Some old people in the Chicago suburb of Wilmette went bonkers on each other because of political candidate signs on somebody's lawn. While the brutal old-on-old violence occurred back on October 4, it is just now reaching the news media because, honestly, elderly people seem to always be going on about something and who has the time to try to decipher their grunts and mumbles? What we know is this: Three humans aged 60, 85 and 92 were involved in a savage sidewalk altercation because one of them didn't like some campaign yard sign that may or may not have been located on the lawn of the other(s). The 85-year-old man, during the course of his alleged attack on the 92-year-old and his 60-year-old daughter, tumbled over his walker. While it should be ILLEGAL IN THE CONSTITUTION to even blog about this (let alone laugh at it), we shall soldier on because this is, after all, a Lib Hate Site.
Oh sure...we hipsters like to have a good laugh at scantily clad grannys, but lemme tell you. When the lights go off and the teeth come out, THAT's when the magic happens my friend.
When my grandfather was running for city council of a small town in Indiana during the great depression someone kept stealing his signs, knowing that it had to be someone he knew -- it was a town of 500 people -- he put fly paper on the back of all his signs. One night while drinking at the only bar in town he watched as the local pastor came in and asked to use the bathroom, this was unusual since this same pastor had been the lead prohibitionist in town for a decade. My grandfather, the sheriff and 2 farmers walked into the bathroom and watched as the pastor scrubbed and scrubbed his sticky hands.
The pastor when confronted, still refused to confess and called everyone in the bar a devil worshiping drunk. So my grandfather who sold all the firewood in town bided his time and put a small amount of dynamite in one of the cords of wood he knew was going to go to the pastors house. Weeks later, in the middle of wintry night, the pastor was sneaking himself a glass of whiskey from his wife in his den when he threw the fateful log on the fire, sat back in his favorite chair and minutes later was outside the smoldering house still in his favorite chair. His wife blamed the incident on his drinking and left him, he died decades later on the back porch of that same bar he had called my grandfather a devil worshiping drunk on.
Cases like this should be settled by jousting, but using Hoverounds instead of horses and canes instead of lances. The only armor allowed would be the thick coating of indignation mated with the incredible wisdom of a long, fruitless life.
Oh sure...we hipsters like to have a good laugh at scantily clad grannys, but lemme tell you. When the lights go off and the teeth come out, THAT's when the magic happens my friend.
"Come back to my room sonny and I'll ride you like a rascal!"
Does this story end with him attaching a bunch of balloons to his house and making it float to Paradise Falls?
Hey...it just dawned on me...yard rhymes with retard.
When my grandfather was running for city council of a small town in Indiana during the great depression someone kept stealing his signs, knowing that it had to be someone he knew -- it was a town of 500 people -- he put fly paper on the back of all his signs. One night while drinking at the only bar in town he watched as the local pastor came in and asked to use the bathroom, this was unusual since this same pastor had been the lead prohibitionist in town for a decade. My grandfather, the sheriff and 2 farmers walked into the bathroom and watched as the pastor scrubbed and scrubbed his sticky hands.
The pastor when confronted, still refused to confess and called everyone in the bar a devil worshiping drunk. So my grandfather who sold all the firewood in town bided his time and put a small amount of dynamite in one of the cords of wood he knew was going to go to the pastors house. Weeks later, in the middle of wintry night, the pastor was sneaking himself a glass of whiskey from his wife in his den when he threw the fateful log on the fire, sat back in his favorite chair and minutes later was outside the smoldering house still in his favorite chair. His wife blamed the incident on his drinking and left him, he died decades later on the back porch of that same bar he had called my grandfather a devil worshiping drunk on.
lol...you said "depends".
Rascals or GTFO
Cases like this should be settled by jousting, but using Hoverounds instead of horses and canes instead of lances. The only armor allowed would be the thick coating of indignation mated with the incredible wisdom of a long, fruitless life.
<i>Wilmette Bircher</i> ... do you mean <strong>Illinois Nazi</strong>? Because, well, you know the rest.
just imagine if one of them had a scooter.
we have a family friend in wilmette who just selebrated her 100th.
only she&#039;s canadian so i don&#039;t know if that counts.