Last in the Pack; The Dogs Who Run My Household
Dogs know stuff. Yes, I know they’re just animals. I know their brains are only about the size of tangerines. But I’m telling you.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Dogs know stuff. Yes, I know they’re just animals. I know their brains are only about the size of tangerines. But I’m telling you.
The Girl Scouts were setting up a folding table by the doors of the hardware store.
“Omigod,” I said to the cashier. “It’s March.”
The cashier looked at me flatly.
“Debit or credit?” she said.
“This is March,” I pointed out again. “Don’t you know what this means?“
A little girl. I see her in hotel lobby. She is maybe 10 years old. She has her luggage with her. Her gait is severely uneven and labored. She is having a difficult time traversing the lobby.
In Atlas Shrugged, the government doesn’t seize Rearden Metal with bayonets. It does something far more modern. It surrounds it with emergency language, regulatory edicts, patriotic necessity, and administrative suffocation until saying “no” becomes illegal in everything but name. The state never shouts, “We are stealing this.” It simply declares the product too important to be privately controlled.
God love him, the plumber did not look happy. Namely, because our house is 100 years old. Meaning, five generations of people have been bathing in this house. The drain pipes have been whisking away one century’s worth of funk water.
Patton’s most famous line, delivered to the Third Army in 1944, captured his philosophy better than any manual ever written: “No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.” That was not just colorful language. It was a direct rejection of the romantic nonsense that had gotten an entire generation slaughtered in World War I. Patton had seen that war. He had been wounded in it. He understood that modern industrial warfare was not a stage for heroic poetry. It was a contest of logistics, speed, firepower, and will. His job was not to produce martyrs. His job was to produce victory.
I was eleven. I was invited to try out for the Christmas community choir. A lady visited our church to conduct the auditions.
I had been practicing for three weeks, learning the lyrics to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
As many as 15-20 million illiterate and unskilled migrants invaded our nation during the horrendous four years of the Biden administration. Hundreds of thousands—possibly millions—of them were violent criminals, slackers looking for a welfare check, or extremists here to set up terrorist cells.
There has already been at least one geopolitically connected incident reported in Austin, Texas. That doesn’t mean anything is about to happen in your town, and it doesn’t mean you should change your daily routine. What it does mean is that uncertain times are a good moment to make sure your equipment is working the way it should. Calm preparation beats last-minute scrambling every time.
Don’t shoot the messenger. But in America, one third of children have never handwritten a letter. And it’s not just kids. Nearly 40 percent of adult Americans haven’t written a letter in the last five years
Dear Tara, I heard that your cancer has spread. They tell me you’ll need to undergo some invasive surgeries, not least of which is a mastectomy. They tell me you’re frightened.
We are squandering our country’s wealth to accommodate 10-15 million unskilled, unvetted, third-world intruders who were invited to surge America’s open borders by Joe Biden and his duplicitous Democrat underlings.
I get a lot of letters from kids. Such as the letter that came yesterday, via snail mail. It was penned in a childish hand.
Once upon a time, there was a princess who lived in a great big old castle. She was very beautiful, with long, flowy hair, and her teeth were really nice, too. Nice and straight.
I’m backstage at the Grand Ole Opry, in my dressing room. Tuning my guitar. They tell me Dolly Parton used this dressing room once. What sacred visions this mirror must have seen. My cups runneth over.
It has been said, if you’re a bad person in this lifetime; if you treat your fellow man poorly; if you live by the code of violence; if you are cruel to elders and children and UPS men; when you die you will wake up in economy class, riding in the middle seat.
At 250 years old, the United States has not collapsed. There are no tanks in the streets or dictators on balconies. Instead, America has done what nearly every revolution before it has done: it defeated an obvious form of tyranny and then slowly reconstructed a more efficient, more sophisticated version of it.
It is the Gatlin Brothers 70th anniversary concert, and every Nashville A-list celebrity you can think of is here. I am supposed to do a song with everyone at the end. Larry Gatlin told me to bring my banjo. But I’m experiencing a bad case of “tiny banjo syndrome” right now. I don’t belong here. I don’t know how to act around famous people.
I receive a lot of mail in the form of emails, letters, private messages, texts, Morse code, etc. It is impossible to answer all these messages, so I compiled some commonly asked questions
The greatest president of them all, George Washington – surveyor, planter, trader, legislator, executive, and soldier – had no “higher education” at all. How ever did he manage it?