Social media and various news outlets are all atwitter about President Trump’s speech tonight, which has been teased as being about election integrity, or more correctly, the lack thereof.

The LameStream media types are repeating their “unsubstantiated claims” rhetoric to dismiss any Trump assertions as to a lack of fair and honest elections.

When did it become acceptable for alleged purveyors of journalism to flat-out lie?

I recall many reports of people casting illegal votes, voting totals exceeding voter registration and other such objective measures of outright cheating.

Just to refresh my memory, I did a quick internet search and found a nice compilation on gitnux.org, under voter fraud.

As an aside, I did quick searches on the reliability of the site and whether or not it is a scam and the site passed those tests.

So, according to gitnux.org, we have such bon mots as 60,000 Pennsylvania voters using out-of-state IDs and 288,000 backdated 2020 mail-in ballots according to a USPS whistleblower. You know, a whistleblower is someone, who like any woman claiming sexual assault, must be believed. They must, I tell you.

Graham Platner accusers and those on the right suggesting election fraud seem to be notable exceptions to that need to be believed.

Again, in Pennsylvania’s 2020 election, 289 percent more people voted than signed in to vote at certain Philadelphia precincts.

Nothing to see here. Keep moving.

Don’t you know an unsubstantiated claim when you see one?

Pennsylvania does not have a monopoly on such things. Perhaps you have heard of 17,000 deceased Georgia voters in 2020, or 177,000 Michigan voters that same election using out-of-state licenses.

You wonder what the leftists consider substantiation of a claim.

I mean, some illegal tries to run down law enforcement officers with a car, ends up shot for his or her efforts, and the left screams that ICE is out of control – without a shred of evidence other than the wails from the left.

Simply put, the mouth-breather leftist electorate and LameStream media needs no substantiation to run with the stories.

What can President Trump offer tonight to change the minds of these zealots? Quick answer, nothing.

What can be done is the legislative branch can pass Save America legislation to make the leftist election cheating machine grind to a halt.

Anything short of that and we get more of the same – blatant election fraud with vehement denials from the cheaters.

Don’t live in the Perry Mason fairy tale world where wrongdoers develop a conscience and break down with confessions on the witness stand. The leftists won’t admit they’ve shot you even if the police catch them with the smoking gun in their hand.

They are counting on being saved by a corrupt court system, one that gives an illegal immigrant who killed three American citizens with admitted reckless truck driving, less than five years in prison, probably a year or two with good behavior.

They are counting on a corrupt judiciary that elevates tinpot dictator judges, born in foreign lands, to the place from which they presume the ability to interject themselves into national policy simply because they lean so far left then can’t stand upright without a cane.

President Trump has his work cut out for him tonight. I eagerly await his speech.

While driving along Coon Ridge Road early this afternoon enjoying my ’04 Mustang GT even as I tended to business, it struck me that no matter how tough you think you have it, others have it tougher.

This thought was prompted by seeing a turkey vulture eating his/her (I certainly don’t want to risk offending a gay buzzard with an incorrect pronoun) lunch. It was scorching hot and on the menu was a ripe, dead skunk, literally in the middle of the road, just like the novelty record by Loudon Wainwright from my youthful years, in this case 1972.

The skunk did not, as in the song, stink to High Heaven. Perhaps the buzzard already had gulped down the scent glands that, fittingly, are located around a skunk’s anus. And this reminds me of a former co-worker who was fond of saying he was so hungry he could eat the anus (he didn’t say anus) out of a skunk.

I can’t recall ever being that hungry. Perhaps this buzzard was.

I slowed down and moved to the other lane. The bird, seeing that I was being considerate, stopped moving away from the dinner table in mid-step and pushed back in for another bite.

Sure, I was having another of those frustrating days that are the price one pays for being alive, but at least I wasn’t having dead skunk for lunch.

My sad tale of today began with the Saturday mail, which brought notice from my ITU pension people that not only did I need to send them a signature, the annual proof I still am alive, this time it had to be notarized.

It was convenient that this would arrive on a day they were not in the office to hear my protest. As it turns out, that is true for any day that ends with a Y. More on that later.

Calling the ITU office to express my unhappiness topped today’s to-do list. I mean, my wife and I both collect Social Security and not once have either of us been required to prove we still are alive. I also have two other pensions that I earned and now collect, without proving annually that I still draw breath.

You legal-minded people probably already know that collecting Social Security benefits for dead people – pension benefits, too – is decidedly illegal and if your name happens to be Sam instead of Juan or Mohammed, you likely will see jail time for doing this.

Calling the ITU people was an exercise in futility. I got to listen to the phone menu three full times, twice with the promise that someone would be right with me, and finally with the demand that I leave my name and phone number and someone would get back to me in the next 24 hours. Pardon me if I do not hold my breath.

That item having been checked off, sort of, I paid my huge semi-annual sewage-garbage payment of $370-plus to Southmont Borough. Then it was on to the West End to have my signature notarized.

I left there $20 lighter in the wallet. Doing some basic math here, $20 for five minutes of work comes to a rate of $240 an hour. I wasted a lot of time, apparently, as a sportswriter.

It was not her fault. Like lawyers, who have the government, the legal system, and private industry conspire to insure virtually every act one might commit requires a lawyer, so it is that notaries also are on the make-work list.

I have, or had, the $20, so I’m not pleading poverty. It is the concept that bothers me.

It is the equivalent of being forced to prove you are not committing a crime. That is the sort of thing our Constitution is supposed to prevent.

This is the stuff of totalitarian regimes, with their mantra, show me the man and I will show you (make up) the crime.

The man also behind the counter at the notary operation, presumably the owner, was defending this sort of thing. I guess I also would defend such if I could find a niche where likely the majority of that $20 for five minutes of work flowed directly into my pocket.

Before I go, here is some more basic math to be considered. That ITU pension plan has been on the financial rocks for years, in various stages of distress as defined for such things. Supposedly they are not as distressed as they once were, perhaps residue from getting enough people to refuse to jump through ever more onerous types of arbitrary hoops just to get the money they have earned and so forfeit the payments.

My exceedingly generous pension from the ITU is $74.26 a month. So, if they hit me for a $20 notary charge annually, not to mention the ever-increasing postage – currently 82 cents for the letter – and factoring in gasoline costs and time spent attending to such drivel, if I have the fortune to live another 10 years, they will have cost me the equivalent easily of three months of pension and likely four months of that pension.

Thanks, guys!

What I would like to do – but won’t – is to go back to Coon Ridge Road, battle that buzzard for the remains of the dead skunk, and send it to ITU headquarters as a ridiculous gesture like theirs.

Big Boy has come and gone and I saw it. But, as usual, there is much more to the story.

The much-heralded passage of the world’s largest steam-powered locomotive was enough to draw me out of the air-conditioned comfort of home to get a glimpse of the phenomenon.

As such things tend to go in Johnstown, it was not easy.

My plan was to avoid the crowds of designated “watch” parties. I had no desire to be packed in such an area, cheek to jowel with other spectators, and most likely on concrete or other pavement which would radiate the sun’s warmth. Instead, I sought out relative isolation.

Having lived in the Oakhurst section of the West End during my early married years, and being familiar with the area because of that, I thought a perch behind the former Save A Lot grocery store, which is across from the former Garfield Junior High School (when you live in Johnstown, you use former a lot) would be good.

I called up a satellite map Friday night to confirm my thoughts and saw there would be easy access and great room to stretch out should others have the same idea.

The wife and I got there at what I thought would be a fashionably early time, around 11 a.m. or so, to find a large contingent of vehicles, some of which had pulled very close to the track, and maybe 60 or 70 people.

The wife chose a railroad tie under some trees as a sitting spot and I moved up the track toward Pittsburgh to escape the crowd.

Things were going fine, standing in the shade and talking on my cell phone with friend Jim, the unofficial mayor of Windber, Scalp Level and Paint Borough. He was going to make the journey to meet us and see Big Boy.

Alas, one of Johnstown’s finest arrived to throw everyone out. We were on railroad property and couldn’t stay. Such things irritate me. I understand, as he said, he was just following orders. Yet, in recent days, as I shared with him, I have been treated to multiple TV reports showing spectators much closer to the tracks, watching the Big Boy passage. I would bet my usual $10,000 they were on railroad property, too.

As was the case with the vague COVID guidelines, since admitted to have been made up with no scientific justification, I have seen conflicting dictates that no one is allowed within 25 feet of tracks, no one within 50 feet of tracks, and no one standing on tracks.

The last, I understand. The other two, not so much.

The wife and I decided to venture along Sheridan Street toward the Oakhurst Homes. Perhaps we could get the added treat of witnessing a shooting. But, no, such things tend to be nocturnal events and this was late morning/early afternoon.

She spotted a grassy glade behind an auto body shop that looked promising. After circumnavigating through the Homes and returning, we parked on the grass and waited for Big Boy, hoping to avoid being sent packing yet again.

Another aging couple such as us arrived and we chit-chatted awaiting the arrival of friend Jim and, of course, Big Boy.

As frequently is the case, when Jim arrived he knew the guy. And, it turns out, the man used to hang out with the guy who married the older sister of the girl I dated through high school.

The woman spoke at length with my wife, and told of growing up near where we stood. It was an enjoyable way to pass the time, shaded by the trees and sharing stories.

I since have looked up facts about Big Boy and it is more than 132 feet in length, articulated to allow it to go around curves due to that. It weighs 1.2 million pounds and burns 20-25 gallons of oil TO THE MILE, having been converted from coal use in the past.

At about 12:20 p.m., we heard noise and perhaps a whistle. Cell phone cameras were readied and soon a light was seen through the trees and bushes.

Big Boy came and went in maybe a minute, pulling quite a lengthy train of cars. It was huge, as advertised and, as I had told the one gentleman beforehand, probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to witness firsthand such a thing passing through the area.

I’m glad I went, even with the unnecessary hassle.

The Democrats, those sanctimonious hypocrites who profess to be guardians of democracy, have couped another of their candidates, just as soon as it looked like his election prospects were slipping due to scandal after scandal.

Understand, Democrats were willing to overlook many Graham Platner failings, from a Nazi tattoo, to hateful online posts by him including one saying a Purple Heart recipient deserved to have been killed not wounded, to the fact they were perfectly happy to put all the Me Too bluster in the background when woman after woman accused Platner of sexual misconduct.

Graham Platner: Sounds like some sort of hernia, or fruity drink in a gay bar (he did have fantasies about raping men who might break into his house), or maybe an early 20th-century, now-defunct, auto manufacturer.

Henceforth, Graham Platner will go down as the name for any gutless type who might have strutted briefly on the Democrat stage, enabled by the usual suspects, until collapsing into a puddle of self-indulgent tears.

As long as he was doing fine in the polls, his questionable conduct was A-OK. Bernie backed him. Pocahontas Warren said he was her kind of guy. Blah, blah, blah

Bless their black hearts, it’s their way.

Recall when the Democrat elites fixed it for Shrillary Clinton vs. Bernie Sanders in the 2016 Democrat primaries. Bernie took it and kept quiet. Perhaps he got another house as a consolation prize.

Then, in 2020, those same types fixed it to get Joe Biden the nomination, so that he could hide in his basement and run against Donald Trump, whom Democrats were doing their best to kneecap by shutting down the economy with over-hyped COVID hysteria.

Biden won, and proved for much of four years he was not up to the job mentally. That was OK with the Democrats, until Joe proved to the public he was non compos mentis in that ill-fated 2024 debate with Trump.

The Democrat hounds of hell, with behind-the-scenes work by King Barack Hussein Obama, forced Biden out and installed Cackling Kamala in the nominee spot that Biden had won the old-fashioned way, by getting primary votes.

Now, Platner is gone, leaving the race in a maudlin, tearful video announcement painting himself as a victim, not the abuser. Predictably, he denied all the allegations.

Said Pennsylvania Democrat Senator John Fetterman on a Fox interview afterward: “The trash took itself out.”

Fetterman was the rare exception, a Democrat who was not willing to overlook Platner’s many failings in the hope that he could defeat sitting Republican Senator Susan Collins.

I cannot over-emphasize how pathetic Platner was in his video. Where was the bold, overconfident, socialist-communist candidate? It was a lengthy pity party by a whiny character.

Now, the Democrats will install someone else and pray they can keep that candidate’s foibles secret until after the general election in November.

But, none of the Democrats deserve a pass on this Platner debacle. The high-profile types like Sanders and Pocahontas Warren showed an incredible lack of awareness in endorsing and supporting Platner even as his world was collapsing.

Do we really trust them to do the nation’s business? When do they apologize, even resign?

And what of the 70-some percent of the Democrat electorate who voted for him in the primary, even after many scandals had been revealed?

This is a sick party, from the roots to the tippy-top.

Democrat elites are counting on those useful idiots again to forget all that has transpired and vote blindly for whomever the Democrats install as their candidate.

Sadly, those elites are likely to be proven correct – once again.

The U.S. men have been booted (pun intended) from the World Cup of Soccer and once again it’s time to cue the Peggy Lee standard, “Is That All There Is?”

When it comes to the American men, the answer is yes. They often get to the round of 16 in these things, raising hopes among the fans, then go down in flames.

Monday night, the killer shot was administered by Belgium; a rather resounding 4-1 butt-kicking.

If you’ve been reading World Cup posts in this space, you know I wanted the United States to do well, but I was expecting more of the same disappointment. The telltale signs were everywhere if you looked, including uneven performances in “friendly” matches against quality competition before the World Cup began, and that loss to Turkey to end group play.

Yes, the Americans had nothing to play for in terms of seeding vs. Turkey, but did anyone consider pride and not being humbled by a disappointing Turkey team already out of the competition before that third group-stage game and a team unable to score – until it met the porous U.S. defense and its pedestrian goalie?

Like Canada and Mexico, the other co-hosts for this, the U.S. was put into a weak group and helped mightily in getting into knockout play. Many around the world are griping that “Flo” Balogun had his red-card suspension rescinded. So, Balogun played. If he hadn’t would it have been 8-1?

Our men again failed to show up when the chips were down. Have you heard, we are 0-7 when the opposition scores first in knockout play? By way of contrast, Belgium was down by two goals late in its previous game and rallied to win.

And that, my friends, is the difference between a country with a strong soccer program and one just happy to be there.

The United States needed more, much more from many players. But none disappointed more than Christian Pulisic. He looked lost and kept giving up the ball. Twice early, he was stripped clean by a Belgium defender. By ESPN’s count, Pulisic coughed up the ball no fewer than 11 times!

Like they say in hockey’s Stanley Cup playoffs, your best players have to come up big or you have no chance. Pulisic came up Lilliputian.

When Belgium scored to go up 1-0, I figured it was over and I began watching DVRd programs, such as Perry Mason and The Twilight Zone.

I did check back to see the U.S. achieve a 1-1 tie on a free kick, only quickly to fall behind again.

Our mediocre goalie, Matt Freese, made one unexpectedly good save early. Later, he was out of position on multiple goals and, according to ESPN’s story, gave away the ball for yet another Belgium goal.

I didn’t bother to watch any of the post-mortems from the Fox cheerleaders. I would hope they finally fessed up that U.S. soccer winning a World Cup is about as likely as the Pirates winning the World Series or the Cleveland Browns winning a Super Bowl.

Why not us? they’d asked before the Cup. Well, that’s been answered.

And, as to those Mike Eruzione commercials in the bar asking about believing in miracles, I do believe, just not when that miracle is defined as our men’s soccer being more than an also-ran team in the World Cup.

World peace and universal prosperity are more likely to be attainable miracles.

Only here, dear reader, might you get the unlikely pairing of Doublemint gum and schadenfreude, all in regard to the World Cup.

Doublemint chewing gum very famously used twins in its advertising and the slogan “Double your pleasure, double your fun” to promote the gum’s double hit of peppermint, or perhaps it was mint and wintergreen? Sources vary on the details.

The ads were memorable, perhaps in part due to the double entendre of hooking up with twins.

Schadenfreude is something of a favorite concept here, it being the taking of joy in the misfortune of others, particularly those you do not like.

And that brings us to the World Cup. Why limit yourself to rooting for a team, or teams, when you also can pick teams to root against, and celebrate their pain should they lose?

First of all, I root for the United States, unlike leftist Democrats. Many U.S. fans are celebrating wildly today the special dispensation that negated the red card of star player Folarin Balogun, incurred against Bosnia, and which would have made him unavailable to play vs. Belgium Monday night.

The red card was a dramatic over-reach by video referees and rumor has it no less than President Donald J. Trump intervened with World Cup types. It’s not only Iranian despots who fear him, apparently.

Belgians are hopping mad; understandably so. Those Belgians still might win this game, but it is a bigger challenge with Balogun playing.

Besides cheering the United States men, we have identified several teams whose exit has or would bring joy to us.

Begin with Australia, a nation that has lapsed from rugged individualism to kneejerk liberalism. Fans of the hapless Australia team were chanting anti-Trump messages during a 2-0 loss to the Americans in group play

Said Aussies now can chant in their home land, because they’ve been dispatched, losing to Egypt on penalty kicks. G’day boys and G’night.

Closer to home, Canada has been a World Cup irritant as a host of the event, along with the United States and Mexico.

Canada suffers from a terminal inferiority complex when it comes to the United States and seems to think that can be cured if they can beat us in sporting endeavors.

From Prime Minister Mark Carney (Barker) on down, the country lives – mostly dies – on the sporting field vs. the U.S. Recall last year’s World Series, when Toronto got taken out by Los Angeles.

Then there was the Olympic men’s and women’s hockey, more U.S. wins over Canada.

The Canada men’s soccer coach is an American, Jesse Marsch, who is suffering chronic butt hurt regarding having been passed over as U.S. men’s coach.

Like a petulant child, Jesse stomps his feet and says outrageous things in a desperate grab for attention.

Consider that, after his team was sent from the Cup on the short end of a 3-0 score at the hands of Morocco, a blowout in soccer, little Jesse was saying afterward he’d rather be his team than Morocco.

This was met with mass incredulity from the studio gang on the Fox broadcast. To repeat, mouthy Jesse preferred to be eliminated rather than to move on, arguing that his team had played better.

Whatever gets you through the night, Jesse.

Schadenfreude regarding Canada’s demise made me deliriously happy.

Earlier today, I enjoyed Norway sending the arrogant Brazil types back home. Brazil did not handle things with class. That Norway goalie stopped one penalty shot and had three or four other five-bell saves in an eventual 2-1 Norway victory.

And, even as I write this, a weather delay has moved back the start of England playing Mexico. I have the broadcast paused.

Perhaps another current hemisphere irritant, provider of most of the illegal immigrants to this country, can lose, on its home soil, no less. How sweet that would be for cartel land.

If the English can overcome their many obstacles, from ridiculous Mexico fans trying to deny them sleep, to Mexico playing at home and at high-altitude to boot, and win this game, I might even find a Union Jack to fly for a day.

We’re rooting for you, Harry Kane and friends. Give us more schadenfreude, and Doublemint gum, too.

Happy Fourth of July if you are a conservative Republican and celebrating 250 years of the United States.

My condolences if you are a left-wing Democrat hanging black crepe paper and apologizing for the greatness of this land.

Republicans tend to be happy and well adjusted psychologically. Democrats tend to be unhappy and suffer from mental problems.

Don’t take my word for it, look it up for yourself. The phenomenon is well-documented within the scientific community.

Do you really think those radical protesters with their dyed hair and pierced noses, often carrying an extra one hundred or so pounds of body weight, are happy?

I am reminded that beauty is only skin deep, but ugly is to the bone.

Last night, I was able to secure one of the flood of free tickets for a Johnstown Mill Rats game, endured sweltering heat and seven innings, about two and one-half hours, of bad baseball, in anticipation of a fireworks display.

The fireworks, long an American tradition even though they were invented many centuries back in China, provided 20 minutes or so of solid entertainment.

I awoke fashionably late today to find the wife getting ready to watch the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating contest from New York City. Joey Chestnut won, again. Some things one still can count upon.

Alas, Serena Williams’ fat shots helped her lose weight rapidly and get an invite to Wimbledon, just because she’s Serena Williams, but they couldn’t make her win.

Serena got thumped earlier this week in singles competition by someone named Maya Joint, which sounds like either a Central American-themed bar, or a brand of cannabis. Maya is typical of her time, someone born in America opting to play for another nation, in this case Australia.

The ongoing World Cup is full of such sights, like the black goalie born in Newark, N.J., who played for Japan, or the Switzerland team fielding a starting 11 with seven black players, many from Cameroon.

It is easy to blur the usual standards when it comes to international sports. Beating Father Time is another matter.

Serena is 44 years old. In her prime, she was built like an inside linebacker for the Steelers, but still won.

In her mid-40s, one singles match rendered her hors de combat and forced her to pull out of a doubles date with her sister Venus.

Becoming old for an athlete means, to quote former Steelers coach Chuck Noll, getting on with your life’s work.

Speaking of those attempting to defy aging, consider songstress Taylor Swift, who is 36 pushing 37 years of age. In my youth, she would have been described as a spinster or old maid.

But yesterday, while New York residents were commanded to turn down thermostats or dispense entirely with air-conditioning, Swift was married in Madison Square Garden, where I suspect the audience was kept cool by air-conditioning running hard and long.

Swift is a billionaire, but I don’t hear the leftists whining about her wealth, built on a series of redundant songs about being done wrong by guys. She is to pop music what the Hallmark Channel is to formulaic rom-com Christmas shows.

As an aside, yesterday my wife continued a tradition of taking home-baked cookies to a neighbor who today celebrates her 101^st birthday. Think of it, this woman has been alive for more than 40 percent of our nation’s existence, and was born on the Fourth of July, to boot.

God bless her, and God bless our great nation.

Today we speak of heat, the atmospheric variety, not the biological condition that makes female dogs eager to procreate.

Area media outlets are eager to remind you that it’s very hot out there, so take precautions. They are, to borrow the lexicon of the late Howard Cosell, masters of the obvious.

Drink plenty of fluids, they tell us. Avoid outdoor activities. Retreat to air-conditioned areas. Bring dogs and other pets inside – if you have air-conditioning. Don’t leave children or pets in cars with windows closed for extended periods of time.

Blah, blah, blah. These are things that, back when I was a young man, everyone with reasonable intelligence knew and didn’t need media nannies to warn them about.

Then again, we also knew to dress warmly when it was extremely cold, stay inside whenever possible, come to heated areas, bring dogs inside, don’t leave children and pets in cars to freeze. Again, blah, blah, blah.

Also, we knew not to wrap our heads in the plastic coverings from dry cleaners lest we suffocate, nor to hit ourselves in the head with a hammer, nor to stick our tongues in light sockets or fingers in running electric fan blades.

We were just brilliant, I guess.

So, while you are blasted with weather porn, and breathless updates that some minor European official is blaming the United States for their heat problems, consider a dose of reality.

As a recent internet meme pointed out, despite the climate hysteria of the moment, the all-time high temperatures in 38 states were marked before 1955, which I’m sure had absolutely nothing to do with me being born that year.

Montana, in a graphic example, hit its all-time high of 117 degrees Fahrenheit in 1893!

Many Great Plains and Midwest states established all-time highs in the mid 1930s, when the nation’s breadbasket was experiencing it’s so-called Dust Bowl period. Read “The Grapes of Wrath” book, or watch the movie for some background.

Even more noteworthy, 46 states set all-time highs more than 30 years back. I guess that helps explain why, despite dire predictions from climate crazies, polar ice caps are not gone and coastal cities are not underwater.

Alas, finding historical temperature information is kind of like trying to nail Jell-o to a tree. The numbers vary widely, some of which can be explained by locations of weather stations, and some of which owes to sloppiness or outright manipulation.

As a personal example, I recall from my days working at the Johnstown newspaper, before it became the Woke Gazette, we had a weather station on the roof. Daily logs of temperature, rainfall and the like were noted and periodically stories were written.

You would be correct in assuming the temperatures from a rooftop thermometer, located in the concrete pizza oven that is a downtown area, would register higher than, say, a thermometer in the shade on some nearby grassy hilltop glade.

Several sites I checked on the internet agree that Johnstown’s all-time high temperature of 104 degrees was set in 1936 — July 9 according to one source.

Yet, I’ve also seen 98, 99 and 100 degrees listed as our all-time high temperature on other sites.

My delve into weather records began because I wanted to confirm recollections of playing basketball, outdoors, as a teen during a 100-degree-plus day. No, I wasn’t a teen in 1936.

But I found at least one source that referred to 100 degrees being visited, even surpassed hereabouts, in July 1973. That would have been the summer between my graduation and before I began college. And, yes, I played a lot of basketball back then, weighing in at 170 pounds give or take. These days, standing watching the granddaughters fish and baiting their hooks in this heat nearly kills me.

On the basketball day I recall from my youth, we were at the Oakland playground court and one fellow player, my friend John, needed breaks to sit on a concrete wall, remove his shoes, and thereby cool his feet.

The point is, it’s been hot here before, and probably will be hot again in the future. People can, and do, survive days when the outside heat makes it feel like being near the open-hearth furnaces from our town’s steelmaking days.

There is no need for media to ignore real news to belabor that it is hot and to dispense no-kidding insight on how to deal with it. More to the point, there is no need for them to indulge in orgies of self-congratulation for the public service they profess to be providing.

It is with great amusement that I read tales of World Cup visitors recoiling at our country’s burgeoning tyranny of the tip.

The American sheeple, the same folks willing to wear masks, social distance and generally jump up and down on one leg while flapping their arms and clucking like a chicken any time the elites demand it, go along with the grift. They gladly pay some dish dispenser or drink pourer 20 percent on top of the charge just because the employers are too cheap to pay the help.

It is explained that one should expect to pay that 20-percent or so surcharge. I long have argued, just pay the help, raise prices accordingly, and take the mystery out of it.

This tip grab is spiraling out of control, much like socialism and sexually transmitted diseases.

Enough, I say, to tips, socialism and the diseases.

But, let’s concentrate on tipping.

Yesterday, after a day of swimming, picnicking and fishing with the granddaughters and other family at Shawnee, I treated all to ice cream at an outlet along Route 56. Imagine my surprise when the bill for 5 treats, including my SMALL CONE, came to more than $25.

No, we didn’t buy one of the ornamental cows along the roadside. But, we did get added amusement when, while taking pictures of the kids with the cows, a man hopped on a tractor parked nearby and rode off down the road. We thought the tractor had been part of the décor.

But what was part of a the décor, posted prominently in front of the window where one orders and picks up the treats, was the tip jar. I didn’t feed it.

World Cup visitors are similarly disdainful of such and the establishment types are screaming in pain.

It has become common on social media – I know because I have a guy who feeds me such things constantly – for servers to post whiny screeds on not being tipped enough.

It reminds me of tales my wife used to share with me about the entitled waitresses at Eat n Park, where she worked for a few years as a prep cook. If they brought someone a cup of coffee, which back then probably cost under $2, they wanted a $5 tip.

Even if they ignored a customer, botched the order, or otherwise made the dining experience less than stellar, they still thought they deserved their 20 percent of a big order, and 150 percent if they handed out a cup of coffee.

Tips were supposed to be to recognize superior service, but that got lost along the way.

And, as someone recently suggested, again on social media, why should a $500 dining tab for a family require a 20 percent tip – $100? Shouldn’t the percentage decrease as the tab increases?

While we’re on the subject, I wrote stories for newspapers full-time for 35 years and part-time for many more years. I never expected the reader to track me down to give me a tip if they were amused by the story I had produced.

Our mail deliverer, a personable woman, brings me my mail at least five days a week and she doesn’t carry a tip jar. Then again, if the U.S. Postal Service didn’t prohibit tips, she might. But, probably not. Instead, she carries treats to give to dogs she encounters on the route. Our moocher dog has become a frequent customer.

Tips are the quintessential example of a potentially good idea that has gotten out of hand. As we approach July 4, celebrating the decision of this great land to declare its independence from England, let us resolve to free ourselves from the tyranny of the tips.

It is worth noting that the taxes the English imposed on tea and whiskey, among other things, and that were enough to prompt the revolution, were far less than 20 percent.

Citizen Vigilante, the movie the elites don’t want you to see, is Atlas Shrugged meets Death Wish, Batman, Dirty Harry, Magnum Force, Taxi Driver and Deep Throat.

That Germany refused to rate it and thus thought it had quashed the movie, prompted Elon Musk to post it for free on his X platform. Alas, I did not realize that his posting had a 48-hour shelf life. Demands of my life intruded and the open window slammed shut before I got to watch.

But, the good people at CitizenFreePress.com found another free link and I rushed to watch the movie Saturday evening before it, too, disappeared. Such was the need for immediate action, I paused watching the World Cup and Barrett-Jackson’s Columbus, Ohio, car auction to view the movie.

I am glad I did.

Critics, including those at Variety, subject the movie to the usual nitpicking you might expect from them, regarding any production that is short on DEI, Wokeness and general leftist messaging and long on reality. What they fail to acknowledge is that Citizen Vigilante reflects a growing disgust with out of control migration, a lax legal system that coddles lawbreaking immigrants and a political system that has encouraged the whole phenomenon for reasons of self-interest.

Vigilantism is nothing new, having been referred to in the book of Genesis in the Bible.

Before the Americans declared independence from Great Britain, vigilantes operated in areas such as South Carolina, opposing British rule.

It is but another contradiction of our times that when leftists feel ill-treated by the system, their attempts to break it down are tolerated, if not lionized in the LameStream media and by leftist sycophants in Congress.

But, let a right-minded individual seek similar redress outside the framework and he/she is to be pilloried mercilessly.

The fictional Michael Sanders, the hero of Citizen Vigilante, is such a figure.

In some ways, Sanders shares the economic values of John Galt, the main character in Ayn Rand’s classic Atlas Shrugged novel.

We see Sanders lecturing three punks – one girl and two guys – who board a bus without paying, that they and those like them are just stealing from others when they do this, or filch food from a store.

Sanders also points out to an executive in the real estate company he has inherited, that allowing people who refuse to pay their rents to remain in the apartments is simply stealing, no matter what the government says. Take note, Mamdani the Commie.

Left-wing TV screeds love to describe their biased scripts as “ripped from the headlines.” Well, Citizen Vigilante is ripped from the headlines, too, just not with the selective leftist screening process and subsequent massaging of the message.

The Sanders character is consistent in his economic philosophy, insisting on paying in full, with a bonus, the prostitute operating in a brothel housed in a building he owns. That graphic scene prompts our Deep Throat reference.

There is much to quibble with regarding the movie. Its scattershot, flashback style makes it hard at times to find context.

We are told Sanders is a rich American West Point graduate operating in Europe, but it is not clear where. It has been written that the movie was filmed in Croatia and Germany.

The head police character, Agent Henry, notes he is with Interpol, yet some reviewers refer to him as a local policeman.

The slow-motion gore is a bit over-the-top, but at times playing up-tempo jazz as a backdrop to the carnage is amusing.

The basic message rings true; average law-biding citizens are becoming fed up with a world turned upside-down. As the Sanders character repeatedly tells the masses in pixelated, voice-disguised social media videos, he’s doing this for them until they can or will do it for themselves.

Unlike the Charles Bronson character in Death Wish, Sanders comes to his vigilante role trained for the challenge.

Unlike Dirty Harry, who operates within the framework while pushing the envelope, Sanders does it his way, entirely. You might recall the Dirty Harry sequel Magnum Force, which has Harry singlehandedly dispatching a group of rogue cops who had gone vigilante.

Unlike Batman, Sanders does not cooperate with the police, but he does help them do their work.

Unlike Taxi Driver’s main character, Sanders is not insane.

But, Citizen Vigilante borrows from each of those vigilante classics.

At a time when Joy Behar and her ilk publicly proclaim they are ashamed to be Americans (and I, too, am ashamed that she is an American), Citizen Vigilante hints at time when the left just might get the Civil War it desires.

The left might not like the results.