the British voters understand who Labour really hates.
I don’t think you’ll need to worry about that any time soon.
“Grooming gangs” is one of the more chillingly Orwellian terms I’ve heard in quite some time.
The cops just stand by. I can’t fathom it.
I’m just horrified that their families are such garbage that they didn’t sort this out the old fashioned way.
A child rape gang in the US would be very lucky indeed if the cops got to them first. Although maybe not so lucky after they got to prison.
These girls were already abandoned by their families and left to make their own way for the most part.
It’s a sad statement on the state of the family unit in the UK.
It reminds me of our discussion of Nazi prison guards the other day. At what point do you just say fuck it and do the right thing?
Certainly no later than the point at which a bunch of scumbags are passing my daughter around like a bottle of Ripple, and even using her as a source of ready cash.
Nowadays, they’d sic the EPA on you for getting oil in the water.
@Animal Finally got a good chance to read this great story. My first reaction was “Geeze i never would have done something like that…” But then i remembered a few instances where i did somethings (not exactly) but somewhat similar as a Youth.
Marathon oil down 50%. That’s a steal if you can get it.
Its been in a long slide that last 5 years anyway. It might or might not be a steal.
Putin’s really trying to get Trump reelected, now ain’t he?
He’s upset that the DNC thwarted his attempts to put Bernie in charge.
Biden To Defy CDC Warning To Stop Touching Other People’s Faces
https://babylonbee.com/news/biden-i-am-the-only-candidate-who-can-beat-ronald-reagan
“I am the only candidate who can unite the party to defeat Reagan,” he said to scattered applause. “When Super Thursday hits here in a few weeks, we can rally the 150 million Democrats here in the great country of Texas to vote for me so we can get Reagan and his crony Dick Cheney off the Iron Throne there in the Imperial Senate. Go Hoosiers!”
Obama Announces He Is No Longer Responsible For The Economy
“All the gains were mine — Trump didn’t build that — but this crash is all on Trump,” Obama said as he admired the ocean, which will consume his home in fewer than twelve years. “My responsibility for the great economic gains the country ended the moment the stocks started to tank this morning.”
I did chuckle at that. It almost seems a little too coherent now.
is the Hong Kong Fluey Trump’s Katrina, Chernobyl, or Holocaust?
Yes.
Notice what isn’t in the news any more? Hong Kong democracy protests.
I saw a mention of them in the context of “The Hong Kong crackdown helped sway the election in Taiwan.”
With the Kung Flu in Hong Kong, I think big public gatherings are out for the time being.
On the other hand, makes enforcing anti-mask laws kinda tough.
Great as always Thx.
Obligitory
http://www.yourememberthat.com/files/8e15109f66e0af0e.jpg
Never gets old.
Inequality: Study Finds Top 1% Of Conservatives Own 50% Of Libs
According to Martin, most conservatives post a meme or two on social media in the hopes of owning perhaps one lib a week — and those are usually randos with ten followers. This is while people like Steven Crowder are owning whole swaths of libs each and every day. And the inequality grows as one goes even farther to the top, as estimates show that President Donald Trump owns a full 20% of libs all by himself.
Trump was unapologetic about this. “We’re all better off when I own libs,” Trump said. “I mean, do you want libs walking around unowned? Horrible. And everyone benefits from making sure all the libs get owned by someone. Liberal tears trickle down.”
Well, crap.
I have to leave the house to get food.
We’ll see how much panic buying has gone on.
I made a grocery trip at lunch time and the shelves were pretty much full.
And what of the booze shelves?
I did pick up a bottle of Gewürztraminer for a dinner later this week. Didn’t notice any empty shelves. My local liquor store is doing a tasting of Jameson Cold Brew this Friday – made a mental note to drop in.
My wife didn’t see any difference at the local grocery store. Costco was out of toilet paper and macaroni & cheese today.
That doesn’t surprise me, as the demographic most likely to get a Costco membership probably overlaps much more greatly with the demographic most likely to panic buy than that of a regular grocery store’s patrons. The type of person who thinks they need 32 rolls of toilet paper in normal times is probably going to think they need 320 rolls of toilet paper when things turn south.
Don’t get your heart set on making French toast.
I thought that was only for Snow Storms
PANIC
“Anti-price gouging” will, ironically, cause shortages.
Yeah, I stocked up a week ago as soon as I heard about the running Washington. I think I saw one other person with a similar idea. While thing will be over in a few weeks I’m sure.
No run on TP up here in North Flyover. However, you can’t find hand sanitizer anywhere.
My daughter bought twenty some odd containers of anti-bacterial handwipes.
My declaration that a virus is not a bacteria was roundly ignored by her and my wife.
Report: Mansplaining Down But Woman Confusion Up
I was at both Costco and Hyvee over the weekend. Business as usual at both, tp and water were less than normal at Costco.
We did an online pickup order at the grocery, no problems. The stores are re-stocking quickly to take advantage of the temporary stupidity. Capitalism at its finest. (Well, almost. Prices should be allowed to go up to gouge panicking idiots for the maximum amount.)
Aside from spreading the gifts of grandfather nurgle, I needed to assess how well I am able to move about and think. Because sitting around or napping does give a disorted view of remaining faculties.
Re: The matrilineal discussion in morning links, I applied it starting with Queen Elizabeth 2 (actually her mother) and the order of British succession would be thus (mother in parenthesis)
1. Charles (Elizabeth)
2. Peter Phillips (Princess Anne)
(Zara Tindall)
(Mia Tindall b 2014)
(Lena Tindall b 2018)
3. Andrew (Elizabeth)
4. Edward (Elizabeth)
5. David Armstrong-Jones (Princess Margaret)
6. Samuel Chatto (Sarah Chatto)
7. Arthur Chatto (Sarah Chatto)
If Mia or Lena have a son (or Zara for that matter), Andrew et al. would get pushed down, as Mia would be the primary line.
Too bad poor Charlie is never gonna get to wear the big hat
Neh. QEII is going to bypass him for William.
It is interesting. As the push would be for women to have daughters to secure their own line, but also sons to ensure that someone ruled in that line….
Would this lead to higher amounts of incest?
Check Porn Hub to find out?
All this time, I was a researcher? Who knew?
ROBC, did you see my offered solution to your problem, if the mother in question is still alive, then the next sibling gets the nod…
Yes, but I decided to go a different way.
I’ve considered that. At least for the primary family in my story, no, but it might be a fringe thing covered.
What is interesting is that you often aren’t just “marrying your daughter off” like was done in Europe, some times its the son. Marry the son to a daughter who will inherit something, so at least your grandson can rule. And The royals can be picky about who their primary daughter marries, as that will be the father of the heir.
You may get some kid swaps in both directions.
But direct kids of rulers may end up as basically commoners. Although they are first in line to get “appointed” into open spots in the hierarchy.
Really, the system is too complicated, and would be quickly replaced with one of the more straightforward systems that were actually used IRL.
I don’t think it is that complicated, but it does involve a ruler giving up power from his direct family. Of course, he is dead, so, ehhhh.
its a fun idea to play with, which was the point.
I haven’t yet come up with the justification as to how it develops.
The other idea the story is based on is just as unrealistic — political boundaries being defined by water basin boundaries. That one I at least, sort of, have an explanation for.
I haven’t yet come up with the justification as to how it develops.
There’s never really a dispute or controversy over who someone’s mother is. It was adopted after civil strife as the heir under a patrilineal system was (plausibly) accused of being a bastard and thus not really in the line of succession.
That gets you to your matrilineal system. The bells and whistles about which line or order of birth or whatever is used can be chalked up to a compromise amongst the leading noble families, with whatever justification supports the bells and whistles you settle on.
Something like that. I am still fleshing out the history. I have a semi-apocryphal unification story figured out that is going to be discussed in chapter 1 (I decided to call the first part I have already written a prelude, its short).
Once I have Chap 1 done, I am going to post the prelude here.
I have a title, which came to me as I was writing the prelude, “Cricklord”. Its a profane term basically meaning hillbilly. A creek lord is a small landowner who is not a peer. A cricklord is a very insulting version of the same.
In all honesty it entirely depends on how fantastical your story is. If you want some plausibility you’ll need to give this rather unusual arrangement a strong cultural (perhaps religious) reason for why everyone adheres to it instead of just going their own way. On the other hand, if you’re just playing with a fun idea and the story is fantastical enough to accept a bunch of “just so” premises, then no reason or rationality is necessary. I’d go with a religious reason, as that’s the easiest way to get your characters to reasonably respect an otherwise arbitrary system.
The water system you described in the morning links was interesting, although it did feel like it might be backward (I’d think the tributary owners would have the upper hand, since they control the water flow, although the main river owners would have greater prestige and probably wealth, so maybe you had it right – although perhaps that is the source of conflict for a story).
fantastical
Who said anything about fantasy? We would a pre-steam feudal political intrigue story be a fantasy setting?
No, it wouldn’t be a fantasy setting per se, but the farther a story deviates from typical human behavior the more fantastical it is. Humans generally prefer their own children to all others, including nieces and nephews, so a system that disinherits children will be inherently unstable (unless there are other forces at play such that the ruler is not the most powerful person in the realm). Also, the water system, while cool, is too orderly. Unless the central government is powerful enough to maintain order (in which case, why is the king not bequeathing the realm to his son?) it will quickly devolve into a messy patchwork of territory unrelated to the initial geographic concept (see actual feudalism, where counties, duchies, etc were in frequent flux as to size, ownership, and fealty).
ah, back in the Ye Olde Days, there was a queen who died. Her eldest son (we’ll call him CHarles) then took the throne and he had two kids, William and Harry. But sadly Charles caught a Saracen blade in his neck and died, while his two sons were still small. His elder sister’s son Peter had a huge army, some backing of the lords because nobody liked Charles anyway, and Peter became king, while his cousins got shoved into a tower and were killed ‘trying to escape’. Peter ruled for awhile, had three daughters. Well shit, now what – medieval sexism says girls can only rule if there’s literally nobody else, so which boy does it go to? Well, obviously Zara’s son thinks it should be him and he pays off the right people to make it into the law, while the best claimant under the old inheritance law – Andrew – is too busy fucking underaged girls to pay attention to being disinherited.
(and a hundred years later there’s a big civil war, and some guy with a claim through a fourth cousin and a donkey becomes king, but it’s all the same bloodline back to Charlemagne we swear!)
I should steal that word for word. There are two funny reasons related to my story that it would kind of work (and be too cheesy). But, yeah, something like that.
Have You looked at some Roman Succession? Adopting Nephews as heirs was somewhat common IIRC.
I have primarily been researching size distributions of river basins.
I have primarily been researching
size distributions of river basins.huge tracts of land.That’s what she said.
+1 Julius and Octavian
The emperor adopting his heir was pretty great, as hereditary systems go.
Also allowed for more wiggle room to select a better successor (-Tiberius—Caligula)