Thursday, February 29, 2024

More Border Boob Bait For The Bubbas

Emperor Poopypants is going to the border.

Why, no one knows, since he's assured us repeatedly that the literal millions of illegal aliens that have crossed at his direct behest, unvetted, unscreened, and mostly unknown, aren't a problem.

I mean, it's not like Mexico and the rest of Shitholia and Trashcanistania are sending us hundreds of thousands of terrorists, criminals, murderers, and rapists, exactly like Trump said.

Nota bene, reality is between 33 and 100 times worse than officially reported, because CBP, on its best day, catches maybe 3% of crossers, and most days, it's closer to 1%.
So adjust those numbers of criminals who succeeded in getting here upwards, commensurately.

Which leads to an inarguable truth concerning the real reason for Poopypants' sudden attention to the disaster he's created, the existence of which catastrophe he's repeatedly denied:

We told you this one was coming back.
We expect to get a lot of mileage out of it.

Tuesday, February 27, 2024

Narrow Margin

Border Boob Bait For The Bubbas

While I shared a tiny ember of initial optimism, it quickly became apparent there was nothing serious happening.


1) It's Abbott. For most TX residents, that was enough to know already.

2) The immediate nearly universal support of The Brotherhood Of RINO Governors, which amounted to nothing more than hearty approval for Abbott Doing More Nothing, while looking like it was Something. That's a political consultant's wet dream, especially in a presidential election year.

When Abbott issues "Shoot On Sight" orders for illegal crossers, starts rounding up illegals in his own state, and incarcerates any federal interlopers for any interference with either policy, give a holler.

Until then, it's nothing but the product from the south end of a north-bound steer, and useful only as rose fertilizer.

Like. We. Told. You.

Welcome to Chiquitastan.

Sunday, February 25, 2024

Note On Electoral Politics : JEB! v2.0


Just for CA @ WRSA

Napoleon MMXXIV - Exclusive Interview!

Sunday Music: Something To Talk About


Bonnie Raitt's peak-of-career Grammy-winning Top 5 hit from 1991, successfully dragged into a Julia Roberts movie soundtrack a few years later, and covered a dozen times for a dozen other reasons since. A good musical argument for doing what you want to do anyways, and a good wrap-up to the month of love.

Saturday, February 24, 2024

Thursday, February 22, 2024

Travel Suggestion


Cats thrive on novelty. Keep kitty's life interesting while you're away from home.

Follow me for more pet care tips.

Gideon Would Approve

 h/t Peter and co.

Wednesday, February 21, 2024

Moral Calculus

{Yes, as a matter of fact, I'm pretty happy with this one.
And it's infinitely re-usable, simply by swapping out whoever I put in the right panel.
You will see this material again. - A.}

Tuesday, February 20, 2024

How Can We Miss You If You Won't Go Away?

At his age, he should be more concerned about controlling his bladder.

When you haven't had a hit since Clinton was president, it's probably best not to try and become relevant in your doddering years by shilling for political ideas that were DOA since back when you were actually making gold records.

Monday, February 19, 2024

Adult Babies

h/t Tam 

We're speaking metaphorically here. (If anyone is talking about literally, kindly keep your freak flag in the closet, thanksverymuch.)

They already walk around with their grown-up sippy cups and techno-baby rattles.

If the current generation of adult babies gets any worse, we expect a run on Depends© by the same demographic, and the first appearance of plastic pull-ups at the annual fashion shows for the hipster crowd in the very near future.

If this isn't you, relax.
But if the diaper fits, wear it.

Sunday, February 18, 2024

NYFC: Because Truck You, That's Why

 h/t WRSA

Item: Truckers to begin cutting off shipments to NYFC Monday in response to the recockulous verdict in Trump's fraud trial delivered there last week.

Can you say "expedited overturn on appeal"? I thought you could.

The 800 Pound Gorilla has now entered the 2024 Election Chat.

Stock up on popcorn and beverages.

NYFC is about to get a lesson in power politics. Without lube.

Sunday Music: Imaginary Lover


Atlanta Rhythm Section's second best-known hit (after 1977's "So Into You"), coming in at #7 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1978.

Administrivia: This week marks the fifth anniversary of this topic on the blog. We do it and started it because working weekends as we do about 99.9% of the time, we need a slam-dunk easy post to get us through to Monday. And we're not even close to the end of our current list of picks, so we should be good through the end of the year before we even have to think of any more selections, which list is currently in small print across four large Post-It notes that migrate around the piles on the desktop. We're frequently surprised when we hear many of our less-well-known selections randomly appearing on somebody's in-store track, a week or ten after we put it up here. It just shows that good music never dies out.

Friday, February 16, 2024

The Shoe Fits. Bummer.

Chicken And Egg: Does the Slaughter follow the Downfall, or bring it about?

Open Question. I'm undecided. Discuss.

All comments on-topic and within the Comment 

guidelines over there ---V

will appear.


A) Slaughter > Downfall

B) Downfall > Slaughter

C) Won't be a Downfall

D) Won't be a Slaughter

E) Potato

F) Surprise me

Three Rules:

1) You're not arguing against me, as I have no position, nor will be posting any. You're not arguing against any other commenters. Post your thesis, and bring your supporting arguments. Then sit down. Color inside the lines, or stay on the porch. 

2) Select A-F, above. At the outset.

3) And sign your post. Unsigned anonymous efforts will never see daylight, and you're wasting your time even typing them. Own your output.

(If these concepts are difficult for you, don't worry. Auto-delete will sort you out, and zero comments won't hurt my feelings.)

Thursday, February 15, 2024


 h/t WRSA

"A wicked ruler will burn his own country down,
to rule over the ashes."
- Sun Tzu

[Addendum: The biggest pity of Dresden was that we didn't do it to 20 other cities. You gutless anonymous neo-Nazis, pining for Adolf, and trying to post your unsigned screeds here don't get that half the reason I do memes like this one is to drive you to fling your feces and impotently rattle your cage bars. Truman had it right: It must have been a Jew that organized the KKK, because only a Jew could sell a bunch of dumb crackers a $2 nightshirt and pillowcase with eyeholes for $14. Enjoy continuing to suck on that. Drop by when you have the balls to take off your pillowcases and sign your posts.]

Wednesday, February 14, 2024

Tuesday, February 13, 2024

Legit LOL'ed

Apparently, someone missed the memo that Nielsen ratings are somewhat less reliable than presidential election results from Philadelphia and Atlanta after 4 AM, and slightly more fictional than a book by J.K Rowling.

Always have been, always will be. Statistically, they're the closest thing to institutionally sancrosanct horsesh*t designed expressly to prop up the status quo there is, other than mainstream news broadcasts themselves, which is how life got so woketarded to begin with, compared to even 10 or 20 years ago.

If the media megalith admitted to the world that nobody was watching their twaddle, their revenue would fall like Black Friday stocks, and multi-billion dollar worldwide media empire bubbles would explode overnight like zits on an adolescent.

Ain't. Gonna. Happen.

"Sportsball is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful broadcast I've ever seen in my life." 

One hand washes the other, and t'was ever thus: Nielsen tells the network the Emperor's clothes are chic, sick, trés cool, and mega-bitchin'. Production companies charge retarded prices for more swill. Writers and actors think their poo doesn't smell, and God has graciously rained them onto humanity. Networks tell advertisers that their swill is worth gajillions per advertising minute. Private companies (the sucker at this poker game) fork over. Corporate boards and stockholders are told "We're buying the best airtime on the biggest shows!" No one rocks the boat, because Nielsen is the only metric anyone has. And no one wants to be the kid telling the Emperor he's naked, because then the whole house of cards tumbles down overnight, to the tune of 11 or 12 figures on the ledger.

No one wants to risk that.

Everybody inside The Biz knows it's all smoke, mirrors, and bullshit. I remember one aged old propmaster whose game was to ask everyone working on a show what TV programs they watched regularly. He could never find anyone in 20 years of trying who could ever name more than two. And his on-set polls included the producers, directors, and actors. If he took away 60 Minutes and Monday Night Football as choices, he said no one could ever name more than one show they watched. And that's the working stiffs on the set, with a keener than average interest in the product. Imagine the shiny suits in the corporate suites, and you get into negative numbers: they not only don't watch anything, they cancel things they think no one else is watching.

But they're not going to kill the Golden Goose that buys their mansions, pools, and perks. So they stick with the GIGO model that's been enshrined for decades.

So you think ratings = Reality? Hey, whatever floats your boat.

The Sportsbowl this week was the second highest-rated program since the first manned moon landing. 

Suuuuuuuuuuure it was.

And 13% of the population comprises 100% of all hetero couples.

And Biden got 81M votes. COVID vaccines are safe and effective. Food is bad for you, and bugs are good for you. The earth is overheating because of cow farts. But we can stop it if we just raise your taxes and herd you into 15-minute cities. The boxcars are taking you to the showers.

Gell-Mann Amnesia in full effect there.

FFS, mine an ancient, dust-covered copy of The Barefoot Executive from 1971, back when The Biz didn't take itself so seriously, and watch it until you realize it's more documentary than comedy.

Monday, February 12, 2024

They Played A What?! WTAF??

Say WHAT?!?

Pardon us for not noticing this egregious public jackassery before now, having paid no interest nor attention whatsoever to yesterday's Sportsbowl. But reportedly, they had someone singing some alleged "Black National Anthem".

Which leads us, inexorably, to the obvious question:
When and where did anyone grant independence to some part of the United States, and declare the new nation of Ni**erstan, Welfaria, Jigaboola, or Jimbobwe established?
There are, when last we looked, literally dozens of black national anthems. In countries from Sudan to South Africa, and Liberia to Somalia. Also, doubtless, in Haiti and Jamaica. Was one of these countries' anthems selected? If so, for what reason? Did a football team from Nigeria make it to the Superbowl this year, without us hearing about it?

Furthermore, the republic already having a national anthem, anyone at that contest possessed of American citizenship who didn't boo, catcall, and throw things at the announcers box throughout any poseur anthem should be stripped of citizenship and deported.

And if, as has frequently been the case, taking a knee during the actual National Anthem is acceptable for Activists Of Color, then by all means, white people dropping their trousers and slapping their naked asscheeks in the direction of Wakanda should be an appropriate protest for playing this Ode To Buckwheat any time, anywhere.

Will the National Felony League next attempt to pull from their hindquarters the Brown National Anthem? What about Yellow? Red? Pink? And whenthehell did the National Anthem transmogrify to being only the white National Anthem?

We suggest if this country is no longer good enough for black people, we return them - to the last man, woman, and child - back to their ancestral homelands with all haste. We have suggested exactly as much in the past, and we renew that suggestion, with oak leaf clusters. The IQ of both continents will increase, and the crime rate on this one would drop to numbers lower than that of Luxembourg. Overnight.

While we're up, we can revoke the Civil Rights Act and the Welfare Act laws, and save this country half a trillion dollars a year in money that's as good as burned in a fire the minute it's sent out, forevermore.

We have no wild idea what musical concoction was foisted upon society yesterday, but if there must needs be a Black National Anthem, we offer the following suggestions:

and of course, the obvious go-to:

So many questions, so few answers.

A Badge, A Gun, And Maybe 70 IQ points

We didn't plan on this post. It just happened. We don't hate the police. We don't love them. We mostly understand they have a thankless, dirty job most days, and try to work with them. And realize that some of them are really good guys, and some of them are asswipes, and we give them the benefit of the doubt unless and until they prove to be the latter. Pretty much like we expect they do in their jobs too.

We point out for the record that the entire reason this blog has illustrations and memes homemade by your host in shop class in the first place began specifically with the douchebadge actions of a couple of overwhelmingly @$$holish cops in Salt Lake City, when they arrested an ER nurse for refusing to violate the Constitution, state law, hospital policy, written police procedure, professional medical ethics, and common sense, by refusing to violate an unconscious patient's civil rights at the demand of those same badged and sworn @$$holes, long-since fired and demoted for that particular jackassery.

We bring this up because as we had just finished our last shift for the week, and were minding our own business and driving home this morning, when we noticed someone running barefoot up the street, in (some of) their scanty clothes, and still wearing what looked like a hospital wristband, moving at a respectable rate of speed away from the hospital for early in the AM.

We pulled over up the street, and called the front desk security officer on duty from our car.

"Are we perchance missing anyone who may have run out of the hospital in some of their clothes?"

"What color clothes?"

We described them.

"Bingo! That's the psych patient who just ran out the back door!"

So, we proceeded to follow the patient at a discreet distance, so as not to spook them, and notified 9-1-1 we had eyeballs on an escaped mental patient, on a legal hold (meaning they are either a danger to themself, others, or simply too cray-cray to manage their daily affairs), and kept them in sight to direct the local constables to apprehend them, and return them to medical care as quickly, simply, and safely as possible.

We gave the po-po dispatch a stellar description, exact location, and followed the pt. for two measured miles on foot for most of an hour, giving them a play-by-play, until said patient ducked into a residential block around a corner with multiple possible routes out, before we got to that corner. We lost our quarry at that point, but the constabulary's minions quickly found the patient walking nearby, made contact, and detained them.

Whereupon they ascertained that the person was the exact patient we had described and followed, confirmed name and birthdate with hospital staff, and confirmed that the patient was indeed on a psych eval hold before escaping our care.

And then the stupid motherfuckers, the pride of county law enforcement, for reasons known but to God and the hamsters in their otherwise empty heads, let the escaped psych patient go free. 

Absolutely. M*****f***ing. F-R-E-E.

Guys who wouldn't let you talk your way out of a ticket with your dying grandmother bleeding out her ass in the front seat, turned loose a half-dressed bona fide certified lunatic, identified to them by name.

Who knows: maybe the patient used Jedi mind tricks.

Sleep tight, America. Professionals are on the case. 

Top. Men.

It's not bad enough that these assclowns bring us every douchebag waste of skin drunk, junkie, or whackjob within 20 miles, even when they shouldn't, but that now, the one time we specifically ask the stupid bastards to bring one very specific whackjob back to the ER, and they detain that exact person, they turn them loose on society, because reasons, and a badged and sworn 70 point IQ.

So, Deputy Doofus, and Deputy Stumblefuck, this question is for you:

You had one job...

Like sounding the depths of the Marianas Trench with a fish finder, we're beginning to realize that the answer to that question cannot be ascertained with existing instrumentation.

And, full disclosure here, there are screw-ups aplenty to go around, starting with who was supposed to be watching the Nutjob in question when they scampered out the hospital door to become a law enforcement problem, and how said Nutjob got their grubby mitts on some of their own clothes, which should have been removed and secured far out of reach and not anywhere close to them. The upcoming struggle sessions fisking that series of cock-ups are going to leave a mark or two.

But like soccer, the person who touched it last is at fault, so if patient Screwloose kills themself, or anyone else, or some harm comes to them as a result of being now at liberty, the lion's share of liability now belongs overwhelmingly to the County's Finest Knuckleheads, who had a chance to fix that small problem, but instead created an even bigger one.

And also, we generally try to expedite law enforcement custody patients getting in and out ASAP, on the theory that the best place for law enforcement is not sitting around the ER waiting for us to get things done, but rather on patrol, doing their job.

No points for guessing who's going to make sure and drag out those visits henceforth as long as humanly possible for some good amount of time, and who may even let their brethren in blue know why they're now being assured of going dead last, until suitable obsequious mea culpas are delivered appropriately from the agency responsible for this grand slam of cock-ups.

In the meantime, dickheads, this one's for you:

And While We're Up:
These are the guys you're worried are coming to take away your guns??
Sheee-yit, most days some of them are lucky if they don't put their shoes and socks on in that order.

Sunday, February 11, 2024

Sunday Music: I'm With You


Solid gold Number 4 single from Avril Lavigne's 2002 debut album.

Friday, February 9, 2024

No Word On Anyone Unlatching Yet...

 h/t Althouse

Nobody since Stalin has tried the "Poland was asking for it" defense.
Until this "hero of Western traditional values".
But it explains why he figured "Ukraine was asking for it" would fly 80 years later.

And no, Tucker shouldn't have "pushed back" on this. At least, not if he didn't want to accidentally fall out of his 9th floor hotel window.
His job was to document, not advocate.
As usual, Putin is his own worst enemy. This is no exception.

Maybe some folks (not pointing any fingers here) should disconnect from Putin's junk, instead of drinking from it.

If the shoe fits, wear it.

Thursday, February 8, 2024

May I Please Have 10,000 Marbles?

Phase Two successful.

Phase Three planning is now a go.

More Y + More Z = More Cowbell.

Final concept may require Q.

Q + P² = 5Y.

42Q= L².

L² = Maximum Cowbell.

If L², then R2.0(!)

Secondary: ○ on D+9.

CONOP evolving.



Nothing To See Here. Move Along.

 h/t Common Cents

Biden's shill tries mightily, but can't overcome the basic problem illustrated:

Biden doesn't know whether or not he's still the Veep. He can't remember when his Veep term started, or when it ended. Or if it ever did. And then it gets worse.

This is a guy flailing in a haze of profound Alzheimer's, and every day since his Selection that his senile ass is propped up in the chair in the Oval Office is another day for America's enemies to run rampant on at least five continents, while Emperor Poopypants still can't get "Drop your pants-Sit on toilet-Sh*t" in the right order any two days out of seven.

Every. Single. Day.

This isn't simply elder abuse by the entire Executive Branch for not relieving him of power rather than ever installing him in office in the first place, it's a treasonous and seditious abuse of 300M Americans for mendaciously inflicting this walking chowderhead on the entire nation.

There need to be trials in batches, followed by mass public hangings.

Crypto-Meteorology - Operation Black Book: Phase One Complete


1) What are the approximate prevailing winds at Site X? Answered

2) Does Object Y have enough lift to carry Payload Z aloft? Yes. Yes, it does.

Apologies for being cryptic, but OPSEC requires this currently. In just over 51 days, the variables will be explained, and the significance of that number will become clear as well. I'm doing this now, to prove something beforehand, and thus eliminate any accusations of taking false credit for something after the fact.

I'm hoping this is worth it. It looks promising so far.

Phase Two begins at about 0300Z tonight.

Burning Desires

h/t Commander Zero's blog

A couple of weeks back, Commander Zero was visiting and revisiting certain redundancies in fire-making implements. I threw in a post-long comment in reply to one of them, and others joined in. Almost all the commentary there is useful, and the perspective is refreshingly wide-ranging without rancor.

One of CZ's takeaways is that while there are about a gajillion ways to make fire when you need it, for bog-simple DUH! factor, it's hard to beat the humble but ubiquitous Bic lighter in your pocket.

But, as with all things, even that simple choice can itself be improved upon.

So in line with our peanut-gallery comments to one post, we did a deep dive on the 'zon for "brass EDC items", and one of the things its algorithms sorted for us was this solid brass gem:

Brass Bic Lighter Sleeve

Yeah, it's 30 bucks. (Bic Lighter not included.) Buy once, cry once.

Solid brass (apparently), which takes the weight of a Bic lighter up modestly, but turns a couple of ounces of crushably fragile space-age plastic body into a much more crushproof T-rex trench lighter. Oh, and looks cool.

So we ordered one. And it arrived t'other day, and is herewith unboxed and suitably loaded.


In no particular order, about the good, the bad, and the ugly:

1) It's a tight fit. Good, because you don't want to have one half separating from the other, until you really want them to part company. Bad, insofar as after loading ours up, we're pretty sure we'll need a sturdy metal punch, or a pair of needle-nose pliers - maybe both - to get the dead Bic out of its shiny armored shell when the time comes.

We're okay with that.

2) Which explains the little hole at the bottom. Without it, you'd be trying to compress the air trapped at the bottom as you jam your lighter into place, which wouldn't work.

3) The lighter top is still exposed. Good, when you're using it. Not so much at other times.

Very Small Gripes

Things we wish the People's Number One Brass Factory had done:

a) If it was round on the outside, rather than oval, they could have had screw-threaded caps at both ends, to protect the gas switch from accidental depression when not in use, and seal the small air hole at the bottom once it was loaded into place, making the whole thing waterproof AF. A little more brass - and associated weight - for a lot better and more robust design.

b) A small pen/pocket clip on the body wouldn't have been amiss.

c) Alternatively, or in addition, neither would a small lanyard/key ring.

User hacks

1) We'll try sealing up both ends, either by overmolding slide-on end caps for top and bottom out of layered Plasti-Dip, or short pieces of epoxied folded over bicycle inner tubing. We may try both approaches, and see which method (if either) works acceptably, and if either one works better than the other.

2) As is, without any of that, it's the perfect size to fit inside an Altoid-tin-sized brass box (an assortment of which we ordered at the same time). It leaves enough space for tinder balls and whatnot else in that tin for a one-box pocket fire-making kit.

3) We may have a go at threading the air hole at the bottom, and screwing in a removable lanyard loop. If we can find/source such a thing with machine threads, and in brass, along with a suitable matching tap tool.

4) Being brass-bodied, it lends itself as an ad hoc spool center for brass snare wire, and/or  several feet of duct tape, one of the ancillary uses for which is as fire starting material(!).

5) Bonus hack: If, as we believe is the case, the Mini-Bics have the same plan profile as their full-length cousins, we might could fit one into one of these, and have space beneath it for two or more vaseline-soaked cotton ball tinder blobs, wrapped in plastic. When we get a second one of these, we'll try that out and let you know how it goes.

Otherwise, we're impressed enough with this as-is to get several more, and retro-fit Bic lighters in other kits.

You want to turn any plastic Bic lighter into a crush-proof gadget, with a minimal weight penalty? Get this item. WYSIWYG.

Coming Soon: Playing "Patriots and Redcoats"

Bullets. Beans. Bandaids. Badass Buddies.
Identify local shortages and correct them.

Almost as much fun as playing "Indians and Custer". For the Indians, at least.

Tuesday, February 6, 2024

Prescience From 60 Years Ago

How right he was. God, how I miss this man.
On this, the 113th anniversary of his birth.



*Pimple On The Ass Of Humanity

Monday, February 5, 2024


"ZOMG! Water is falling from the skies! Gather cords of
gopher wood planks, barrels of pitch, and two - male and female -
of every beast that walks or crawls upon the earth!"
every media outlet west of the Sierra Nevada range, presently

To listen to the idiot retards of the media (but I repeat myself), you'd think everyone living in Califrutopia should be building an ark or something.

Fortunately, unlike most of the failed stand-up comics and braindead spokesbimbos who become weatherguessers and newsreaders, some of us have lived here more than a year or two, and we know that California has wet years, and dry years, which alternate at whim. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Cleverly, there has long been a name for what's going on now, and it's not the "Pineapple Express", the "Fruit Cocktail Zephyr", or any other such dipshitical dopey name they focus-grouped into being to try and sell more commercials in between bouts of weather doomporn.

The actual name for what's happening now goes by a rather more accurate name.

We call it "rain".

It ain't caused by globull warmism, or climate change, nor any other such ginned up silliness so stupid, you need horsefaced fetal alcohol midwit dropouts from Sweden to shill for it.

In fact, there's another clever name for what's happening at the moment, and why.

It's called "winter".

And - shocker of shockers - in February!!! Who'd have foreseen that?!? Which, between weeks of 100° days here, is the closest thing to what passes for a cold season hereabouts. The locals can generally tell this without any apocalyptic crapola from the TV or radio, because the local mountains above 5000' will be sporting a picture postcard mantle of snow (far from the flatlands, and up by the ski resorts, where such frigid precipitation belongs) the minute the clouds clear away, and mainly signifies to the city folks and flatlanders that skiing and snowboarding will be happening henceforth.

UPDATE: This was the view locally after several rainy days.
Exactly like we told you was all that would happen.
Geez, almost like we've lived here for half a century or something.

Resort owners generally consider this a good thing. The rest of us simply enjoy the fact that everything down here is clean, including the air, and that all of our cars have been washed for free, one of the few things locally that's beyond even the government's power to tax.

It also fills the reservoirs, to feed the toilets and lawn sprinklers of all your idiot toothless banjo--playing kinfolk libtards you palmed off on the Golden State, who have so sorely abused it and rogered and befouled a formerly wonderful place to live. You can have them all back any time, and we'll keep the rain, thanks very much. The wetness is simply the price we pay to have grass and trees in a land otherwise horribly cursed with 300 magnificently perfect sunny days a year, to the point that thousands of idiots from points east annually pack up the car and move here the minute the Tournament of Roses parades ends every January 1st.

Trying to pimp the current wetness into Stormageddon, or any other such jackassical events, just tells everyone who's lived here more than five minutes that you're a yokel who just got off the bus, and only came to the Hollywood radio/TV market because your scholarship to beautician school fell through, and/or you couldn't pass the IQ test to get into Clown College.

Which leaves only acting or news reading jobs open to those too pretty to mop floors, and too lazy to flip burgers.

If only you'd taken a chance on sticking around school through the 1st grade, you'd have learned the timeless wisdom of the parable entitled "Chicken Little", and realize how stupid you sound. Instead, watching or listening to the news is like a daily dose of the Pageant Of the Masters, wherein you mediots play the part of Chicken Little every night for the entertainment of people brighter than you and your ilk, and too bored to flip the tube off and go do something productive and useful with their time. Since it's probably too late in life for most media types to learn to read classic literature at the 1st grade level, we offer the following condensed version and Spoiler Alert.

TL;DR: Word to your mother: the sky is not  falling. 

Wear a coat, and carry an umbrella. You'll make it through just fine. No scuba tanks or swim fins required.