Hoodrat Heroes

Deadbeat Mom Kate Peter Hired Mike Gaffney To Sue Me And Sent Me A Letter Today Accusing Me Of Trying To Bang Her, Old Texts Reveal Kate Has Been Sending Him Sexual Messages For Years


Last night a turtle rider contacted me and told me to check out a stream from Kenny Kline TV on YouTube because Bristol Blarney announced she was suing me and had retained perhaps the worst lawyer in the history of mankind:

Milky Mike Gaffney. The guy I once endorsed for mayor, who soon allowed the TB fame to go to his head, then sued me because I didn’t endorse him in an election he dropped out of, lost miserably in court, brought me in for the most hilarious deposition of all time, lost his appeal, sent out an insane flier to every household in Holden accusing me of being a pedophile, and as Bristol Blarney pointed out in this blog her new attorney wrote an affidavit and helped out Rian Waters legally in his failed lawsuit against us.

Last time heard from Gaffney he had a new mistress that he brought around his wife and they all posed for pictures together on Facebook. She appears to be gone now, which leaves Milky Mike plenty of time to hit up the gym, which he feels the need to have Coreen videotape and post on social media.

Pro tip Mikey – if you bend your back like that when you’re curling it doesn’t count because your back is doing most of the work. That’s about as real as your military service.

Meanwhile his pet ginger wife Coreen is really loving the jugs Milky Mike bought her and appears to be going through some sort of mid life crisis herself.



Anyway Kate had some interesting things to say on the live stream last night.

“I am suing him. I don’t care about spending a little bit of extra money and suing him to make a point. He might not understand the pile of shit he just stepped in, but if he doesn’t take it seriously then he is going to understand because I do have a legitimate attorney. My attorney is Turtleboy Sports arch nemesis Michael Gaffney, he’s willing to do pro bono if I run out of money. So it’s not like legal fees are a huge issue for me right now.”

For a chick who got her ass handed to her last time we were in court together she sure likes to pretend that she knows what she’s talking about.

I’m gonna have some fun with this audio tonight on the Live show at 9 PM with Bret and Intern, so click here to subscribe to our YouTube channel because you don’t wanna miss it. All I gotta say is, this is the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen. No one has talked more shit about Gaffney over the.years than Bristol Blarney. She used to fuck with him constantly on his Worcester Independent Leader Facebook page.

“Chubby Ginger pig wife.”


She made most of the Gaffney memes.

The new freaks and losers Kate has latching onto her all think she’s some sort of strong independent woman because she told them she gave up her two youngest boys, allegedly because she’s selfless and wanted them to have a better life. In reality she tried to keep them for several years but eventually the neglect and abuse they suffered didn’t stop, and Kate’s constant substance abuse and choice in men forced DCF to adopt them out. The older two spent years in various foster homes before she permanently got them in 2018. However, after her daughter got some mysterious bruises last October another DCF case was opened and Kate gets regular visits from them once again. Kate is NOTORIOUS amongst DCF workers as she’s one of the most problematic mothers in the system.

But of course her followers don’t know that or don’t care. You gotta listen to this Australian guy Jimmy, who is clearly trying to bang her, as he kisses her ass and tells her what a great Mom she is.


Anyway, Milky Mike sent me this demand letter in the mail today.

As you can see, he’s lost his mind again. The angle he’s going with apparently is, “Turtleboy wants to bang Kate Peter.” Hard pass on that one.

But I’m very curious to hear more about whatever the Hell they think they’re talking about here lol.

He then insists he’s going to get my taxes, just like he said he would when he sued me.

He went on to insist that Kate has never abused her children or burned a truck at work or hacked into a Facebook account or been charged with a crime in Leominster District Court.

I’m salivating at the thought of them actually suing me. I can’t WAIT to get all the DCF files out there and made public in discovery!!

“You are anything but unpredictable or intelligent.”

For a guy who has done nothing but lose to me Gaffney sure thinks he’s smart. The fact that this was written by a man claiming to be a lawyer is just amazing. Never mind the conflict of interest from the previous failed lawsuit.

It’s funny because Kate and I used to shit on Gaffney ALL the time. Here’s what comes up when I search for Gaffney in our text messages.

She admits that he abuses the courts and has now hired him to do just that.

She’s a big shot, even ask her.

She’s been fucking with this guy for years, and even downloaded an app to spam him with sex messages.

Oh, and Mike fucked with her at work too, when he pretended to wanna rent property to let her know that he knew who she was.

Kate also got in touch with Mike’s former fiance, who he cheated on with his current ginger wife Coreen, who he also cheats on. As you can see, Mike has been threatenin her for 20 years now.

Gaffney posted a video about me on Facebook yesterday as well.

It’s a video Michelle Olson made of me telling a heroin dealer to kill himself, doing a live show after the Super Bowl while shitfaced in my garage (which they thought was a moving vehicle), being “drunk in public” at a Patriots game in Ohio, and doxxing my “family” which includes a man who is clearly not my brother but shares my last name. This led to a bunch of former turtle riders who left with Bristol Blarney to suddenly feign outrage about the show they listened to and enjoyed for years, including Staci Barnes (Amastasia LB), who has been BEGGING me to stop Bret from saying mean things to her after she continually picks fights with him.

One guy attempted to point out that Mike was participating in cancel culture, but the Gaff is never wrong.

Ashley Azevedo, who made fun of Mike Gaffney for YEARS, also jumped in.

For what it’s worth, I always appreciated Ashley’s fandom. This chick defended the wall HARD for years.

But as you can see, she’s not the brightest bulb. She’s borderline short bus and will gladly jump on whatever train she feels the cool kids are on.

Anyway, Gaffney says he has big plans in store.

So we will see what comes from that. See you tonight at 9 PM.


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102 Comment(s)
  • Anabelle
    August 19, 2020 at 7:10 am


    My name is Anabelle, it’s very nice to e-meet you!

    We are interested in advertising on turtleboysports.com on behalf of one of our clients.

    Could you please let me know if you accept any kind of advertising on your website?
    And if the answer is yes, please let me know what kind of advertising and also tell me the prices for each type of Ad.

    I am waiting for your email to discuss this further.

    Have a great day,

  • Basement Troglodyte
    August 11, 2020 at 12:18 pm

    Why do you block out your address in Holden, douche bag? Anyone can find where you live with a simple search, and the fact that your cow wife, Julie, simply lets you live in HER basement, while you eek out a “living” as a hack blogger!

    Give it up, you impotent hack!

  • randiguy2006
    August 11, 2020 at 12:46 am

    Just remember these were 2 people you told us all were awesome.

    Why should we listen to you again?

  • WooTown
    August 10, 2020 at 12:56 pm

    Dont’ Gaff anf Bristol realize that they are just giving you weeks of free content?

    Are they really that dumb, or is the a deal all 3 of you made?

    Anyway, assuming its just Gaff and Bristol being delusional. You need to out Gaffney wby listing all of the blogs that he and the wife wrote anonymously. I bet some folks back here would appreciate knowing that someone who smiled in their face was stabbing them in the back at the same time.

  • Coreen's Boob Sweat
    August 10, 2020 at 8:50 am

    I’ve never seen Mike. Dozens of black guys visit me daily.

  • Welcome to the club
    August 10, 2020 at 7:51 am

    Of course you tried to bang her!! How else was she able to get so deep? You wanted to bang her, so you gave her the keys. Of course she used her “woman-ly charms” on you, you fell for the bullshit, and now you’re paying the price.

    All-in-all, I would say that, since your wife hasn’t divorced you and kicked you out of her basement yet, you’re still ahead!

  • Brockton BOONS Represent.
    August 9, 2020 at 11:51 pm

    BOSTON (CBS) – Six people were injured during a party at a rented house in Brockton late Saturday night. Investigators say a woman was stabbed, and five men were injured during a shooting later in the evening.
    Monkey lives matter

  • D' Amelio- Curtatone
    August 9, 2020 at 10:36 pm

    Coreen is looking better. Can you let her know, if she comes to whitehorse beach this week we’ll have a great time.

    • murdochpatsymcreynolds
      Jackie London
      August 9, 2020 at 11:21 pm

      He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survive.

  • Done with this shit
    August 9, 2020 at 9:47 pm

    Poor Kate. Poor lawyer. Both of you trying to stay relevant, and the rest of the world trying desperately to forget you exist

  • Lol teacher
    August 9, 2020 at 7:54 pm

    She looks way to old for ya TB, you like them very young I hear.

  • Captain Trips
    Rodney Dangerfield
    August 9, 2020 at 7:20 pm

    Hey Coreen, I bet you were a lot of fun before electricity!

  • Unc’s Dic Pic “discoverer”
    August 9, 2020 at 6:09 pm

    OK…oh snap…..Aghhhhhh! This is solid fucking good. Unc’s dick pic may now be made public in discovery as he mocks Kate Peters. Wow, your giant honker is in the way clouding your vision. What! What, omg. Unc giant 3.376” Holden hard on is going to be something to nit be unseen. Wow. The only thing worse was reading a description of his wife’s labia as “slices of pot roast”

    August 9, 2020 at 5:41 pm

    To whomever is posting the literature excerpts it’s very obvious you are a racist white man, otherwise you would include all the great literary works by people of color. Like… snoopdog and oprah… and the kardashians, barry soetoro’s dreams from my father but that was ghost written by a honky william ayers, shaka zulu, mike tyson. mike obama. You’re a racist you cracka boy.

    • Gin N Juice
      August 9, 2020 at 5:44 pm

      Reality 101

      Hetero = continuation of human species
      Not Hetero = extinction of human species

      Have XY = man
      Have XX = woman

      2+2 = 4

      The Earth is round

      All Lives Matter

  • The Great NYC Boonsby
    August 9, 2020 at 4:42 pm

    The Big Apple is set to hit another grim milestone — city shootings so far this year are nearly double what they were in 2019 for the same period.

    There have been 821 shootings and 1,000 victims as of Saturday, compared to 466 incidents and 551 victims for the same time frame in 2019, according to statistics released by the NYPD on Sunday.

    • Yankees Suck!
      August 9, 2020 at 4:45 pm

      Since you are giving us the news, how about the sports too, you little window-licker?

      • ChimpTastic
        August 9, 2020 at 5:26 pm

        Monkey lives DONT MATTER all over America.

  • sharktrainer
    August 9, 2020 at 4:29 pm

    Wait, wait, wait, …….

    Oh boy, this is monumental. It’s happened. It’s official.

    TurtleBoy has jumped the shark.

    Damn, I’ll miss him.

    • Are you sure about that?
      August 9, 2020 at 4:33 pm

      Have you seen our new comment section today? We got news from Phi, NYC and Chicago, a marine forecast, some popular music lyrics, and something that is sure to become a favorite – classic literature!

  • American Patriot
    August 9, 2020 at 4:24 pm

    I will NEVER kneel for a feral boon nor will I ever wear a diaper on my face like a filthy muslim.

    • American Patriot
      August 9, 2020 at 4:27 pm

      And I will never move out of my mother’s basement!

      • allhailtheidiot
        August 9, 2020 at 4:32 pm

        And I will continue to worship the magnificent UTB ass as you all do.

        Can we meet up in a mask free place anytime soon? I’m only feeling a little bit ill.

        • Boons guy
          August 9, 2020 at 4:48 pm

          Sure thing! I will lube up, before I head out.

  • Burn Loot Murder
    August 9, 2020 at 3:55 pm

    The mass of boons live lives of chimpout desperation.

  • The Rythme of the Philly Boon
    August 9, 2020 at 3:51 pm

    PHILADELPHIA (WPVI) — Philadelphia police are busy Sunday morning after another night of gun violence in the city, with more than six separate shooting incidents from Saturday into Sunday.
    At least 11 people have been shot just since 9:30 p.m. Saturday, with a pregnant woman and several youths among the victims.

    • Mark Foster
      August 9, 2020 at 4:03 pm

      Robert’s got a quick hand
      He’ll look around the room, he won’t tell you his plan
      He’s got a rolled cigarette
      Hanging out his mouth he’s a cowboy kid
      Yeah found a six shooter gun
      In his dad’s closet, oh in a box of fun things
      I don’t even know what
      But he’s coming for you, yeah he’s coming for you

      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, outrun my gun
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, outrun my gun
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet

      Daddy works a long day
      He be coming home late, and he’s coming home late
      And he’s bringing me a surprise
      ‘Cause dinner’s in the kitchen and it’s packed in ice
      I’ve waited for a long time
      Yeah the sleight of my hand is now a quick pull trigger
      I reason with my cigarette
      And say your hair’s on fire, you must have lost your wits, yeah

      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, outrun my gun
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, outrun my gun
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet

      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, outrun my gun
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, outrun my gun
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet

      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, outrun my gun
      All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
      You’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet

      • everyone!
        August 9, 2020 at 10:22 pm

        FUCK OFF!!!

        • Rose Palmer
          August 10, 2020 at 12:27 am

          Are you angry because I refused to spoon with you last night?

  • Claude Julien
    August 9, 2020 at 3:51 pm

    When do the playoffs start for the Bruins?

    They may not win a game

    August 9, 2020 at 3:50 pm

    Atleast nine people were shot in the city early Sunday amid an alarming escalation of gun violence in the Big Apple — with the latest victims including two men separately killed in Queens, cops said.
    The pre-dawn violence capped a week of at least 38 shootings that left 50-plus people injured — more than triple the 16 incidents of gunplay for the same time last year, law-enforcement sources told The Post.

    • TL;DR
      August 9, 2020 at 4:01 pm

      Chapter One
      A SQUAT grey building of only thirty-four stories. Over the main entrance the words, CENTRAL LONDON HATCHERY AND CONDITIONING CENTRE, and, in a shield, the World State’s motto, COMMUNITY, IDENTITY, STABILITY.

      The enormous room on the ground floor faced towards the north. Cold for all the summer beyond the panes, for all the tropical heat of the room itself, a harsh thin light glared through the windows, hungrily seeking some draped lay figure, some pallid shape of academic goose-flesh, but finding only the glass and nickel and bleakly shining porcelain of a laboratory. Wintriness responded to wintriness. The overalls of the workers were white, their hands gloved with a pale corpse-coloured rubber. The light was frozen, dead, a ghost. Only from the yellow barrels of the microscopes did it borrow a certain rich and living substance, lying along the polished tubes like butter, streak after luscious streak in long recession down the work tables.
      “And this,” said the Director opening the door, “is the Fertilizing Room.”
      Bent over their instruments, three hundred Fertilizers were plunged, as the Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning entered the room, in the scarcely breathing silence, the absent-minded, soliloquizing hum or whistle, of absorbed concentration. A troop of newly arrived students, very young, pink and callow, followed nervously, rather abjectly, at the Director’s heels. Each of them carried a notebook, in which, whenever the great man spoke, he desperately scribbled. Straight from the horse’s mouth. It was a rare privilege. The D. H. C. for Central London always made a point of personally conducting his new students round the various departments.
      “Just to give you a general idea,” he would explain to them. For of course some sort of general idea they must have, if they were to do their work intelligently–though as little of one, if they were to be good and happy members of society, as possible. For particulars, as every one knows, make for virtue and happiness; generalities are intellectually necessary evils. Not philosophers but fret-sawyers and stamp collectors compose the backbone of society.
      “To-morrow,” he would add, smiling at them with a slightly menacing geniality, “you’ll be settling down to serious work. You won’t have time for generalities. Meanwhile …”
      Meanwhile, it was a privilege. Straight from the horse’s mouth into the notebook. The boys scribbled like mad.
      Tall and rather thin but upright, the Director advanced into the room. He had a long chin and big rather prominent teeth, just covered, when he was not talking, by his full, floridly curved lips. Old, young? Thirty? Fifty? Fifty-five? It was hard to say. And anyhow the question didn’t arise; in this year of stability, A. F. 632, it didn’t occur to you to ask it.
      “I shall begin at the beginning,” said the D.H.C. and the more zealous students recorded his intention in their notebooks: Begin at the beginning. “These,” he waved his hand, “are the incubators.” And opening an insulated door he showed them racks upon racks of numbered test-tubes. “The week’s supply of ova. Kept,” he explained, “at blood heat; whereas the male gametes,” and here he opened another door, “they have to be kept at thirty-five instead of thirty-seven. Full blood heat sterilizes.” Rams wrapped in theremogene beget no lambs.
      Still leaning against the incubators he gave them, while the pencils scurried illegibly across the pages, a brief description of the modern fertilizing process; spoke first, of course, of its surgical introduction–”the operation undergone voluntarily for the good of Society, not to mention the fact that it carries a bonus amounting to six months’ salary”; continued with some account of the technique for preserving the excised ovary alive and actively developing; passed on to a consideration of optimum temperature, salinity, viscosity; referred to the liquor in which the detached and ripened eggs were kept; and, leading his charges to the work tables, actually showed them how this liquor was drawn off from the test-tubes; how it was let out drop by drop onto the specially warmed slides of the microscopes; how the eggs which it contained were inspected for abnormalities, counted and transferred to a porous receptacle; how (and he now took them to watch the operation) this receptacle was immersed in a warm bouillon containing free-swimming spermatozoa–at a minimum concentration of one hundred thousand per cubic centimetre, he insisted; and how, after ten minutes, the container was lifted out of the liquor and its contents re-examined; how, if any of the eggs remained unfertilized, it was again immersed, and, if necessary, yet again; how the fertilized ova went back to the incubators; where the Alphas and Betas remained until definitely bottled; while the Gammas, Deltas and Epsilons were brought out again, after only thirty-six hours, to undergo Bokanovsky’s Process.
      “Bokanovsky’s Process,” repeated the Director, and the students underlined the words in their little notebooks.
      One egg, one embryo, one adult-normality. But a bokanovskified egg will bud, will proliferate, will divide. From eight to ninety-six buds, and every bud will grow into a perfectly formed embryo, and every embryo into a full-sized adult. Making ninety-six human beings grow where only one grew before. Progress.
      “Essentially,” the D.H.C. concluded, “bokanovskification consists of a series of arrests of development. We check the normal growth and, paradoxically enough, the egg responds by budding.”
      Responds by budding. The pencils were busy.
      He pointed. On a very slowly moving band a rack-full of test-tubes was entering a large metal box, another, rack-full was emerging. Machinery faintly purred. It took eight minutes for the tubes to go through, he told them. Eight minutes of hard X-rays being about as much as an egg can stand. A few died; of the rest, the least susceptible divided into two; most put out four buds; some eight; all were returned to the incubators, where the buds began to develop; then, after two days, were suddenly chilled, chilled and checked. Two, four, eight, the buds in their turn budded; and having budded were dosed almost to death with alcohol; consequently burgeoned again and having budded–bud out of bud out of bud–were thereafter–further arrest being generally fatal–left to develop in peace. By which time the original egg was in a fair way to becoming anything from eight to ninety-six embryos– a prodigious improvement, you will agree, on nature. Identical twins–but not in piddling twos and threes as in the old viviparous days, when an egg would sometimes accidentally divide; actually by dozens, by scores at a time.
      “Scores,” the Director repeated and flung out his arms, as though he were distributing largesse. “Scores.”
      But one of the students was fool enough to ask where the advantage lay.
      “My good boy!” The Director wheeled sharply round on him. “Can’t you see? Can’t you see?” He raised a hand; his expression was solemn. “Bokanovsky’s Process is one of the major instruments of social stability!”
      Major instruments of social stability.
      Standard men and women; in uniform batches. The whole of a small factory staffed with the products of a single bokanovskified egg.
      “Ninety-six identical twins working ninety-six identical machines!” The voice was almost tremulous with enthusiasm. “You really know where you are. For the first time in history.” He quoted the planetary motto. “Community, Identity, Stability.” Grand words. “If we could bokanovskify indefinitely the whole problem would be solved.”
      Solved by standard Gammas, unvarying Deltas, uniform Epsilons. Millions of identical twins. The principle of mass production at last applied to biology.
      “But, alas,” the Director shook his head, “we can’t bokanovskify indefinitely.”
      Ninety-six seemed to be the limit; seventy-two a good average. From the same ovary and with gametes of the same male to manufacture as many batches of identical twins as possible–that was the best (sadly a second best) that they could do. And even that was difficult.
      “For in nature it takes thirty years for two hundred eggs to reach maturity. But our business is to stabilize the population at this moment, here and now. Dribbling out twins over a quarter of a century–what would be the use of that?”
      Obviously, no use at all. But Podsnap’s Technique had immensely accelerated the process of ripening. They could make sure of at least a hundred and fifty mature eggs within two years. Fertilize and bokanovskify–in other words, multiply by seventy-two–and you get an average of nearly eleven thousand brothers and sisters in a hundred and fifty batches of identical twins, all within two years of the same age.
      “And in exceptional cases we can make one ovary yield us over fifteen thousand adult individuals.”
      Beckoning to a fair-haired, ruddy young man who happened to be passing at the moment. “Mr. Foster,” he called. The ruddy young man approached. “Can you tell us the record for a single ovary, Mr. Foster?”
      “Sixteen thousand and twelve in this Centre,” Mr. Foster replied without hesitation. He spoke very quickly, had a vivacious blue eye, and took an evident pleasure in quoting figures. “Sixteen thousand and twelve; in one hundred and eighty-nine batches of identicals. But of course they’ve done much better,” he rattled on, “in some of the tropical Centres. Singapore has often produced over sixteen thousand five hundred; and Mombasa has actually touched the seventeen thousand mark. But then they have unfair advantages. You should see the way a negro ovary responds to pituitary! It’s quite astonishing, when you’re used to working with European material. Still,” he added, with a laugh (but the light of combat was in his eyes and the lift of his chin was challenging), “still, we mean to beat them if we can. I’m working on a wonderful Delta-Minus ovary at this moment. Only just eighteen months old. Over twelve thousand seven hundred children already, either decanted or in embryo. And still going strong. We’ll beat them yet.”

      “That’s the spirit I like!” cried the Director, and clapped Mr. Foster on the shoulder. “Come along with us, and give these boys the benefit of your expert knowledge.”
      Mr. Foster smiled modestly. “With pleasure.” They went.
      In the Bottling Room all was harmonious bustle and ordered activity. Flaps of fresh sow’s peritoneum ready cut to the proper size came shooting up in little lifts from the Organ Store in the sub-basement. Whizz and then, click! the lift-hatches hew open; the bottle-liner had only to reach out a hand, take the flap, insert, smooth-down, and before the lined bottle had had time to travel out of reach along the endless band, whizz, click! another flap of peritoneum had shot up from the depths, ready to be slipped into yet another bottle, the next of that slow interminable procession on the band.
      Next to the Liners stood the Matriculators. The procession advanced; one by one the eggs were transferred from their test-tubes to the larger containers; deftly the peritoneal lining was slit, the morula dropped into place, the saline solution poured in … and already the bottle had passed, and it was the turn of the labellers. Heredity, date of fertilization, membership of Bokanovsky Group–details were transferred from test-tube to bottle. No longer anonymous, but named, identified, the procession marched slowly on; on through an opening in the wall, slowly on into the Social Predestination Room.
      “Eighty-eight cubic metres of card-index,” said Mr. Foster with relish, as they entered.
      “Containing all the relevant information,” added the Director.
      “Brought up to date every morning.”
      “And co-ordinated every afternoon.”
      “On the basis of which they make their calculations.”
      “So many individuals, of such and such quality,” said Mr. Foster.
      “Distributed in such and such quantities.”
      “The optimum Decanting Rate at any given moment.”
      “Unforeseen wastages promptly made good.”
      “Promptly,” repeated Mr. Foster. “If you knew the amount of overtime I had to put in after the last Japanese earthquake!” He laughed goodhumouredly and shook his head.
      “The Predestinators send in their figures to the Fertilizers.”
      “Who give them the embryos they ask for.”
      “And the bottles come in here to be predestined in detail.”
      “After which they are sent down to the Embryo Store.”
      “Where we now proceed ourselves.”
      And opening a door Mr. Foster led the way down a staircase into the basement.
      The temperature was still tropical. They descended into a thickening twilight. Two doors and a passage with a double turn insured the cellar against any possible infiltration of the day.
      “Embryos are like photograph film,” said Mr. Foster waggishly, as he pushed open the second door. “They can only stand red light.”
      And in effect the sultry darkness into which the students now followed him was visible and crimson, like the darkness of closed eyes on a summer’s afternoon. The bulging flanks of row on receding row and tier above tier of bottles glinted with innumerable rubies, and among the rubies moved the dim red spectres of men and women with purple eyes and all the symptoms of lupus. The hum and rattle of machinery faintly stirred the air.
      “Give them a few figures, Mr. Foster,” said the Director, who was tired of talking.
      Mr. Foster was only too happy to give them a few figures.
      Two hundred and twenty metres long, two hundred wide, ten high. He pointed upwards. Like chickens drinking, the students lifted their eyes towards the distant ceiling.
      Three tiers of racks: ground floor level, first gallery, second gallery.
      The spidery steel-work of gallery above gallery faded away in all directions into the dark. Near them three red ghosts were busily unloading demijohns from a moving staircase.
      The escalator from the Social Predestination Room.
      Each bottle could be placed on one of fifteen racks, each rack, though you couldn’t see it, was a conveyor traveling at the rate of thirty-three and a third centimetres an hour. Two hundred and sixty-seven days at eight metres a day. Two thousand one hundred and thirty-six metres in all. One circuit of the cellar at ground level, one on the first gallery, half on the second, and on the two hundred and sixty-seventh morning, daylight in the Decanting Room. Independent existence–so called.
      “But in the interval,” Mr. Foster concluded, “we’ve managed to do a lot to them. Oh, a very great deal.” His laugh was knowing and triumphant.
      “That’s the spirit I like,” said the Director once more. “Let’s walk around. You tell them everything, Mr. Foster.”
      Mr. Foster duly told them.
      Told them of the growing embryo on its bed of peritoneum. Made them taste the rich blood surrogate on which it fed. Explained why it had to be stimulated with placentin and thyroxin. Told them of the corpus luteum extract. Showed them the jets through which at every twelfth metre from zero to 2040 it was automatically injected. Spoke of those gradually increasing doses of pituitary administered during the final ninety-six metres of their course. Described the artificial maternal circulation installed in every bottle at Metre 112; showed them the reservoir of blood-surrogate, the centrifugal pump that kept the liquid moving over the placenta and drove it through the synthetic lung and waste product filter. Referred to the embryo’s troublesome tendency to anæmia, to the massive doses of hog’s stomach extract and foetal foal’s liver with which, in consequence, it had to be supplied.
      Showed them the simple mechanism by means of which, during the last two metres out of every eight, all the embryos were simultaneously shaken into familiarity with movement. Hinted at the gravity of the so-called “trauma of decanting,” and enumerated the precautions taken to minimize, by a suitable training of the bottled embryo, that dangerous shock. Told them of the test for sex carried out in the neighborhood of Metre 200. Explained the system of labelling–a T for the males, a circle for the females and for those who were destined to become freemartins a question mark, black on a white ground.
      “For of course,” said Mr. Foster, “in the vast majority of cases, fertility is merely a nuisance. One fertile ovary in twelve hundred–that would really be quite sufficient for our purposes. But we want to have a good choice. And of course one must always have an enormous margin of safety. So we allow as many as thirty per cent of the female embryos to develop normally. The others get a dose of male sex-hormone every twenty-four metres for the rest of the course. Result: they’re decanted as freemartins–structurally quite normal (except,” he had to admit, “that they do have the slightest tendency to grow beards), but sterile. Guaranteed sterile. Which brings us at last,” continued Mr. Foster, “out of the realm of mere slavish imitation of nature into the much more interesting world of human invention.”
      He rubbed his hands. For of course, they didn’t content themselves with merely hatching out embryos: any cow could do that.
      “We also predestine and condition. We decant our babies as socialized human beings, as Alphas or Epsilons, as future sewage workers or future …” He was going to say “future World controllers,” but correcting himself, said “future Directors of Hatcheries,” instead.
      The D.H.C. acknowledged the compliment with a smile.
      They were passing Metre 320 on Rack 11. A young Beta-Minus mechanic was busy with screw-driver and spanner on the blood-surrogate pump of a passing bottle. The hum of the electric motor deepened by fractions of a tone as he turned the nuts. Down, down … A final twist, a glance at the revolution counter, and he was done. He moved two paces down the line and began the same process on the next pump.
      “Reducing the number of revolutions per minute,” Mr. Foster explained. “The surrogate goes round slower; therefore passes through the lung at longer intervals; therefore gives the embryo less oxygen. Nothing like oxygen-shortage for keeping an embryo below par.” Again he rubbed his hands.
      “But why do you want to keep the embryo below par?” asked an ingenuous student.
      “Ass!” said the Director, breaking a long silence. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that an Epsilon embryo must have an Epsilon environment as well as an Epsilon heredity?”
      It evidently hadn’t occurred to him. He was covered with confusion.
      “The lower the caste,” said Mr. Foster, “the shorter the oxygen.” The first organ affected was the brain. After that the skeleton. At seventy per cent of normal oxygen you got dwarfs. At less than seventy eyeless monsters.
      “Who are no use at all,” concluded Mr. Foster.
      Whereas (his voice became confidential and eager), if they could discover a technique for shortening the period of maturation what a triumph, what a benefaction to Society!
      “Consider the horse.”
      They considered it.
      Mature at six; the elephant at ten. While at thirteen a man is not yet sexually mature; and is only full-grown at twenty. Hence, of course, that fruit of delayed development, the human intelligence.
      “But in Epsilons,” said Mr. Foster very justly, “we don’t need human intelligence.”
      Didn’t need and didn’t get it. But though the Epsilon mind was mature at ten, the Epsilon body was not fit to work till eighteen. Long years of superfluous and wasted immaturity. If the physical development could be speeded up till it was as quick, say, as a cow’s, what an enormous saving to the Community!
      “Enormous!” murmured the students. Mr. Foster’s enthusiasm was infectious.
      He became rather technical; spoke of the abnormal endocrine co-ordination which made men grow so slowly; postulated a germinal mutation to account for it. Could the effects of this germinal mutation be undone? Could the individual Epsilon embryo be made a revert, by a suitable technique, to the normality of dogs and cows? That was the problem. And it was all but solved.
      Pilkington, at Mombasa, had produced individuals who were sexually mature at four and full-grown at six and a half. A scientific triumph. But socially useless. Six-year-old men and women were too stupid to do even Epsilon work. And the process was an all-or-nothing one; either you failed to modify at all, or else you modified the whole way. They were still trying to find the ideal compromise between adults of twenty and adults of six. So far without success. Mr. Foster sighed and shook his head.
      Their wanderings through the crimson twilight had brought them to the neighborhood of Metre 170 on Rack 9. From this point onwards Rack 9 was enclosed and the bottle performed the remainder of their journey in a kind of tunnel, interrupted here and there by openings two or three metres wide.
      “Heat conditioning,” said Mr. Foster.
      Hot tunnels alternated with cool tunnels. Coolness was wedded to discomfort in the form of hard X-rays. By the time they were decanted the embryos had a horror of cold. They were predestined to emigrate to the tropics, to be miner and acetate silk spinners and steel workers. Later on their minds would be made to endorse the judgment of their bodies. “We condition them to thrive on heat,” concluded Mr. Foster. “Our colleagues upstairs will teach them to love it.”
      “And that,” put in the Director sententiously, “that is the secret of happiness and virtue–liking what you’ve got to do. All conditioning aims at that: making people like their unescapable social destiny.”
      In a gap between two tunnels, a nurse was delicately probing with a long fine syringe into the gelatinous contents of a passing bottle. The students and their guides stood watching her for a few moments in silence.
      “Well, Lenina,” said Mr. Foster, when at last she withdrew the syringe and straightened herself up.
      The girl turned with a start. One could see that, for all the lupus and the purple eyes, she was uncommonly pretty.
      “Henry!” Her smile flashed redly at him–a row of coral teeth.
      “Charming, charming,” murmured the Director and, giving her two or three little pats, received in exchange a rather deferential smile for himself.
      “What are you giving them?” asked Mr. Foster, making his tone very professional.
      “Oh, the usual typhoid and sleeping sickness.”
      “Tropical workers start being inoculated at Metre 150,” Mr. Foster explained to the students. “The embryos still have gills. We immunize the fish against the future man’s diseases.” Then, turning back to Lenina, “Ten to five on the roof this afternoon,” he said, “as usual.”
      “Charming,” said the Director once more, and, with a final pat, moved away after the others.
      On Rack 10 rows of next generation’s chemical workers were being trained in the toleration of lead, caustic soda, tar, chlorine. The first of a batch of two hundred and fifty embryonic rocket-plane engineers was just passing the eleven hundred metre mark on Rack 3. A special mechanism kept their containers in constant rotation. “To improve their sense of balance,” Mr. Foster explained. “Doing repairs on the outside of a rocket in mid-air is a ticklish job. We slacken off the circulation when they’re right way up, so that they’re half starved, and double the flow of surrogate when they’re upside down. They learn to associate topsy-turvydom with well-being; in fact, they’re only truly happy when they’re standing on their heads.
      “And now,” Mr. Foster went on, “I’d like to show you some very interesting conditioning for Alpha Plus Intellectuals. We have a big batch of them on Rack 5. First Gallery level,” he called to two boys who had started to go down to the ground floor.
      “They’re round about Metre 900,” he explained. “You can’t really do any useful intellectual conditioning till the foetuses have lost their tails. Follow me.”
      But the Director had looked at his watch. “Ten to three,” he said. “No time for the intellectual embryos, I’m afraid. We must go up to the Nurseries before the children have finished their afternoon sleep.”
      Mr. Foster was disappointed. “At least one glance at the Decanting Room,” he pleaded.
      “Very well then.” The Director smiled indulgently. “Just one glance.”

      • Everyone II
        August 9, 2020 at 10:25 pm

        FUCK OFF TOO!
        Jeezus! get ur own blog!

        • Rose Palmer
          August 10, 2020 at 12:22 am

          Vicks vapo rub is not a good replacement for vaseline

      • Fat, sweaty, cheeto-stained chick on couch
        August 10, 2020 at 8:48 am

        is this one of them books that has Fabio on the cover so I can Jill off?

        …asking for a friend…

  • ChiTown Boon
    August 9, 2020 at 3:48 pm

    Seventeen-year-old Christopher “Poppy” Brown was fatally wounded during the shooting, and “more than 20 0thers may have been wounded.”i a Washington D.C. chimpout.

    • Nearshore Marine Forecast Issued by NWS Chicago, IL
      August 9, 2020 at 3:51 pm

      FZUS53 KLOT 091408

      National Weather Service Chicago/Romeoville IL
      908 AM CDT Sun Aug 9 2020

      For waters within five nautical miles of shore on Lake Michigan

      Waves are provided as a range of significant wave heights, which
      is the average of the highest 1/3 of the waves, along with the
      average height of the highest 10 percent of the waves which will
      occasionally be encountered.

      Winthrop Harbor to Wilmette Harbor-
      Wilmette Harbor to Northerly Island-
      Northerly Island to Calumet Harbor-
      908 AM CDT Sun Aug 9 2020

      .REST OF TODAY…South winds 10 to 20 kt. Sunny. Waves 1 to 3 ft.
      .TONIGHT…South winds 10 to 20 kt. Chance of showers and
      thunderstorms. Waves 1 to 3 ft.
      .MONDAY…Southwest winds 10 to 15 kt. Chance of showers and
      thunderstorms. Waves 1 to 3 ft subsiding to 1 ft or less in the
      .MONDAY NIGHT…Northwest winds 10 to 15 kt. Chance of showers
      and thunderstorms. Waves 1 ft or less building to 1 to 3 ft after


      Calumet Harbor to Gary-Gary to Burns Harbor-
      Burns Harbor to Michigan City-
      908 AM CDT Sun Aug 9 2020

      .REST OF TODAY…South winds 10 to 20 kt. Sunny. Waves 1 ft or
      .TONIGHT…South winds 10 to 20 kt. Chance of showers and
      thunderstorms after midnight. Waves 1 to 3 ft.
      .MONDAY…South winds 10 to 20 kt. Chance of showers and
      thunderstorms. Waves 1 to 3 ft.
      .MONDAY NIGHT…West winds 10 to 15 kt becoming northwest after
      midnight. Chance of showers and thunderstorms. Waves 1 to 3 ft.

  • Shakespeares scribe
    August 9, 2020 at 3:20 pm

    Who in their right frame of mind make post as long as these,maybe you need a pet bird or turtle to keep you busy,nobody comes on here to read such a dreadfully long post.

    • Herman Melville
      August 9, 2020 at 3:35 pm

      Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

      There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs- commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

      Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?- Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster- tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

      But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling And there they stand- miles of them- leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets avenues- north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

      Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries- stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

      But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies- what is the one charm wanting?- Water- there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

      Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick- grow quarrelsome- don’t sleep of nights- do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;- no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,- though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board- yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;- though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bakehouses the pyramids.

      No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the fore-castle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

      What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about- however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way- either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.

      Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,- what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

      Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way- he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

      “Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. “WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.” “BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”

      Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces- though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

      Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it- would they let me- since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

      By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

      • murdochpatsymcreynolds
        Chuck Dickens
        August 9, 2020 at 4:22 pm

        It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

        • LMFAO!
          August 9, 2020 at 4:25 pm

          Definitely a favorite!

          That’s enough cut and paste for me today, I think, time to retire to the wet bar.

    • Ebert
      August 9, 2020 at 4:31 pm

      Huh, I thought these were chapters from AK’s book! Sorry for nodding off!

  • Cam Neely
    August 9, 2020 at 3:06 pm

    Bruins lose to the caps 2-1 !! 0-3 since resuming play!
    But ohh are we soooo PC. The cup is so close to being ours!
    Gonna fill it up with Kale and Tofu!!

    • murdochpatsymcreynolds
      Johnny Wooden
      August 9, 2020 at 11:35 pm

      Success is never final, failure is never fatal. It’s courage that counts.

  • Bob Murchison
    August 9, 2020 at 2:41 pm

    Sorry but I would still enjoy dumping a big pile of
    penis butter on Gingers lower back.

  • NYC Boons Represent. NYC Strong.
    August 9, 2020 at 2:07 pm

    Atleast nine people were shot in the city early Sunday amid an alarming escalation of gun violence in the Big Apple — with the latest victims including two men separately killed in Queens, cops said.

    The pre-dawn violence capped a week of at least 38 shootings that left 50-plus people injured — more than triple the 16 incidents of gunplay for the same time last year, law-enforcement sources told The Post.

    • Portugal The Man
      August 9, 2020 at 2:30 pm

      Ooh woo, I’m a rebel just for kicks, now
      I been feeling it since 1966, now
      Might be over now, but I feel it still
      Ooh woo, I’m a rebel just for kicks, now
      Let me kick it like it’s 1986, now
      Might be over now, but I feel it still

      • Am I coming out of left field?
        August 9, 2020 at 2:55 pm

        Ooh woo, I’m a rebel just for kicks, now
        I been feeling it since 1966, now
        Might’ve had your fill, but you feel it still
        Ooh woo, I’m a rebel just for kicks, now
        Let me kick it like it’s 1986, now
        Might be over now, but I feel it still

        • The soundtrack to my 2017
          August 9, 2020 at 3:18 pm

          Thanks for posting this, knew the song, but not the recording artist, good post bro!

  • Shaking my head
    August 9, 2020 at 2:02 pm

    I don’t have a stake in this game, but after reading the ridiculous cease and desist I’m baffled how anyone could think this was a win or a good look for Gaffney or Peter.

  • Was Kate Peters in Brockton last night?
    August 9, 2020 at 1:27 pm

    Will this “large gathering” be ignored like BLM riots by Gov. Charlie Baker or is this a violation of Baker’s Law? Quick close the driving ranges and barber shops!!!

    A house party ended in gun violence when five people were shot in the Campello area of Brockton on Saturday night, including one man who was left “seriously wounded,” following the stabbing of a woman earlier at the gathering, according to police.

    Four of the shooting victims were men from Boston and the other was a man from Everett, police said. A woman, who is not a Brockton resident, was stabbed at the party earlier during the evening, police said.

    Police described the suspected shooter in an emergency radio transmission as a dark-skinned man with a white T-shirt and a gray sweatshirt, who was sitting under a tent on the grass. The suspect took off running. No arrests were announced as of early Sunday morning.

    It’s all bidness as usual in Massachusetts.

  • Philly Boons Represent Yo. GO PHILLY BOONS GO
    August 9, 2020 at 1:09 pm

    PHILADELPHIA (WPVI) — Philadelphia police are busy Sunday morning after another night of gun violence in the city, with more than six separate shooting incidents from Saturday into Sunday.

    At least 11 people have been shot just since 9:30 p.m. Saturday, with a pregnant woman and several youths among the victims.

    • F. Scott Fitzgerald
      August 9, 2020 at 2:33 pm

      In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

      “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

      He didn’t say any more but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon — for the intimate revelations of young me nor at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parceled out unequally at birth.

      And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” — it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

      My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

      I never saw this great-uncle but I’m supposed to look like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said “Why — ye-es” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

      The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

      It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

      “How do you get to West Egg Village?” he asked helplessly.

      I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

      And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees — just as things grow in fast movies — I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

      There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college — one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News” — and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded” man. This isn’t just an epigram — life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

      It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals — like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end — but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless amore arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

      I lived at West Egg, the — well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard — it was a factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn and the consoling proximity of millionaires — all for eighty dollars a month.

      Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

      Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven — a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterwards savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy — even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach — but now he’d left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

      Why they came east I don’t know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it — I had no sight into Daisy’s heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

  • Go Chicago Boons Go
    August 9, 2020 at 1:07 pm

    Three people have been killed and at least 26 others have been wounded in shootings across Chicago over the weekend so far.
    The aim and kill rate is abysmal but 3 is better than zero.
    Remember lives alwsys matter

    • murdochpatsymcreynolds
      Laurie Lightfoot
      August 9, 2020 at 1:26 pm

      Dat ain’t shit ya dumb cracka! 29 shootins’ ain’t nuffin’ ya dumb mutha fucka!

      • Joe Curtatone
        August 9, 2020 at 2:43 pm

        your breath smells like haddock, up to your usual sheboonery?

    • JD Salinger
      August 9, 2020 at 2:36 pm

      If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They’re quitee touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They’re nice and all – I’m not saying that – but they’re also touchy as hell. Besides, I’m not going to tell you my whole goodam autobiography or anything. I’ll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out and take it easy. I mean that’s all I told D.B. about, and he’s my brother and all. He’s in Hollywood. That isn’t too far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically every week end. He’s going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs that can do around two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He’s got a lot of dough, now. He didn’t use to. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote thizs terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was «‘The Secret Goldfish.’ It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me. Now he’s out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the movies. Don’t even mention them to me.

      Where I want to start is the day I left Pencey Prep. Pencey Prep is the school that’s in Agertown, Pennsylvania. You probably heard of it. You’ve probably seen the ads, anyway. They advertise in about a thousand magazines, always showing some hot-shot guy on a horse jumping over a fence. Like as if all you ever did at Pencey was play polo all the time. I never even once saw a horse anywhere near the place. And underneath the guy on the horse’s picture, it always says: ‘Since 1888 we have been molding boys into splendid, clear-thinking young men’. Strictly for the birds. They don’t do any damn more molding at Pencey than they do at any other school. And I didn’t know anybody there that was splendid and clear-thinking and all. Maybe two guys. If that many. And they probably came to Pencey that way.

      Anyway, it was the Saturday of the football game with Saxon Hall. The game with Saxon Hall was supposed to be a very big deal around Pencey. It was the last game of the year, and you were supposed to commit suicide ou something if old Pencey didn’t win. I remember around three o’clock that afternoon I was standing way the hell on top of Thomsen Hill, right next to this crazy cannon that was in the Revolutionary War and all. You could see the whole field from there, and you could see the two teams bashing each other all over the place. You couldn’t see the granstand too hot, but you could hear them all yelling, deep and terrific on the Pencey side, because practically the whole school except me was there, and scrawny and faggy on the Saxon Hall side, because the visiting team hardly ever brought many people with them.

      There were never many girls at all at the football games. Only seniors were allowed to bring girls with them. It was a terrible school, no matter how you looked at it. I like to be somewhere at least where you can see a few girls around once in a while, even if they’re only scratching their arms or blowing their noses or even just giggling or something. Old Selma Thurmer – she was the headmaster’s master – showed up at the games quite often, but she wasn’t exactly the type that drove you mad with desire. She was a pretty nice girl, though, I sat next to her once in the bus from Agerstown and we sort of struck up a conversation. I liked her. She had a big nose and her nails were all all bitten down and bleedy-looking and she had on those damn falsies that point all over the place, but you felt sort of sorry for her. Wha I liked about her, she didn’t give you a lot of horse manure about what a great guy her father was. She probably knew what a phony slob h e was.

      The reason I was standing way up on Thomsen Hill, instead of down at the game, was because I’d just got back from New York with the fencing team. I was the goddam manager of the fencing team. Very big deal. We’d gone in to Newyork that morning for this fencing meet with McBurney School. Only, we didn’t have the meet. I left all the foils and equipment and stuff on the goddam subway. It wasn’t all my fault. I had to keep getting up to look at this map, so we’d know where to get off. So we got back to Pencey around two-thirty instead of around dinnertime. The whole team ostracized me the whole way back on the train. It was pretty funny, in a way.

      The other reason I wasn’t down at the game was because I was on my way to say good-by to old Spencer, my history teacher. He had the grippe, and I figured I probably wouldn’t see him again till Christmas vacation started. He wrote me this note saying he wanted to see me before I went home. He knew I wasn’t coming back to Pencey.

      I forgot to tell you about that. They kicked me out. I wasn’t supposed to come back after Christmas vacation, on account of I was flunking four subjects and not applying myself and all. They gave me frequent warning to start applying myself – especially around mid-terms, when my parents came up for a conference with old Thurmer – but I didn’t do it. So I got the ax. They give guys the ax quite frequently at Pencey. It has a very good academic rating, Pencey. It really does.

      Anyway, it was December and all, and it was cold as a witch’s teat, especially on top of that stupid hill. I only had on my reversible and no gloves or anything. sThe week before that, somebody’d stolen my camel’s-hair coat right out of my room, with my fur-lined gloves right in the pocket and all. Pencey was full of crooks. Quite a few guys came from these very wealthy families, but it was full of crooks anyway. The more expensive a school is, the more crooks it has – I’m not kidding. Anyway, I kept standing next to that crazy cannon, looking down at the game and freezing my ass off. Only, I wasn’t watching the game too much. What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by. I mean I’ve left schools and places I didn’t even know I was leaving them. I don’t care if it’s a sad good-by or a bad good-by, but when I leave a place I live I like to know I’m leaving it. If you don’t, you feel even worse.

      I was lucky. All of a sudden I thought of something that helped make me know I was getting the hell out. I suddenly remembered this time, in around October, that I and Robert Tichener and Paul Campbell were chucking a football around, in front of the academic building. there were nice guys, especially Tichener. It was just before dinner and it was getting pretty dark out, but we kept chucking the ball around anyway. It kept getting darker and darker, and we could hardly see the ball anyway. It kept getting darker and darker, and we could hardly see the ball any more, but we didn’t want to stop doing what we were doing. Finally we had to. This teacher that taught biology, Mr Zambesi, stuck his head out of this window in the academic building and told us to go back to the dorm and get ready for dinner. If I get a chance to remember that kind of stuff, I can get a good-by when I need one – at least, most of the time I can. As soon as I got it, I turned around and started running down the other side of the hill, toward old Spencer’s house. He didn’t live on the campus. He lived on Anthony Wayne Avenue.

      I ran all the way to the main gate, and then I waited a second till I got my breath. I have no wind, if you want to know the truth. I’m quite a heavy smoker, for one thing – that is, I used to be. They made me cut it out. Another thing, I grew six and a half inches last year. That’s also how I practically got t.b. and came out here for all these goddam checkups and stuff. I’m pretty healthy, though.

      Anyway, as soon as I got my breath back I ran accross Route 204. It was icy as hell and I damn near fell down. I don’t know what I was running for – I guess I just felt like it. After I got accross the road, I felt like I was sort of disappearing. It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terricfically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.

      Boy, I rang that doorbell fast when I got to old Spencer’s house. I was really frozen. My ears were hurting and I could hardly move my fingers at all. ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ I said right out loud, almost, ‘somebody open the door.’ Finally old Mrs Spencer opened it. They didn’t have a maid or anything, and they always opened the door themselves. They didn’t have too much dough.

      ‘Holden!’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘How lovely to see you! Come in, dear! Are youfrozen to death?’ I think she was glad to see me. She liked me. At least, I think she did.

      Boy, did I get in that house fast. ‘How are you, Mrs Spencer?’ I said. ‘How’s Mr Spencer?’

      ‘Let me take your coat, dear,’ she said. She didn’t hear me ask her how Mr Spencer was. She was sort of deaf.

      She hung up my coat in the hall closet, and I sort of brushed my hair back with my hand. I wear a crew cut quite frequently and I never have to comb it much. ‘How’ve you been, Mrs Spencer?’ I said again, only louder, so she’d hear me.

      ‘I’ve been just fine, Holden.’ She closed the closet door. ‘How have you been?’ The way she asked me, I knew right away old Spencer’d told her I’d been kicked out.

      ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘How’s Mr Spencer? He over his grippe yet?’

      ‘Over it! Holden, he’s behaving like a perfect – I don’t know what… He’s in his room, dear. Go right in.’

    • Luke Fondleberg (Deez/Doze)
      Luke Fondleberg
      August 9, 2020 at 3:34 pm

      Like I mentioned the other day: ignore the basic shooting fundamentals, don’t hit your target. It’s almost like they’re not taking this seriously.

  • Go Boons Go
    August 9, 2020 at 1:04 pm

    Seventeen-year-old Christopher “Poppy” Brown was fatally wounded during the shooting, and “more than 20 0thers may have been wounded.”i a Washington D.C. chimpout.

    • James Joyce
      August 9, 2020 at 2:42 pm

      Buck goes down into the tower singing, unknowingly, the song that Stephen sang to his dying mother. Stephen feels as though he is haunted by his dead mother or the memory of her. Buck calls Stephen downstairs for breakfast. He encourages Stephen to ask Haines, who is impressed with Stephen’s Irish wit, for money, but Stephen refuses. Stephen goes down to the kitchen and helps Buck serve breakfast. Haines announces that the milk woman is approaching. Buck makes a joke about “old mother Grogan” making tea and making water (urine), and encourages Haines to use it for a book of Irish folk life.

      The milk woman enters, and Stephen imagines her as a symbol of Ireland. Stephen is silently bitter that the milk woman respects Buck, a medical student, more than him. Haines speaks Irish to her, but she does not understand and thinks he is speaking French. Buck pays her and she leaves.

      Haines announces his desire to make a book of Stephen’s sayings, but Stephen asks if he would make money off it. Haines walks outside, and Buck scolds Stephen for being rude and ruining their chances of getting drinking money from Haines. Buck dresses and the three men walk down toward the water. On the way, Stephen explains that he rents the tower from the secretary of state for war. Haines asks Stephen about his Hamlet theory, but Buck insists it wait until they have drinks later. Haines explains that their Martello tower reminds him of Hamlet’s El-sinore. Buck interrupts Haines to run ahead, dancing and singing “The Ballad of Joking Jesus.” Haines and Stephen walk together. As Haines talks, Stephen anticipates that Buck will ask Stephen for the key to the tower—the tower for which Stephen pays the rent. Haines questions Stephen about his religious beliefs. Stephen explains that two masters, England and the Catholic Church, stand in the way of his free-thinking, and a third master, Ireland, wants him for “odd jobs.” Trying to be conciliatory about Irish servitude to the British, Haines weakly offers, “It seems history is to blame.” Haines and Stephen stand overlooking the bay and Stephen remembers a man who recently drowned.

  • Hipsterbeard Beta-Cuckstein
    August 9, 2020 at 12:19 pm

    He’s a Republican just like the rest of you.

  • Kate
    August 9, 2020 at 11:49 am

    So aidan. You have helped assist with two suicides in the past year. The poor girl who you doxxed who killed herself IN YOUR BACKYARD at trout brook in jefferson and that kid in Plymouth. I hope police read this article and start taking action.

    • Alex Morse
      August 9, 2020 at 1:05 pm

      Where is this “trout brook” and who is Jefferson? You could say I’m a passionate trout fisherman, could somebody please help tie my fly!

      • James bedard
        August 9, 2020 at 3:40 pm

        Aidan how is brady? Are you thinking of sending him to boarding school outside of massachusetts also who names their child after a foosball player?

        • Kate's Peter
          August 10, 2020 at 12:08 am

          School is boring no matter where you go.

    • Chris Tranos
      August 9, 2020 at 2:44 pm

      hey Kate, wanna make 2 dollars? warpig

  • Jay Cutler
    August 9, 2020 at 11:02 am

    I don’t know who any of these people are or why we should care about them….but that guy definitely skips leg day.

  • Hajii
    August 9, 2020 at 10:39 am

    I am just a simple jihadi. All I see are accusations and an immodest pale harlot showing off her fat ass, thighs and fake tits. The Holy Prophet, may peace be upon him, would not approve of this shameful behavior. You filthy kafirs bring disgrace to our culture rich with history, arts, and science. May Allah curse you and double curse you. May your wives cook your dog bad. May your hijab be filled with fleas. All of these filthy whores need to be held down and have their clitoris sliced off because ours is a peaceful religion.

  • Lmao
    August 9, 2020 at 10:29 am

    This post is the essence of Turtleboy. “I used to like these people, but now here’s a bunch ch of ad hominem you all should care about. And a few dozen old screenshots.” This site is a joke.

  • Canyon Yodeler
    August 9, 2020 at 10:23 am

    Those are a man’s arms.

  • Southie Changed I didn’t
    August 9, 2020 at 9:17 am

    Fuck Off. Not this Kunt again

  • The Spic Tormentor
    Spic Tormentor
    August 9, 2020 at 8:40 am

    Can’t think of anything more cringe inducing than a 55 year old scabby broad asking someone to take a picture of her going up a flight of stairs so she can pop her ass out.

  • The Green Hornet of Facebook Flops
    August 9, 2020 at 8:13 am

    We all knew Unc tried to get into Kate’s pants. What a loser zUnc has proven to be. This blog went down hill fast with his obsession with her. Dude is almost 40 and his “career” is Facebook fights and one sided blogs. I say Unc is in trouble with Azadnia and now this. Julie should be contacting the divorce lawyer by now. Lame dad, shitty husband who loathes family vacations. You were funny for a while but your whole green hornet of Facebook alter ego has flopped. We are not laughing with you but rather at you at this point.

  • Half of the dream team love Adderall
    August 9, 2020 at 8:00 am

    Kate and Gaffney I can’t wait to see this shitshow play out. Fuck you Kate! You are not a lawyer. She hates being reminded of that

  • Caravaggio's Used Condom
    August 9, 2020 at 6:52 am

    It is very 2020 around here. Kate and Gaffney have all lost a few steps or at least some of whatever dignity they used to have. UTB has hit a few triples lately but this taints things a bit on his end.

    The only thing worth commenting on is T&A. Coreen’s body looks great for an aging broad. Shame about those fake tits. They distract from the obvious work she’s done to improve her physique. If she came back to MA she would be 150 pounds below the average female and a 9. There’s no doubt that she is wild on the springs. I’d do it.

    • red rocket
      August 9, 2020 at 1:10 pm

      She’s done great work shaping her whole body, fake boobs are mainstream now but a 9, did you see her face?

  • Employee of the month gets a dicpic!
    August 9, 2020 at 12:49 am

    •••••••••••••••So you offered her a dick pic? I mean you havent denied it so •••••••••••••••

  • RIP to the graveyard keeper
    August 9, 2020 at 12:47 am

    If kate got a harrassment order and won, then asked again for one and didnt get it, how does that make you a victor in court again? Doesnt that just zero out the win/loss ratio to nothing? What did I miss? Is there a case that I’m unaware of or is this his way of painting a picture to suit his narrative because it’s hard to tell.
    Just like Loraynna and Denise, I dont know who to believe at this point and honestly I miss the old turtleboy who had a poppin facebook page and clout on the streets. This dude here is just become bankrupt in every sense if the word. RIP to this shit. Bro Azadnia is gonna take your left nut and Bristol will take your right. You offered dic pics to an employee dude? Wtf

    • It’s all been explained before
      August 9, 2020 at 10:45 am

      The temporary harassment orders are super easy to get. The permanent ones are where you have to put up or shut up. Kate was unable to do that. The only one that counts is the permanent one. I don’t know you, but I could easily make shit up and get a temporary order. Anyone can do it, the threshold of proof is super low.

  • Libel Suit Info CC: Aidan
    August 9, 2020 at 12:36 am

    As much as I despise Kate for what she did, seeing as how her lawyer sent that to you, I should inform you that a few months ago, while slow and very boring work hours, thanks to Coronavirus..myself and my coworkers from the Child Welfare Division gained interest about Bristol thanks to your blogs. The 3 of us were curious about her records because of your claims, so we checked all branches of the D C.F tree so to speak. Even reaching out to other sectors. We couldn’t gather what you claim to have gathered as far as the alleged abuse reports. One of us even had level two clearence to check advanced cases status’ involving active litigation as well. We have seen the ones you’ve shared but there seems to be no physical abuse records. I’m a little concerned, as you have stated over and over again they do exist. I fear that whoever your source is, has proven to be unreliable and dishonest.

    Please drop your email, I have some other imperitive information for you. It’s relevant and I think you would appreciate it. I’m sure the (standing order 2-11) will show what I have explained once its requested by your lawyer.

    • This is just like the Pelican Brief!
      August 9, 2020 at 9:24 am

      A boring book and and an even more boring movie!

    • Still no justification for defending a child abuser!
      August 9, 2020 at 10:34 am

      Part of the problem here is semantics. The children were neglected—words from Kate’s own mouth and blogs. Yes, neglect is abuse. As far as the physical aspect, Kate has said she was investigated. With the other lies she has been caught in and her own admitted ongoing problems with alcohol it is more than reasonable for people to form the opinion that she also physically abused them.

  • Stewart Nod
    August 9, 2020 at 12:24 am

    This. Is. Uh-maaaaazing!
    When TB rejects become exactly what they feigned to be against, it is so perfectly 2020. Year of the hypocrite.

    Best (and worst),

  • hot chicks
    August 9, 2020 at 12:22 am

  • the virgin Connie Swail
    August 8, 2020 at 11:37 pm

    floppy sloppy titted slutbagger

  • Concerned Citizen
    August 8, 2020 at 10:31 pm

    Yo. Why can’t I post as under the name I normally use? I’ve never crossed any kind of content lines here.

  • The Vorlon
    Kosh Naranek
    August 8, 2020 at 9:59 pm

    Is there something in most towns water supply west of 495?

  • murdochpatsymcreynolds
    Old Tom Morris
    August 8, 2020 at 9:48 pm

    Oh wow! Bret Killoran on his Obama phone dropping f-bombs every other word! Riveting content! Who the fuck is that gravelly voiced moron, and why does Turtleboy have him on? He fucking sucks. Maybe he can tell us again how he had sex with an older woman when he was a teenager and when she dumped him he ended up in a mental institution. Hahahahahah! What a fucking loser!

  • A one-person lost generation
    August 8, 2020 at 9:09 pm

    Btw, how old is Kate these days? All these years she’s wasting aren’t helping her looks, her mind, or anything else. Time waits for no one, as the Stones said so well.

  • Hopelessly out of it
    August 8, 2020 at 9:03 pm

    All these texts and photos and no mention of BLM? And no mention of a GoFundMe account? Both Kate and that guy Gaffney are so out of it their only option left may be to take lessons from Cannon-Grant on fleecing others.

  • DaTruth
    August 8, 2020 at 8:40 pm

    Why did u have her working for u Like decent website and didn’t need her

  • Jizzing in Coreen
    August 8, 2020 at 7:38 pm

    Kate Peter is like that Seinfeld episode where the woman looks horrible or good depending on the lighting. As for Coreen Gaffney I would plow her ass, pussy and mouth all day the body looks great BUT her red face is kinda tough to look. Mike could even watch me knock up his jizz bitch Coreen for an all day video shoot, but he would have to pay a couple thousand for that.

    • Monsterrod von Hugenstein
      August 8, 2020 at 10:26 pm

      Same. Her tits and ass are trippin’, and I’d leave them drippin’.

  • Gas Congress
    August 8, 2020 at 7:34 pm

    President Trump just enacted Executive Orders to assist Americans because of the uselessness of the Senate and House of Representatives. Yeah, the Executive Branch doesn’t control the purse strings, but woe to the self-interested Congressman or Senator that balks. Flip a coin on the Supreme Court giving a stamp of approval.

    2 Roosevelts challenged Congress and won. Teddy, as Sec of the Navy, ordered the fleet to sea, and said if Congress wants the fleet back, appropriate the money. FDR had 3 1/2 terms to do as he pleased during a time of national emergency.

  • Lmao
    August 8, 2020 at 7:26 pm

    Imagine if you had a regular normal career and traded it in to be the center of white trash Facebook gossip circles and costar on Gerry Callahan’s fake radio show.

    What a fucking loser.

    • loosah
      August 8, 2020 at 7:40 pm

      I know Gaffney is such a joke.

    • ElJefe72
      August 8, 2020 at 7:52 pm

      And yet, here you are reading and posting on his website.

  • North of the Border
    August 8, 2020 at 6:54 pm

    Fuck me. This is some primo grade entertainment, and I just stocked up on popcorn.

    • North of the Border
      August 8, 2020 at 8:31 pm

      And no I’m not some kind of virgin loser sleeping on a futon in my moms basement and hanging out on the Turtleboy comments section all day and night………it’s a daybed!

  • Another person taken advantage of by Kate Peter
    August 8, 2020 at 6:45 pm

    Kate is brilliant! She’s following all the steps in the loser ratchet playbook. File a false harassment order? Check. File a baseless lawsuit with a known loser? Check. Deny that neglect is abuse? Check. Continue to pretend that the internet isn’t forever? Check. Can she make herself look any worse?

  • Farr
    August 8, 2020 at 6:27 pm

    Make a point she says Ok so she knows she’s gonna lose

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