Canadians showed true grit today.
The normal crowd at a typical remembrance day ceremony I was told, is 40,000 people. Still a pretty impressive number in these postmodern times. Today the expected number was 80,000 and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was 20,000 people over that.
I also would think that for a great many who came to the Cenotaph today, they did so as an act of defiance. We will not be intimidated. We love our people, our country, our culture and our Armed forces. We will make a ‘target rich environment’ because we are not afraid of you who brainwash our people into becoming enemies of their own country for ‘allah’s sake’.
And to all the religious muslims out there I show defiance and contempt. You who depend on the exact same institutions and individuals to protect you from the natural consequences of your actions against those same individuals and institutions should weigh your actions carefully. History turns on a dime. Read a book sometime.
Meanwhile, back in the Ottawa Schools, muslims are demanding to be able to not be part of Remembrance day (From last night’s Ezra Levant on SUN TV)
Al Qaeda member killed in Yemen strike, official says (CNN, Nov 11, 2014)
http://edition.cnn.com/2014/11/05/world/meast/yemen-violence/index.html
“An al Qaeda leader in Yemen was among those killed in what a Yemeni official called a “counterterrorism strike,” the latest such strike at a time of intensified fighting in the Arab nation.
The Yemeni official said Wednesday that those killed include Shawki al-Badani, whom the U.S. State Department named a “specially designated global terrorist” in June. So, too, was Nabil al-Dahab, a top member of the conservative Salafist group Ansar al Sharia.
Initial reports out of Yemen sometimes prove untrue. That said, the United States similarly believes al-Badani was killed in a strike, according to two U.S. officials who spoke to CNN on the condition of anonymity.
They said they are still trying to confirm whether al-Dahab was killed. The officials would not say if the two men were at the same location.
U.S. drones have been active in attacking suspected militants of late in Yemen, given the continued strength there of al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, one of the terrorist network’s most active and high-profile branches.
On Tuesday, for instance, local security officials said that U.S. drones had killed at least nine suspected al Qaeda members….”
Getting al-Badani — if and when his death is confirmed — would appear to be a significant step for U.S. and allied forces.
Hello there…..its me again……Don Laird….
“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori”
Regards, Don Laird
Dogtown Bastard
Alberta, Canada
god bless this land
CBC video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjvUz2e-asU
I didn’t notice any Muslim behind a microphone spreading lies in the clips and pictures I’ve seen.
Elegy in a Country Churchyard
The men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And bees and birds of England
About the cross can roam.
But they that fought for England,
Following a falling star,
Alas, alas for England
They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England,
In stately conclave met,
Alas, alas for England,
They have no graves as yet.
– G.K. Chesterton, from ‘The Ballad of St. Barbara, and Other Verses’ (1922)
As long as the west continues to honor their warriors they will prevail in the long run, once the left manages to convince people to hate the warriors who protect their freedom we will see freedom disappear for several centuries.
Like a “latte salute” by the C-in-C?
You got it, he was showing contempt for all in the military and their customs when he did that, which turned a lot of people against him and his policies.
Didn’t he do something rotten on Memorial Day as well?
Shouldn’t he be keeping in character until the scene is over?
His witch will look better in a garbage baggie, if that’s any consolation.
I don’t know what he did on memorial day.
He should stay in character but probably won’t.
His witch wouldn’t look good no matter where she is.
Dropping the pretense, acting like an outright Mohammedan enemy shows his utter contempt for us. “They’ll never catch on, those clowns,” he’s thinking.
He and a lot of leftist who don’t know much history don’t know that both the revolutionary war and the civil war took over 10 years to start, and that the revolution started without a clear leader. In fact just about all who ended up leading the revolution were in 1774 calling for calm and for the people to allow them to work with the Brits to end the problems.
Sound familiar?
I get sick of calls for “calm” and “status quo”.
Though sometimes they’re necessary while you’re building up your army and supplies. Can’t jump in too early, but it gets frustrating.
Ten years is too long.
Hello there……its me again…….Don Laird…….
I am amused…….it takes the murder, the butchering of our own flesh and blood on our very doorsteps to remind us of the sacrifice, the nobility and the bravery of the very youngest and best our nation has to offer up in the fight against madmen and tyrants.
I am very fond of Kipling, Rudyard Kipling.
Here is his continuation of the “Charge of the Light Brigade”, called “The Last of The Light Brigade”…….to me an ode to ingratitude and indifference.
The Last of the Light Brigade
There were thirty million English who talked of England’s might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!
They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, “Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites.”
They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant’s order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and “Beggin’ your pardon,” he said,
“You wrote o’ the Light Brigade, sir. Here’s all that isn’t dead.
An’ it’s all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin’ the mouth of hell;
For we’re all of us nigh to the workhouse, an’ we thought we’d call an’ tell.
“No, thank you, we don’t want food, sir; but couldn’t you take an’ write
A sort of ‘to be continued’ and ‘see next page’ o’ the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an’ couldn’t you tell ’em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now.”
The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with “the scorn of scorn.
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang from an Irish bog;
They healed the spavined cab-horse; they housed the homeless dog;
And they sent (you may call me a liar), when felon and beast were paid,
A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last of the Light Brigade.*
O thirty million English that babble of England’s might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children’s children are lisping to “honour the charge they made – ”
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!
~Rudyard Kipling
Well…….that’s it…..that says it all……….
Food for thought, catalyst for action.
Regards, Don Laird
Dogtown Bastard
Alberta, Canada
Another saying the same thing in a different poem
Rudyard Kipling
Tommy
I went into a public-‘ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-‘alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.
Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ‘ow’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.
We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.
You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool — you bet that Tommy sees!
Good one!
It is one of my two favorite ones.
Here is the other one.
Rudyard Kipling
The Young British Soldier
When the ‘arf-made recruity goes out to the East
‘E acts like a babe an’ ‘e drinks like a beast,
An’ ‘e wonders because ‘e is frequent deceased
Ere ‘e’s fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!
Now all you recruities what’s drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an’ ‘ark to my lay,
An’ I’ll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what’s fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .
First mind you steer clear o’ the grog-sellers’ huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay’nets that rots out your guts —
Ay, drink that ‘ud eat the live steel from your butts —
An’ it’s bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .
When the cholera comes — as it will past a doubt —
Keep out of the wet and don’t go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An’ it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .
But the worst o’ your foes is the sun over’ead:
You must wear your ‘elmet for all that is said:
If ‘e finds you uncovered ‘e’ll knock you down dead,
An’ you’ll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .
If you’re cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don’t grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it’s beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old —
A troop-sergeant’s widow’s the nicest I’m told,
For beauty won’t help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain’t enough for a soldier.
‘Nough, ‘nough, ‘nough for a soldier . . .
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch ’em — you’ll swing, on my oath! —
Make ‘im take ‘er and keep ‘er: that’s Hell for them both,
An’ you’re shut o’ the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .
When first under fire an’ you’re wishful to duck,
Don’t look nor take ‘eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you’re livin’, and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .
When ‘arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don’t call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She’s human as you are — you treat her as sich,
An’ she’ll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .
When shakin’ their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o’ the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an’ don’t mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .
If your officer’s dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
That’s a powerful piece.
That it is, if you read Kipling you will discover that the solider and civilians haven’t changed from his time, and in many cases we are fighting the same enemy. All that has changed is the weapons used.
A lot of people are calling Kipling a racist, in answer to that I give you Gunga Din, pay close attention to the last line.
Gunga Din
By Rudyard Kipling
You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din,
He was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
‘Hi! Slippy hitherao
‘Water, get it! Panee lao,
‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’
The uniform ’e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted ‘Harry By!’
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?
‘You put some juldee in it
‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute
‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’
’E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ’is mussick a on ’is back,
’E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire,’
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
’E was white, clear white, inside
When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’
With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-ranks shout,
‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’
I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
’E lifted up my ’ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;
‘’E’s chawin’ up the ground,
‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:
‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’
’E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
’E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ’e died,
‘I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ’im later on
At the place where ’e is gone—
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.
’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
It’s racist to disregard differences between races.
Black people react differently to medications than Asian. Treatments in future using gene therapy won’t be possible if race is not factored into the equation.
Certain cancers are more prevalent among specific ethnic groups, metabolic diseases like diabetes in other groups.
Blacks ‘got rhythm’, Jews’ ya doctors. ^_^
Other diseases have some genetic coupling, anyone with any American Indian in their ancestry are predisposed to get diabetes.
And think how many more once we start “profiling” – for want of a better word – in medical research.