Caution: Spirited Adult Content

Quote: “Black olives matter just as much as green ones.”
(george E. Hand IV, 08/06/2020)

My foundation is that ALL olives matter; I’m an equality and live-and-let-live sort of follow, or at least so I fancy myself. Back in the day when green olives started (friendly) protesting by printing “Green Olives Matter!” on the labels of their jars, it upset the black olives. The black olives thought that the green olives insinuated that the black olives didn’t matter now somehow. So the black olives started posting “Black Olives Matter too!” on the labels of their cans.

ALL Olives matter!

Furthermore, the black olives protested that while the green olives were traditionally packed in clear glass jars, the black olives came packed in a can. Why the hell did the green olives get a nice bright cheery transparent jar, while the black olives got jammed into a dark dreary can? Conspiracy! The black olives cried depravity and burned down the condiments aisle of the Piggly wiggly in protest. Then, they gathered in the meat aisle having no place to return to and demanded reparations.

The manager of the Piggly Wiggly podiumed up and addressed the concerns of the olives:

“You see, it is because the canning process is what creates the desired sweetness; and green olives are ‘always’ in a jar because the final product is expected to be a crispy raw olive, not a cooked one! There is no ill intent here; it’s just an industrial technique that drives the packaging,” concluded the manager smiling sweetly.

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The olives silently looked around at one another trying to gage expressions… then burned down the entire Piggly Wiggle scattering about in the streets in search of refuge.

And that allegory, my friends, sums up my interpretation of the condition of our State today — SNAFU (Situation Normal, All Fucked up) and FUBAR (Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition).

But more on BLM: from a background dealing in real estate, I came to recognize the letters BLM to stand for Bureau of Land Management. That is the federal entity that manages all federally-owned land across the U.S. Take the Nevada Test Site, where I worked for 16 years prior to writing for SOFREP: the Test Site was owned by the BLM as the landlord, rented by the DOE as the tenant, with my subcontract company performing all the work on it.

Imagine my surprise when I started hearing in the news that BLM was rioting in major cities across the States!

“That’s not BLM land… they have no business there — they have no canine in that struggle!!”

I got to musing over the two BLMs and making stark comparisons of the two. I’m sharing some of those comparison in the News Roundup. I’ll distinguish between the two with upper and lower case letters for clarity:

The BLM reside within the Department of the Interior.
The blm reside within an apartment of the inferior.

The BLM has governed one-eighth of the landmass of the U.S. for 74 years.
The blm “governed” about four city blocks of Seattle for about two weeks.

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The BLM has care of 27 national monuments.
The blm has torn down 27 historic monuments.

Under the BLM, ranchers hold nearly 18,000 permits for livestock grazing.
Under the blm, looters hold exactly zero permits for rioting as livestock.

The BLM maintain some 636 protected areas.
The blm invaded some 636 protected areas.

The BLM operates on a $1,162,000,000 annual budget.
The blm destroyed $1,162,000,000 worth of public and private property this year.

The BLM employs well in excess of 3,000 firefighting personnel.
The blm employed well in excess of 3,000 arson-perpetrating personnel.

The BLM:

The blm:

Amsterdam-Provided Personnel Public Pee-Pee Planters Prevail

An outdoor public urinal that is not so much disguised as a planter, but doubles as a planter.

I was in Amsterdam on a mission with the Delta Force years ago. It is one of the oddest places I have ever been to. Because of the lack of space there, the construction effort goes vertical as opposed to horizontal and the buildings are tall and narrow. It looks like a town from a Dr. Seuss storybook. One building might be leaning considerably backward, while the building right next to it will lean forward. Looking down a long street of such structures presents quite a spectacle.

If ever I needed to traverse one of these alleys, I didn’t walk through them — I sprinted through them staring up in horror the whole time.

As for the public open-air urinals, those were an acquired taste requiring a dash of spirit, a pinch of nerve, and a baker’s abundance of brash bladder — there was no place for a shy bladder.

I didn’t embrace the concept wholly and immediately. I mean in America the tradition is that you excuse yourself politely with some clever euphemistic riddle, completely disappear into a room or building, and return momentarily all better. Whereas, in the Dam, you politely excuse yourself from your table at a sidewalk café like this:

“Would you all please excuse me; I must go see a man about a horse, to drain the one-eyed lizard, to take a powder, to douse Dresden, to rinse off a Navy SEAL.” All’s well as you sneak off about 15 feet away and until you stand with your back to them pressed up to a poppy planter.

Friends: “Geez a loo, mate… I mean, we can still see you there; we know you’re going the wee, mate!”

Me: “Green olives in jars, black olives in cans; conspiracy or not — talk amongst yourselves!”

Early on in the Dam I vowed I would never use those poppy planter pissers; however, in those times of extreme need, I folded. I at least timed it so that the stream of passerby was spared — and then I went for it. Another disturbing pitfall was that I was standing face-to-face with a dutch bastard who was using the other side of the poppy planter pisser — that was painfully awkward.

“So, you uh… seen any good movies lately have ya… ahem… say, uh… is it true that one of your countrymen stuck his finger in a dike and saved a town once? Ahem… ahem… *cough*… ahem… you know I uh, figured I would get here and everyone would be walking around wearing wooden clogs, but I noticed your wearing Rebox… ahem. *zip* Well, you have a blessed day, Hans.”

I’ll close with my then six-year-old daughter’s description of a visit to Egypt. The details are different, though the sentiment is very similar in applying it to Amsterdam:

“Dad, I used to think I wanted to go to Egypt, but then they have a giant statue… and it looks like a man and it looks like a dog, and you crack it open and peer into it… and there’s a mummy in there. So, only about 10 or 20 people ever go there.”

Brokini Ban Rebuffed by LGBQ Bill


Note: the above garment is recommended by SOFREP’s Mason Flake for triathlon wear.

There’s a new ward at the Johns Hopkins Medical Center’s Ophthalmology department. It is for persons who have seen the above garments on the beach and suffered immediate and acute retinal branding, an optometric affliction that prevents a person from unseeing an event.

Leading world ophthalmologist David F. Chang MD remarks:

“Once a traumatic image has been cauterized onto the rod/cone plane, there is essentially no way to reverse the action, so the only recourse for the patient at that point, unfortunately, is the whole eye transplant.”

While private beaches can prevent the wear of the brokini, public beaches are prevented from banning the garment by legislation protecting the LGBTQ-MOUSE community.

A beach-goer caution sign as it is seen posted on Smather’s Beach, Key West, Florida.

“You should be duly warned as well,” continued Chang, “that tests have been conducted viewing the brokini through a mirror — such as one would view the Medusa — yet sadly with the same negative effects to the ocular nerve.”

OMG, the Chineez!

Pundits get a cheap thrill out of empty announcements that the Ice-G Gung Ho Garment Line is washed up. But like Glen Campbell said in True Grit:

“I ain’t dead yet, you yankee bushwhacker!”

Ah, yes… starting Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd — great movie!

A debatable mantra for someone much older than a 13-year-old — even if they could read it. When I try to twist and bend that phrase into something more innocuous… nothing really happens. To this lil’ sister I only have this Peter, Paul, and Mary message to offer:

I like to think of this shirt’s slogan as a slightly more profane adult version of the Bobby McFerrin song Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

Yeah, Walmart got nothin’ on these Chineez haters. This sister wants to be crystal clear: that whole package is NOT for sale, as she stands there with that pretentious poodle with a $hitty haircut, and those sandals that she found in a pile after a stampede at a Thin Lizzy concert. Back off, Mister Man! This package is not for sale tuh-DAY!!

geo’s Weekly Cute Kid-Vid:
I think most of us have done this as kids before we understood the difference between the two types of chocolates relevant to the video clip. Watch here:

geo’s Classic Art Meme of the Week (by geo):

A Second Classic Art Meme for Mason Flake!

We all have those days feeling like a violin-playing lion haunted by uncertainty.

geo’s Pun Joke of the Week:

“A pint of sweat will save a gallon of blood.” (General George S. Patton)

By Almighty God and with honor,
geo sends