THE SYRIANS ARE COMING! THE SYRIANS ARE COMING!

Fortunately, despite all the dire warnings, gays have yet to destroy America and Ebola has not killed us all off. Turns out, it was just more paranoid, fear-mongering "sky is falling" insanity. 

Now Chicken Little is back:

"SYRIAN REFUGEES are coming! . . . SYRIAN REFUGEES are coming!"

I hate to ruin a good fear-mongering panic party, but . . .

According to the Bureau of Population, Refugees, and Migration, of the three million refugees admitted to the United States since 1975 (785,000 since 9/11), about a dozen have been removed due to security concerns. Guess how many have been charged with domestic terrorism since 9/11?

Zero. None.

That's right. Of the nearly 750,000 refugees who have taken up residence in the U.S. since 9/11, none have been arrested on charges of domestic terrorism.

Zero. None.

In fact, the data show that most violent extremists in the U.S. are actually natural-born U.S. citizens.

Natural born U.S. citizens!

Yet more than half our nation's governors are now saying they will not allow Syrian Refugees into their states. And why are we so so afraid? Because one of the ISIS terrorists involved in the horrific attack in Paris may have been a Syrian refugee. Maybe. His refugee documents may also have been forged.

One out of about 25,000 Syrian refugees who entered France may have been a terrorist who participated in a terrorist attack.

Maybe. 

Regardless, the United States has a far more thorough and rigid vetting process than France for accepting refugees, particularly from the Middle East. The process can take up to two years. Some refugees from the Middle East have difficulty providing documents, which is why the director of the FBI recently said it can be challenging. But if they do not provide proper documentation, they are not allowed in.

It is far quicker, easier, more efficient, more effective, more tactical and more likely for terrorists to sneak into the United States from other nations, using different methods . . . not posing as Syrian Refugees. As the Department of Homeland Security puts it:

"The refugee resettlement program is the least likely avenue for a terrorist to choose. Refugees who are selected for resettlement to the United States go through a painstaking, many-layered review before they are accepted. The FBI, Department of Homeland Security, State Department, and national intelligence agencies independently check refugees’ biometric data against security databases. The whole process typically takes 18-24 months, with high hurdles for security clearance."

Yeah, yeah . . . it's a statement from the government; it can't be trusted! Yet the facts seem to back the claims:

From 2008-2013 the United States accepted about 30,000 refuges from Somalia, a country that rates far higher than Syria on the FBI's "terrorist index" because it is home to Al-Qaeda affiliate Al-Shabaab, which has launched multiple attacks in Kenya and called earlier this year for terrorist attacks against malls in the U.S. In 2013, the U.S. accepted about 34,000 refugees (more than half from Iraq) from countries ranking higher on the FBI's terrorist index than Syria.

How many resulted in terrorist attacks or even arrests for attempted terrorism?

Zero. None.

Yet we are going to refuse safe refuge to the brutalized victims of a brutal terrorist state we helped create and strengthen through our ignorance?

What else to expect from a nation in which Duck Dynasty, Honey Boo Boo and Meet the Kardashians receive high TV viewer numbers and ratings.

Let's hope no one ever claims that gay Syrian refugees with Ebola are coming across the border from Mexico -- our nation would implode with stupidity.

I fear ignorance is the greatest threat of all to the United States of America.

"BOMB THE SHIT OUT OF THEM!" (A War Story)

A Guest Blog by Henerey Hawk

As I sat silently in the dark I could see them -- not too far in front of me. There were at least six Muslim men, donning dark beards and wearing turbans, most carrying AK47s, one holding what appeared to be an RG-6 grenade launcher, and all of them walking slowly in front of a Soviet T-72 battle tank undoubtedly seized from an Iraqi Army in retreat. Islamic State terrorists! No doubt about it, likely out seeking to seize and behead. I could hear bombs and gunfire in the distant background. They were getting perilously close, but I patiently waited to see the whites of their eyes, if Muslims even have whites in their eyes, which I doubt, but nevertheless . . . I waited  . . .

. . . And then, at what seemed a blink of an eye, there was a woman -- a beautiful, blonde, big-breasted woman -- scantily clad in a stars and stripes bikini, sitting in a hot tub in the back of a red, white and blue pickup truck driven by a bull rider on an aircraft carrier beneath the Statue of Liberty with fireworks going off. I shit you not! And she was eating a big, fat, juicy-looking cheese burger topped with a hot dog and potato chips, apparently called a “Thickburger” from Carl’s Jr.  It looked amazing!  Well . . . except for the view of the New York City skyline behind her, seeming tragically empty without the iconic Twin Towers, now gone forever thanks to the incompetence of Obama.

But it reminded me of how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten for nearly half an hour. I remember I still had some rations remaining, leftovers from an earlier expedition to McDonalds. I slowly got up from my recliner chair, careful not to make any quick moves, turned off the TV, and cautiously moved through the dark towards the kitchen careful not to bump into the table and chairs that potentially obstructed my movement. I grabbed a Bud Lite and leftover Freedom fries from the fridge and moved towards the safety and security of my weapon – my Corsair K95 RGB Keyboard. A mechanical keyboard with customizable per-key backlighting, stylish aluminum design, detachable wrist rest, dozens of programmable options and customizable lighting modes it’s without a doubt one of the most deadly, effective and efficient keyboards available. It has a maximum effective range of  . . . well, anywhere in the world where there's internet . . . and can fire off 120 harsh, rude words-per-minute in the hands of a highly-skilled, well-trained typist.

While waiting for my computer to boot up, I closed my eyes and repeated my creed:

This is my keyboard. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My keyboard is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My keyboard, without me, is useless. Without my keyboard, I am useless. I must type on my keyboard quickly. I must type faster than the socialist libtards who are trying to insult me. I must insult and block them before they insult and block me. I will. . .

My keyboard and I know that what counts in verbiage warfare is not how many words we type, the accuracy of those words, or correct spelling, grammar and punctuation. We know that it is the insults that count. We will insult . . .

My keyboard is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories, and where the backspace and escape keys are. I will learn QWERTY. I will keep my keyboard clean from food crumbs and beer spills and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will . . .

Before God, I swear this creed. My keyboard and I are the defenders of ‘Murica. We are the masters of the socialist libtards. We are the saviors of the Constitution, the Bible, the vision of our founding fathers and our nation’s Christian principles.  

So be it, until victory is ‘Murica's and there are no socialist libtards, but Jesus!

I boldly logged into the front lines of Facebook and wasted no time. I hit ’em hard and I hit ‘em fast; "shock an awe" is my motto! Kicking ass and making memes!

“Time to BOMB THE SHIT out of these goat-loving Muslim Islam communists and ERADICATE them from the face of the planet!” I posted. “I’ll be happy to introduce these socialist fascist bastards to their 72 virgins!”

Silence.

It was quiet . . . TOO quiet.

So I quickly followed up by posting a potent meme with a photo of American hero General George Patton with words: “Think like a warrior! We have to kill not only the Muslims but the liberals that let them into our country. We are at war to save the Republic. We must eradicate the problem and its cause.”
 
BAM! In your face libtards!

My comrade Jim Bob from Alabama replied. “Right on bro! Fuck Muslims and Obama Islam lovers!”

“We need to nuke them!” replied my friend Bucky B. from Georgia.

"If we didn't have a Muslim POTUS from Kenya the Marines would all be over there now, kickin' ass and taking Muslim names!" wrote my buddy Buddy from Pennsylvania. "And I'd be there with them, kicking MUSLIM ISLAM ASS . . . if I hadn't hurt my damn ankle in a softball game last week."

Believe me, in tense situations like this, it's good to know that your Facebook friends have your back!

And then it happened.  A “friend” I don’t really know -- likely "friended" through libtard relatives -- wrote this:

“Huh? Seriously? There’s so much inaccurate information in your ridiculous bigoted posts I do not even know where to begin in addressing them.”

Again, I hit hard and fast:

“Oh surprise, surprise . . . a NObama-loving libtard crawls out of his hole to defend Muslim terrorists and hate America!”

“Dude, I was an Army Ranger, I did two tours in Afghanistan and a tour in Iraq,” he replied.

“Oh,” I write. “Thank you for your service!”

“Thanks,” he wrote. “Who did you serve with?”

“I wanted to go in the service,” I replied. “I would have joined the Marines!  But I had other priorities at the time . . . I needed to go to college so I could get a good job and make a lot of money. But I am ready to go now! Unfortunately, the recruiters say I am too old. But I would. I really would. . . And I would kick some serious Muslim ass dude! I would kill all those motherfucking ragheaded Islam Muslims!”

“Um . . . okay. Wow! It’s a pretty complex situation over there, I don’t think your lies, simplifications, misconceptions, hate and bigotry are going to help much,” he replied.

“I say KILL THEM ALL and let God sort it out!,” I wrote. 

He replied: “Whose God, theirs or ours?” 

I took swift, immediate action. My two index fingers seemed to move on their own, instinctively. My years of rigorous training in typing classes at the Parochial Boys Military Academy were paying off.  

“Typical Libtard,” I wrote. “You sound more like a faggot than a Ranger. Drag your Hillary-loving ass back into the Barry HUSSEIN NObama zone you came from and let REAL AMERICANS deal with these communist Muslim goat-fucking assholes!”

And then I rapidly blocked him! (Thanking him one more time, of course, for his service before I did.)

One down! Enemy libtard neutralized!  

But I was hungry and exhausted. I moved stealthfully to the fridge and grabbed another Bud Lite and a leftover Super Patriot American Cheeseburger and silently settled back into my recliner.

I knew I had a long night ahead of me, and so for now I rested . . .


Henerey Hawk is an American Patriot and blogger living in Foghorn, Texas.  “Bomb The Shit Out of Them! (A War Story)” is excerpted from Hawk’s recently published book, “Tales From The Homefront: Fighting Terrorism and Libtards One Letter at a Time,” Fox News Press, 2015.   

NOTE: If you support the bold, patriotic efforts of courageous men like Henerey Hawk -- risking carpal tunnel syndrome so America can be made great again -- please urge your Congressional representatives to get them the support they desperately need.  These brave patriots are in dire need of updated computer gear and accessories as well as necessary training in spelling, grammar and punctuation.  

National Fast Food Day

Shall We Eat French Fries With Our Crow?

Recognize this guy? His name is Dominique Marie François René Galouzeau de Villepin. He was the Prime Minister of France from 2005-2007. Prior to that, he served as the French Minister of Foreign Affairs under President Jacques René Chirac.

On February 14, 2003, while serving as French Minister of Foreign Affairs, Villepin gave an informed, impassioned speech to the United Nation’s Security Council opposing President George W. Bush’s plan to invade Iraq. He told world leaders that French intelligence agencies had no evidence of any links between al-Qaeda and Iraq. He told world leaders that there was no evidence that Iraq had any weapons of mass destruction. He urged world leaders to unite in disarming Iraq but to be smart and cautious and only go to war as a last result. He offered evidence of how UN inspections were beginning to produce good results and should be given more of a chance. He warned world leaders that going to war with Iraq could make the region more unstable and likely boost the strength and resolve of terrorists.

His speech was well-received and loudly applauded -- except by the United States. 

Many Americans accused France of betrayal. Anti-French sentiment hit insanity level.  Republican U.S. Representatives Bob Ney and Walter B. Jones directed cafeterias in the Capital to change all references to French fries and French toast on menus and replace them with Freedom fries and Freedom toast. "Patriotic" Americans throughout our nation made showy, bravado displays of dumping out French wines and eating Freedom fries.  (When asked for a response, French Embassy Spokeswoman Nathalie Loiseau – after pointing out that fries actually originated in Belgium – said, “We are in a very serious moment dealing with very serious issues, and we are not focusing on the name Americans give to potatoes.")

And what did Dominique de Villepin say that provoked brave Americans to become so lividly outraged as to courageously resort to drinking California wines and renaming their fast-food fried potato snacks in the name of freedom?

Here’s some highlights from his speech: 

"We are pursuing together the objective of effectively disarming Iraq. We have an obligation to achieve results. Let us not cast doubt on our common commitment to this goal. We shoulder collectively this onerous responsibility which must leave no room for ulterior motives or assumptions. Let us be clear: Not one of us feels the least indulgence towards Saddam Hussein and the Iraqi regime." 

“The use of force would be so fraught with risks for people, for the region and for international stability that it should only be envisioned as a last resort. . . The option of war might seem a priori to be the swiftest. But let us not forget that having won the war, one has to build peace. Let us not delude ourselves; this will be long and difficult because it will be necessary to preserve Iraq's unity and restore stability in a lasting way in a country and region harshly affected by the intrusion of force. Faced with such perspectives, there is an alternative in the inspections which allow us to move forward day by day with the effective and peaceful disarmament of Iraq. In the end is that choice not the most sure and most rapid?”

“Such intervention could have incalculable consequences for the stability of this scarred and fragile region. It would compound the sense of injustice, increase tensions and risk paving the way to other conflicts. . . Would not such intervention be liable to exacerbate the divisions between societies, cultures and peoples, divisions that nurture terrorism?”

Shall we eat French fries with our crow?

Grizzlies On My Mind (A Late Night Facebook Chat With The President)

Often when I can't sleep I put my computer on my chest while laying in bed and I Google and Wikepedia and browse the night away.

Sometimes I catch up on news, or watch YouTube videos, or read articles about grizzly bears and wolves. Sometime I fall asleep with the computer on my chest. But not tonight. Tonight I was checking out President Barrack Obama's new Facebook page. Yup; the President launched a Facebook page. And while I am admiring his first post -- a videoed stroll through his backyard at the White House talking about climate change and the need to protect our wildlife, wild places and the clean air, clean water and planet that sustains us -- one of those little intrusive blueish chat boxes rudely pops up on my screen.

"Hello?"
"Uh . . . hello!" I respond.
"I have a surprise for you," he writes. "I am in Missoula and want to hang out."

I was indeed surprised. So much so it snapped me out of my sleepy stupor. I sit up. Then I notice the name on the chat box.

For discretionary purposes I will just call him John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, which of course isn't really his name (nor my name too). He often chats me up late at night. I find it sometimes annoying only because I can't type well while laying down, so I have to sit up if I want to reply in much depth. Which I do; He seems smart enough and looks good enough to make it worth sitting up.

"Oh, wow. I am surprised," I respond. "What brings you here?"
"Going to the Grizzly game."
"Cool"
"Want to hang out?"

Ugh! I do want to. But I feel pretty lazy and settled in. I lay back down to think about how to best respond in a tactful, honest and polite manner  . .  . and . . . and then the chat screen pops back up.

"Hello?"

Again, it snaps me out of my sleepy stupor. His words seems to impatiently imply, Are you ignoring me? I don't want to ignore him. I sit up. Then I notice the name on the chat box.

Barack Obama
"Hello?"

David Stalling
"Hello."

Barack Obama
"You're up late."

David Stalling
"Yes, I am. I don't mean to be rude, but is that really you Mr. President, or someone who works for the president?"

Barack Obama
"Lol. UR not being rude. It's me. I promise. I can show you my birth certificate if you want?"

David Stalling
"Lol. No Sir, not necessary; I am not one of THEM!"

Barack Obama
"Lol. Glad to hear that. So why up so late?"

David Stalling
"I just have a lot on my mind."

"I can relate to that," he replies. "My mind keeps me awake as well. I won't bore you with my stuff, but I would sure like to know what's on your mind?"

I feel silly, and tell him so, thinking what's on my mind is trivial compared to what must be on the mind of the President of the United States. "Don't worry about that," he writes. "We all have stuff on our minds; perhaps just not the same stuff. It's all important. I want to hear what's on your mind, if you don't mind?"

I don't mind; So I tell him:

"I have grizzlies on my mind."

I tell him about my passion for wildlife and wild places and my growing concerns about climate change; The ongoing loss and degradation of and need to protect what little remains of truly wild places; The terrible and tragic notion of selling our public lands, an idea being pushed by many Republicans; The Republican-led attacks on the Endangered Species Act, the Environmental Protection Agency, the Clean Water and Clean Air Acts and other important environmental laws and regulations; Some people's selfish willingness to put greed and profit above the health of our air, water and the very Earth that sustains us; Our growing disconnect from nature -- the REAL WORLD -- and how that has led to so many problems on so many levels; The abandonment of and Republican-led attack on science; The sad, ongoing persecution of and hatred for wolves, and my related concerns about what I believe is a premature effort to delist wild grizzly bears from federal protection under the Endangered Species Act and turn management over to the states of Montana, Idaho and Wyoming -- all of which seem eager to open morally-unjustifiable trophy-hunting seasons for the Great Bears --  despite the alarming impacts a rapidly changing climate is having on their habitat, influencing changes in food and where they go to search for food, which brings them closer to and in more frequent contact and conflicts with humans, which means increased bear mortality, which means . . .

. . . Well, you get the picture. I hope. I tend to go on and on about such things. I apologetically tell the President that.

I anxiously await his response. . . Nothing. I fear I maybe went too far; Perhaps I drove him away? Put him to sleep? I minimize the chat screen and lay back down thinking about wild places and wild grizzlies and hope and change . . . and . . . and then the chat screen pops back up.

"Hello?"

Again, it snaps me out of my sleepy stupor.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," I quickly respond.

I don't want to ignore him. I sit up. Then I notice the name on the chat box.

John Jacob J.S.
"You didn't offend me. I just assumed you fell asleep. What's up?"

David Stalling
"I just have a lot on my mind." 

The New National Geographic

Two Thousand Days with Grizzly Bears

Phil Timpany (photo by Fritz Mueller)

by Phil Timpany

"Specatcular," said the Belgian, looking through his camera as we sat near a stream in northwestern Canada. Twice the grizzly bear had lunged into the water to catch a chum salmon and brought it to shore to eat in peace. I looked at the bear, the Belgian, then again at the bear. The animal was indeed spectacular. It consumed the fish and started walking toward us.

"Is it close enough?" he asked. I whispered, "Yes." A bolt-action rifle -- a weapon with a short bolt designed to prevent jamming -- replaced the camera. He placed the crosshairs on the bear and began to shake. I said, "Take your time." He readjusted the rifle and took aim. The shaking started again. At 150 feet, the bear turned broadside to study a group of spawning chum. "Breathe," I whispered, "and put the bullet low, just behind the front shoulder." The rifle roared. Water erupted at the bear's front feet. The animal spun around and bellowed, waving a nearly severed and bloody front paw. "Shoot again," I urged. The Belgian tried putting another round in the chamber. It didn't work. His rifle had jammed.

The grizzly began running across the slough to get away. I picked up my rifle and shot. The bullet entered the bear and exited in a large spray of blood and lung tissue. It was a quick death. For me, this was anything but spectacular. The Belgian, however, was happy. He had paid $8,000 to slay the bear.

Thirty-seven years later, I sit by the Fishing Branch River a few miles south of the Arctic Circle with a small group of tourists. We are watching a 500-pound male grizzly chase salmon. My task for the morning has been successful. I have safely placed people and a grizzly together in a natural setting. My 12-guage shotgun is leaning against my pack, loaded and ready for use. The bear-viewing business I share with the Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation of Old Crow requires that I carry it. In the 21 years I have been working here, I have never fired it. Morris, the 15-year-old male, walks ten feet from us, undisturbed by the shutters of the cameras. Guests have been watching him fish on this river since 2006. He has starred in natural history documentaries and his photos have been published globally in many magazines.

As a young man, I dreamed of a career with wildlife. I thought I could fulfill my naturalist ambitions by working as a guide for "sportsmen" who came from around the world to kill iconic wildlife, especially grizzlies. It pains me to confess that I am responsible for the deaths of many grizzlies. My appreciation for these magnificent mammals, and an increasing repulsion for what I came to see as senseless killing, ended my guiding career. With the bloody adventure behind me and my desire for wilderness still intact, I was lucky to find a vocation that allowed me to begin a long relationship with a population of grizzly bears. In the mid-1970s, I began doing fieldwork for a scientific study of Chinook salmon in a remote area of British Columbia frequented by grizzlies. To date, I've spent more than 2,000 days with grizzly bears. It has been a privilege, a life lesson, and a humbling experience. I am deeply touched by their intelligence, physical power, forgiving nature, and honesty. The familiarity I have developed with these bears now allows me to share my experience with tourists and photographers in wilderness areas in northern British Columbia and the Yukon Territory. When we enter the bear's domain, we engage in a peaceful coexistence based on respect.

Grizzlies are captivating animals and most people believe they are worthy of protection. Opposing views, however, exist as to how to go about it. The institutions supporting the recreational killing of grizzly bears justify the activity on economic terms. They profess their followers have great love for the animal and the killing gives the bear a value, which encourages its protection. The moral issues surrounding the slaughter never enter the equation. Others, like me, believe in the full protection of grizzly bears. We feel that maintaining viable populations of this apex predator and preserving a strong genetic pool will secure the vitality of the entire ecosystem. The morality of killing grizzly bears is an integral part of this thinking. The time I have spent in the presence of grizzly bears has molded my philosophy, making me a staunch advocate for their protection. I see no justifiable reason or need to kill them.

The animal's harmonious and spiritual relationship with indigenous peoples has been replaced by one in which the great bear is now a target for those who wish to kill it, study it, manage it, photograph it, or simply retain a memory of it. Where I live and work in the Yukon and British Columbia, "wildlife management" philosophies are, for the most part, archaic artifacts of early colonial enterprise. They are 100 years old in their framework of legislation and, in regard to grizzly bear management, at least 50 years behind public opinion. As the rest of the world increasingly recognizes the value of apex predators, my government continues to squander this wildlife resource by refusing to create a responsible vision that fulfills its economic and ecological potential. The politics surrounding grizzly bears involves making money, providing job security, and giving those with a passion for killing these animals the legal and moral means to do so.

For now, the best argument for conserving grizzly bears continues to be economic -- although my hope is that people will adopt economy-based values that do not include killing them. Over the long term the survival of grizzly bears will only be guaranteed if they are granted some form of citizenship within our society complete with their habitat requirements. Their continued existence will have to be as important as our own. Some of us will have to learn to coexist with them, suffer with them, and on rare occasions die by them. There is still time for governments and citizens to reframe their attitudes and relationships with these great bears. Without a new culture of appreciation and tolerance, the grizzly bear will vanish.

Nothing good will ever come from killing a grizzly bear. Much good can come from respecting its right to continue to roam the land.


NOTES: This essay was originally published in National Geographic's "Bear: Spirit of the Wild," by Paul Nicklen. It is republished here with permission from Phil Timpany and National Geographic.

Phil Timpany is a long time wildlife enthusiast who currently operates grizzly bear viewing operations with Bear Cave Mountain Eco-Adventures in the northern Yukon and also guides people salmon fishing and grizzly viewing with Nakina Adventures in northern British Columbia.  Phil advocates for peaceful co-existence between grizzlies and humans and habitat protection as the two ingredients most important for grizzly bear conservation. “If we are serious about grizzly bear conservation we will have to, sooner or later, grant them some form of citizenship and learn to co-exist with them on some level," he says. "This paradigm needs to spring from the notions of biodiversity conservation and ecological intelligence, none of which seem to be very popular or in great supply where I live and work.  I am however confident it will come with the generation coming up behind us.”