Archive | September, 2012

Pissed Off: The Empire of Jeff Anger-Cast

16 Sep

This Episode, I vent my spleen on the fucking primitives who murdered our Ambassador on the very day their goat-fucking buddies murdered 3,000 of our fellow citizens, eleven years ago.

And our pussy of a President sat there and took it.  Apologized over some bullshit video that no one has even seen, as if these primitive screwheads even have internet access in the dirty shitholes in which they squat and pick each others’ body lice.

Fuck them and fuck Barry.  Get rid of this asshole in November, or it’s 4 more years of this shit.

Episode 4 – The Empire of Jeff Anger-Cast.

NSFW.  Oh, so very NSFW.  Bad language.

To The Sound Of The Guns

11 Sep

Every year on this day, there are two people that come to mind.  The first is The Falling Man.

For me, there is not a single image that captures the horror and grief of that day more vividly.  It is not certain who The Falling Man was.  In a way, it really doesn’t matter.  His last moments serve as a memorial to all the victims of that day and the loved ones they left behind.  For me, The Falling Man represents what happened to us on September 11, 2001.  What was done to us.

The second person I remember every year is Rick Rescorla.  If you’ve ever read the book “We Were Soldiers Once… And Young” by Lt. Gen. Harold Moore and Joseph Galloway, Rick’s picture is on its cover. 

2LT Rick Rescorla in the Ia Drang Valley, 1965

On September 11, 2001, Rick Rescorla was vice-president in charge of security at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter.  His office was on the 44th floor of the south tower of the World Trade Center.  Every year, I go to the Mudville Gazette and read Greyhawk’s fantastic post about this brave warrior who never in his life shrank from danger, always marching to the sound of the guns, inspiring and leading his troops and later, his charges, to safety. 

In St. Augustine, Dan Hill was laying tile in his upstairs bathroom when his wife called, “Dan, get down here! An airplane just flew into the World Trade Center. It’s a terrible accident.” Hill hurried downstairs, and then the phone rang. It was Rescorla, calling from his cell phone.

“Are you watching TV?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“Hard to tell. It could have been an accident, but I can’t see a commercial airliner getting that far off.”

“I’m evacuating right now,” Rescorla said.

Hill could hear Rescorla issuing orders through the bullhorn. He was calm and collected, never raising his voice.  […]

Rescorla came back on the phone. “Pack a bag and get up here,” he said. “You can be my consultant again.” He added that the Port Authority was telling him not to evacuate and to order people to stay at their desks.

“What’d you say?” Hill asked.

“I said, ‘Piss off, you son of a bitch,’ ” Rescorla replied. “Everything above where that plane hit is going to collapse, and it’s going to take the whole building with it. I’m getting my people the fuck out of here.” Then he said, “I got to go. Get your shit in one basket and get ready to come up.”

Hill turned back to the TV and, within minutes, saw the second plane execute a sharp left turn and plunge into the south tower. Susan saw it, too, and frantically phoned her husband’s office. No one answered.

About fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. It was Rick. She burst into tears and couldn’t talk.

“Stop crying,” he told her. “I have to get these people out safely. If something should happen to me, I want you to know I’ve never been happier. You made my life.”

Susan cried even harder, gasping for breath. She felt a stab of fear, because the words sounded like those of someone who wasn’t coming back. “No!” she cried, but then he said he had to go. Cell-phone use was being curtailed so as not to interfere with emergency communications.

From the World Trade Center, Rescorla again called Hill. He said he was taking some of his security men and making a final sweep, to make sure no one was left behind, injured, or lost. Then he would evacuate himself. “Call Susan and calm her down,” he said. “She’s panicking.”

Hill reached Susan, who had just got off the phone with Sullivan. “Take it easy,” he said, as she continued to sob. “He’s been through tight spots before, a million times.” Suddenly Susan screamed. Hill turned to look at his own television and saw the south tower collapse. He thought of the words Rescorla had so often used to comfort dying soldiers. “Susan, he’ll be O.K.,” he said gently. “Take deep breaths. Take it easy. If anyone will survive, Rick will survive.”

When Hill hung up, he turned to his wife. Her face was ashen. “Shit,” he said. “Rescorla is dead.” […]

Rick did not make it out. Neither did two of his security officers who were at
his side. But only three other Morgan Stanley employees died when their building was obliterated.

After Rick Rescorla had seen out the other 2,600 employees of Morgan Stanley Dean Witter, he went back up to try to get more out.

He went back up.

While The Falling Man represents what was done to us, Rick Rescorla represents who we are.  Brave, indomitable, loyal.  Undefeatable, even in death.  As tens of thousands of the rotten shitbags who planned, participated in, and celebrated this cowardly act soon found out, we are a nation of Rick Rescorlas.  Some of those motherfuckers are still finding out.

That’s who we are and that’s why they’ll never defeat us:  because while these simpering little goatfuckers are sniveling in their dusty spiderholes, hiding from our wrath, there are Americans like Rescorla charging into fire, wading through the blood of the fuckheads stupid enough to protect those who started this shit, and getting us some fucking payback

You attack America at your peril.  You think you proved something?  You have.  You proved that we will move heaven and earth to save each other’s lives, even at the risk of our own.  And you proved that there is no corner on this entire planet where you will not be eventually found and gunned down like a fucking rabid animal.

Never forget.

I, Racist.

10 Sep

There’s a lot of unmanly behavior out there amongst the Republican Party faithful these days.  Oh, noes!  Clinton’s speech!  Obama got a bounce after the convention!  Hike your fucking panties up, Mary Sue Tinklepants.

So what?  In case you forgot, and obviously, you did – the media exists to demoralize Republicans and polish the knobs of Democrats.  It has always been so, and it will always be so.  Undersampling of Republicans, oversampling of Democrats – that’s the least worthless part of these polls.  Remember one thing:


This is 50 separate state elections with national consequences.  This race will be fought and won in Ohio, North Carolina, Virginia, Wisconsin, etc.  The national spread tells you nothing.  What I am more interested in is human nature.  What do Obama’s core constituency – black voters – think about his chances?

Directly after Obama’s speech closing out the 2012 Democrat National Convention, I was on Twitter making friends and passing out compliments, as I am wont to do, when I saw a new hashtag in my timeline:  #IfObamaDontWin.  Now remember:  this is literally minutes after Obama’s speech ended.  Witness the celebratory tone.


#IfObamaDontWin we going back to the cotton fields. Lightskin niggas finna turn darkskin. & darkskin niggas finna turn to ashes


#IfObamaDontWin Romney will ban fried chicken #BlackFolksVote


#IfObamaDontWin I wonder if we can pick our own masters? cause we going back to slavery!


#IfObamaDontWin they go put them shackles back on our feet sooo we can’t dance ….



Indeed, bigoletitties.  Indeed.

Do these sound like fired-up voters to you?  Or does it sound like deflated, dejected idiots who will be unlikely to once again summon the Herculean effort of getting off their fat, whiny asses to vote for Chicago Jesus like they did in 2008?

As I kept going back to the page containing these erudite bon mots, I noticed that one of them had grumbled that a “White Boy be retweetin my shit.”  So after I retweeted THAT, I responded to what originally caught my eye, because it seemed to be admitting defeat.  Obama’s supposed moment of triumph, his big night, and this fucking guy is already planning his angry lashing-out for when he loses in November.  Behold the despair of the Obamanites:

See how there was no fight in him?  Hell, I almost felt bad for fucking with him.  Almost.

I have a feeling that this is not the only identity group that is dissatisfied with Obama’s performance.  It’s easy to run on promises of “Vote for me and I’ll take shit from them and give it to you.”  But you start to run into problems when you fail to come across with the bacon.  Not only did Obama fail to raise taxes on Teh Evul Rich!!1!!1! but he extended the Bush Tax Cuts.  Which isn’t even an accurate title.  You signed that shit, Barry.  That’s your tax cuts for the wealthy.  That’s the Obama Tax Cuts.

It’s easy to get the feeling that our side is making hesitation cuts on its arms and sobbing to shitty Morrissey songs, while the other side traipses gaily through meadows of clover, laughing and dancing with gumdrop smiles.  Get your head out of the MSM and get down to street level.  Is this the mood of the entire Democrat party?  Probably not, but it damn sure goes unreported.  What else is going unreported?

It’s never as bad as you’re told.  Likewise it’s never as good as they are told.  Also, things happen.  Pride goeth before a fall, and have you ever seen a motherfucker as prideful as Barack Obama?  The parallels to 1980 are remarkable.  Going into the last week before the election, the race between Carter and Reagan was very tight.  And then they had their last debate.  Remember how that turned out?

The story is instructive. Incumbent presidents resent the need to defend themselves. They believe that the candidates who challenge them are unworthy. They believe that they are uniquely in touch with the people. They believe that they have accomplished much – and can’t believe that everyone doesn’t know it. Every incumbent president since Gerald Ford in 1976 – Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush – has resisted practice debates. In 1972, Mr. Ford tolerated just a few minutes of his mock debate. In 1996, Mr. Clinton “got clobbered” in his (although he won re-election anyway). George W. Bush moved his rehearsal to Crawford, Tex., so he could relax enough to participate.


Politicians, Mr. Popkin suggests, come to believe the lies they tell – especially presidents. We’ll soon see how President Barack Obama, incumbent, will fare in 2012. Like 1980, the race is extremely tight. The economic mood is murky. The President is blaming others for his failures: Congress, of course, Wall Street, oil companies and, especially, the rich. Will history repeat when Mr. Obama confronts Republican Mitt Romney, in three televised debates, in October? Not all presidents who trip up are going to lose (as Clinton and Bush the Younger prove) but the ones who do lose (Ford, Carter, Bush the Elder) often do so by blindly underestimating their adversaries.

One thing that’s been reported widely is that Obama has no respect for Romney or his abilities at all.  That may very well prove his undoing.

Get a grip.

The Empire Of Jeff Bourbon-Cast: Labor Day Weekend Spectacular

2 Sep

Hello again, reprobates, degenerates, skids, skells, hornswagglers, bushwackers and shitkickers.

Everybody has bad ideas when they’re drunk.  I record mine and put them on the internets for your amusement.

The Empire of Jeff Labor Day Weekend Spectacular is here!  Special in-studio guest, the Empress of Jeff provides insightful, penetrating social commentary in this episode, mostly in the form of scathing looks and disapproving headshakes directed at your host.

Episode 3 – The EoJ Labor Day Weekend Spectacular

If you want to listen to all of my Bourbon-casts, you can go to my podcast homepage here:

Let Me Put My Audio Inside You.

Twitter is for fags, but if you’re so inclined, you can follow me there at @EmpireOfJeff.  Homo.

Because I Keep My Promises

1 Sep

This one’s for the Moronettes.


Hey, Girl. Why don’t you come inside and post a comment while I rub your shoulders?



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