What did Obama or his father do?
Posted by mesablue on July 12, 2012
Posted in 2012, Blogroll, blogs, chicago, cool, elections, free speech, justice, moonbats, moral authority, news, obama, Occupy wall street, politics, religion, Site Meter, stupid people, terrorism, video, Wordpress Political Blogs | Leave a Comment »
Posted by mesablue on May 26, 2012
All those years in prison made Brett Kimberlin an angsty boy with a horrible penchant for really bad rap.
It appears that sometime around 2006, several years after Kimberlin was released from prison, he joined a band named Op-Critical. The band’s music can best be described as liberal alternative rock and they claim some of it has been featured at ACLU and Amnesty International events. Their music mirrors that of other little known liberal bands who trashed bush in the later part of his presidency and would be unremarkable if it weren’t for the fact that one of the guys playing guitar and singing is a violent criminal.
Take, for instance, the Op-Critical song titled Fear. The song describes Americans being fearful and “thinking that the plastic bag maybe isn’t innocent” and how that undue fear is being used by Bush to control them. The lyrics mocking the fear of terrorist attacks would, again, be unremarkable for a late 2000s liberal band if they weren’t sung by a man convicted of setting off bombs in a small American town and the music video didn’t feature that bomber lurking around the Cleveland Park DC Metro station complete with shots of an unattended bag.
Horrible music videos — linky.
Thanks to MRC TV.
Now I can understand all of the money donated to Kimberlin’s “music” project — Barbara Streisand can spot talent from light years away.
Where do I sign up?
Posted in 2012, Blogroll, blogs, crime, elections, free speech, funny, justice, moonbats, moral authority, music, news, Occupy wall street, politics, stupid people, terrorism, Uncategorized, video, weird | Tagged: Brett Kimberlin, kimberlin, Speedway bomber | 1 Comment »
Posted by mesablue on May 26, 2012
This is *sweet justice…for a few hours, at least.
Never mind a Google search — yikes.
Then I read about the Patterico SWATting.
THE NIGHT I COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED BECAUSE OF MY BLOGGING
At 12:35 a.m. on July 1, 2011, sheriff’s deputies pounded on my front door and rang my doorbell. They shouted for me to open the door and come out with my hands up.
When I opened the door, deputies pointed guns at me and ordered me to put my hands in the air. I had a cell phone in my hand. Fortunately, they did not mistake it for a gun.
They ordered me to turn around and put my hands behind my back. They handcuffed me. They shouted questions at me: IS THERE ANYONE ELSE IN THE HOUSE? and WHERE ARE THEY? and ARE THEY ALIVE?
I told them: Yes, my wife and my children are in the house. They’re upstairs in their bedrooms, sleeping. Of course they’re alive.
Deputies led me down the street to a patrol car parked about 2-3 houses away. At least one neighbor was watching out of her window as I was placed, handcuffed, in the back of the patrol car. I saw numerous patrol cars on my quiet street. There was a police helicopter flying overhead, shining a spotlight down on us as I walked towards the patrol car. Several neighbors later told us the helicopter woke them up. I saw a fire engine and an ambulance. A neighbor later told me they had a HazMat vehicle out on the street as well.
Meanwhile, police rushed into my home. They woke up my wife, led her downstairs and to the front porch, frisked her, and asked her where the children were. Then police ordered her to stand on the front porch with her hands against the wall while they entered my children’s bedrooms to make sure they were alive.
The call that sent deputies to my home was a hoax. Someone had pretended to be me. They called the police to say I had shot my wife. The sheriff’s deputies who arrived at my front door believed they were about to confront an armed man who had just shot his wife. I don’t blame the police for any of their actions. But I blame the person who made the call.
Because I could have been killed.
The weirdest part of the whole thing was that I halfway expected this might happen. Because I was not the first one it had happened to.
Audio there of the fake call to 911 that got SWAT to show up at a deputy DA’s house in the middle of the night thinking that he might have killed someone.
Please read the entire post — it’s truly beyond what you can imagine.
But, his stupid friends might.
One friend, maybe, who runs a fairly large leftie blog (not linking) and who is now backpedaling like a mutha to get out of Kimberlin’s shit shadow.
Interesting, at the very least.
Is this speculation? Reaching to make a point? Taking available information when someone who was clearly innocent and his family were pulled out of their house at gunpoint by a SWAT team in the middle night to point blame? Not the first time it’s happened, the SWATing thing. Turns out it’s a method of choice by the fake Anonymous/LulzSec wannabees.
But, I don’t make the rules. For the lunatics, there are no rules. Ex parte lawsuits against individuals filed over and over — hundreds of times to intimidate and bully.
To the point where employers are afraid enough of the psychopaths to terminate innocent people and others fear enough for their safety to have to leave the state.
Friends, this is just an extreme example of the tactics that the passionate progressives have used over the last few years — because, in many cases — it works. Squelching Free Speech in the name of the Greater Good.
We are at a very important point in the history of our nation. One might say — a turning point.
This entire mess comes up at a time when we should be looking forward. To work as hard as possible to un-elect a promise the world everything, while burying us in debt president.
But, we don’t own these maniacs. The progressive/pretend 99%’rs do.
They revel in the method of distraction.
They funded these lunatics and looked the other way while they ran rampant as long as the taint of their actions could not be connected to them through layers of PAC donations and fake charities.
Well, no more. This one is going to blow up. This one is going to cause people that would not normally take notice to re-evaluate whether they should just sit back.
The Tea Party started over extreme discontent over obscene government spending and waste directed in the worst way possible at the worst possible time. We’ve already seen the initial results of that — thank you Nancy Pelosi.
Thank you, Brett Kimberlin….what a fitting honor it would be for this action to be named after you.
The Kimberlin Party.
The Kimberlin Affair.
Or…..Kimberlin’s Bombers…..Oh wait, can you sue me for bringing up your criminal record again?
Or, more fittingly, for your first (possibly second) victim — Mr. Carl DeLong.
It was at Speedway High School where the freshman football team had just played a game and the players were still getting dressed. Hundreds of parents and students were either waiting in their cars or walking through the parking lot after the game.
A Speedway High School gym bag had been left by itself, as if forgotten by a player. One of the parents, Carl DeLong, 39, walked over to retrieve it when the bomb went off. His right leg was nearly blown off and his left leg and right hand were severely damaged. Doctors tried to save his leg but had to amputate.
Remember Carl DeLong.
Posted in 2012, Blogroll, blogs, crime, elections, free speech, justice, moonbats, moral authority, news, Occupy wall street, politics, reality, Site Meter, stupid people, terrorism, Uncategorized, video, weird | Tagged: Brett Kimberlin, kimberlin, Speedway bomber | 5 Comments »
Posted by mesablue on November 6, 2011
And yes, you are hanging on, to the tired and the old — nothing new to see here.
No new message, no coherent thoughts. Just repeated whining that we’ve all seen before. As have your mentors; it’s trademark Saul Alinsky and how they got you all wound up this time.
This is an old post, but it applies to the current situation.
It may be half a decade later, but the message still applies:
What follows is an important read for everyone at this time in the history of our country. While our soldiers risk their lives in Iraq, Afghanistan and other parts of the world to fight terrorism where it lives, there are those who would call the US evil and colonialist and our soldiers pawns. They protest the war by holding up signs that read “War Criminals” at Walter Reed Hospital where our injured troops are recovering. They say they support our troops and call for an immediate withdrawal from Iraq in the same sentence. They exercise their freedom of speech by glorifying dictators like Chavez and Castro while comparing our president to Hitler.
The same sort of thing happened in the sixties and seventies because of our involvement in Vietnam. We eventually left that country and let it descend into chaos and murder.
Pat Conroy was a young man during the Vietnam war. He was a protestor. He dodged the draft. He thought our government was evil and that our country had no right to send troops overseas.
He has had nearly forty years to reflect on the reasons for his actions and has come to a conclusion — he was a coward.
This should be a must read for anyone under thirty who questions why we are in Iraq. Anyone older than that or who also protested Vietnam and still hates their country should have their meds re-evaluated and upped.
An Honest Confession by an American Coward
by Pat Conroy
Please read the entire essay.
The true things always ambush me on the road and take me by surprise when I am drifting down the light of placid days, careless about flanks and rearguard actions. I was not looking for a true thing to come upon me in the state of New Jersey. Nothing has ever happened to me in New Jersey. But came it did, and it came to stay.
In the past four years I have been interviewing my teammates on the 1966-67 basketball team at the Citadel for a book I’m writing. For the most part, this has been like buying back a part of my past that I had mislaid or shut out of my life. At first I thought I was writing about being young and frisky and able to run up and down a court all day long, but lately I realized I came to this book because I needed to come to grips with being middle-aged and having ripened into a
gray-haired man you could not trust to handle the ball on a fast break.
When I visited my old teammate Al Kroboth’s house in New Jersey, I spent the first hours quizzing him about his memories of games and practices and the screams of coaches that had echoed in field houses more than 30 years before. Al had been a splendid forward-center for the Citadel; at 6 feet 5 inches and carrying 220 pounds, he played with indefatigable energy and enthusiasm. For most of his senior year, he led the nation in field-goal percentage, with UCLA center Lew Alcindor hot on his trail. Al was a battler and a brawler and a scrapper from the day he first stepped in as a Green Weenie as a sophomore to the day he graduated. After we talked basketball, we came to a subject I dreaded to bring up with Al, but which lay between us and would not lie still.
“Al, you know I was a draft dodger and antiwar demonstrator.”
“That’s what I heard, Conroy,” Al said. “I have nothing against what you did, but I did what I thought was right.”
“Tell me about Vietnam, big Al. Tell me what happened to you,” I said.
On his seventh mission as a navigator in an A-6 for Major Leonard Robertson, Al was getting ready to deliver their payload when the fighter-bomber was hit by enemy fire. Though Al has no memory of it, he punched out somewhere in the middle of the ill-fated dive and lost consciousness. He doesn’t know if he was unconscious for six hours or six days, nor does he know what happened to Major Robertson (whose name
is engraved on the Wall in Washington and on the MIA bracelet Al wears).
When Al awoke, he couldn’t move. A Viet Cong soldier held an AK-47 to his head. His back and his neck were broken, and he had shattered his left scapula in the fall. When he was well enough to get to his feet (he still can’t recall how much time had passed), two armed Viet Cong led Al from the jungles of South Vietnam to a prison in Hanoi. The journey took three months. Al Kroboth walked barefooted through the most impassable terrain in Vietnam, and he did it sometimes in the dead of night. He bathed when it rained, and he slept in bomb craters with his two Viet Cong captors. As they moved farther north, infections
began to erupt on his body, and his legs were covered with leeches picked up while crossing the rice paddies.
At the very time of Al’s walk, I had a small role in organizing the only antiwar demonstration ever held in Beaufort, South Carolina, the home of Parris Island and the Marine Corps Air Station. In a Marine Corps town at that time, it was difficult to come up with a quorum of people who had even minor disagreements about the Vietnam War. But my small group managed to attract a crowd of about 150 to Beaufort’s waterfront. With my mother and my wife on either side of me, we listened to the featured speaker, Dr. Howard Levy, suggest to the very few young enlisted Marines present that if they get sent to Vietnam, here’s how they can help end this war: Roll a grenade under your officer’s bunk when he’s asleep in his tent. It’s called fragging and is becoming more and more popular with the ground troops who know this war is bullshit. I was enraged by the suggestion. At that very moment my father, a Marine officer, was asleep in Vietnam. But in 1972, at the age of 27, I thought I was serving America’s interests by pointing out what massive flaws and miscalculations and corruptions had led her to conduct a ground war in Southeast Asia.
In the meantime, Al and his captors had finally arrived in the North, and the Viet Cong traded him to North Vietnamese soldiers for the final leg of the trip to Hanoi. Many times when they stopped to rest for the night, the local villagers tried to kill him. His captors wired his hands behind his back at night, so he trained himself to sleep in the center of huts when the villagers began sticking knives and bayonets into the thin walls.
Following the U.S. air raids, old women would come into the huts to excrete on him and yank out hunks of his hair. After the nightmare journey of his walk north, Al was relieved when his guards finally delivered him to the POW camp in Hanoi and the cell door locked behind him.
It was at the camp that Al began to die. He threw up every meal he ate and before long was misidentified as the oldest American soldier in the prison because his appearance was so gaunt and skeletal. But the extraordinary camaraderie among fellow prisoners that sprang up in all the POW camps caught fire in Al, and did so in time to save his life.
When I was demonstrating in America against Nixon and the Christmas bombings in Hanoi, Al and his fellow prisoners were holding hands under the full fury of those bombings, singing “God Bless America.” It was those bombs that convinced Hanoi they would do well to release the American POWs, including my college teammate. When he told me about the C-141 landing in Hanoi to pick up the prisoners, Al said he felt no emotion, none at all, until he saw the giant American flag painted on the plane’s tail. I stopped writing as Al wept over the memory of that flag on that plane, on that morning, during that time in the life of America.
It was that same long night, after listening to Al’s story, that I began to make judgments about how I had conducted myself during the Vietnam War.
In the darkness of the sleeping Kroboth household, lying in the third-floor guest bedroom, I began to assess my role as a citizen in the ’60s, when my country called my name and I shot her the bird. Unlike the stupid boys who wrapped themselves in Viet Cong flags and burned the American one, I knew how to demonstrate against the war without flirting with treason or astonishingly bad taste. I had come directly from the warrior culture of this country and I knew how to act.
But in the 25 years that have passed since South Vietnam fell, I have immersed myself in the study of totalitarianism during the unspeakable century we just left behind. I have questioned survivors of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, talked to Italians who told me tales of the Nazi occupation, French partisans who had counted German tanks in the forests of Normandy, and officers who survived the Bataan Death March. I quiz journalists returning from wars in Bosnia, the Sudan, the Congo, Angola, Indonesia, Guatemala, San Salvador, Chile, Northern Ireland, Algeria.
As I lay sleepless, I realized I’d done all this research to better understand my country. I now revere words like democracy, freedom, the right to vote, and the grandeur of the extraordinary vision of the founding fathers. Do I see America’s flaws? Of course. But I now can honor her basic, incorruptible virtues, the ones that let me walk the streets screaming my ass off that my country had no idea what it was doing in South Vietnam. My country let me scream to my heart’s content – the same country that produced both Al Kroboth and me.
Now, at this moment in New Jersey, I come to a conclusion about my actions as a young man when Vietnam was a dirty word to me. I wish I’d led a platoon of Marines in Vietnam. I would like to think I would have trained my troops well and that the Viet Cong would have had their hands full if they entered a firefight with us. From the day of my birth, I was programmed to enter the Marine Corps. I was the son of a Marine fighter pilot, and I had grown up on Marine bases where I had watched the men of the corps perform simulated war games in the forests of my childhood. That a novelist and poet bloomed darkly in the house of Santini strikes me as a remarkable irony. My mother and father had raised me to be an Al Kroboth, and during the Vietnam era they watched in horror as I metamorphosed into another breed of fanatic entirely. I understand now that I should have protested the war after my return from Vietnam, after I had done my duty for my country. I have come to a conclusion about my country that I knew then in my bones but lacked the courage to act on: America is good enough to die for even when she is wrong.
I looked for some conclusion, a summation of this trip to my teammate’s house. I wanted to come to the single right thing, a true thing that I may not like but that I could live with. After hearing Al Kroboth’s story of his walk across Vietnam and his brutal imprisonment in the North, I found myself passing harrowing, remorseless judgment on myself. I had not turned out to be the man I had once envisioned myself to be. I thought I would be the kind of man that America could point to and say, “There. That’s the guy. That’s the one who got it right. The whole package. The one I can depend on.”
It had never once occurred to me that I would find myself in the position I did on that night in Al Kroboth’s house in Roselle, New Jersey: an American coward spending the night with an American hero.