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Category: honorary borderline sociopaths

He Would Have Gotten Away With It, Too, If It Weren’t For That Meddling Kid

He Would Have Gotten Away With It, Too, If It Weren’t For That Meddling Kid


Now listen: If you’re going to come in here mewling about going foetal and handing over your treasure and your self-respect in copious amounts immediately when someone pulls a gat, you’ve stumbled into the wrong shop, mister. This is the Borderline Sociopathic Blog For Boys.

That twelve-year-old boy foiled an armed robbery. We brook no ifs, ands, or buts when grade-schoolers foil armed robberies. We plan parades and fetes and generalized carrying on over feats like that. No back seat driving allowed.

And by the way, they caught this turd that stuck up the store. And oh, by the by, this happened in Turkey. I want you to imagine going into a TURKISH PRISON with a little note card hung around your neck that reads: Sent here by a twelve year old. Dante Alighieiri couldn’t have come up with anything better than that. 

I Know Derring Do When I See It. I Just Saw It

I Know Derring Do When I See It. I Just Saw It


I know bravery. It’s different than bravado. Bravado is bucking yourself up for a big game by telling people that aren’t your opponent that they’re lucky that they’re not your opponent.

Or maybe not bravery. Audacity, surely. There’s no hesitation. Just realization, and action. Or perhaps it’s being intrepid we’re seeing here. That situation looks daunting. The skydiver’s friends are dauntless.

It’s mettle and moxie. Nerve. Pluck. Fortitude. Grit. It’s keeping your head when all around you people are, if not losing theirs, at the very least, bonking theirs together.

It’s… it’s… it’s the reason for this blog, in one minute and forty-one seconds. It’s derring do. Do some, someday.

Here’s To You, Mr. Amateur Firefighter

Here’s To You, Mr. Amateur Firefighter

Amateur. The word is based on the Latin root word for love. You do it for love. Word’s been debased now. Half-assed is how people perceive the word now. I woulda done this, and you shoulda done that. The person holding the camera had a hint of backseat driver about them, mocking the firemen that show up after the rescue’s done. To paraphrase Teddy Roosevelt:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat or HOW TO TURN A GODDAMNED CAMERA SIDEWAYS WHEN FILMING.

Superman Had His Cape

Superman Had His Cape


James Bond had an Aston Martin with twin machine guns. Hemingway had his Westley Richards double-barreled elephant gun. Dirty Harry had his .44 Magnum; Kirk, his phaser. Arthur had Excalibur.

This dude wanders around a crocodile pen with a shovel, while wearing capri pants. He’s officially the most badass person in this end of the galaxy.