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— Rapid Response 47 (@RapidResponse47) March 16, 2025

In my high school, the better students, in the two Academic class sections, received instruction in Latin in 9th and 10th grade. Our Latin teacher had a curious personal custom. He sacrificed annually in honor of Great Caesar, on the Ides of March, the male student in each class who had offended him by doing the least work and/or being the most disruptive. He sacrificed additionally one female student from each class whose selection, I fear, was based only upon his own capricious whim and covert sexual attraction.

The sacrifice consisted of the victim being bent over a desk and receiving three strokes of a paddle, delivered by a six foot+, 250 lb.+ Latin teacher laying on the strokes with a will and putting his weight behind them. (I won’t name him.) Mr. X’s paddle was a four foot long piece of 1 1/2″ thick pine, produced in our high school’s wood shop by General Curriculum students, who did not take Latin, but admired Mr. X. The paddle was roughly in the form of a Roman gladius, and its surface was scored by a series of regular lines, because it was generally believed that a blow from an uneven surface was more painful.

Mr. X had a fixed policy of assigning the duty of construing the day’s Latin assignment on the blackboard in strict and completely predictable order, going up and down the aisles of desks. Two or three of the smart kids would always actually do the Latin, (I was one of them) and it was our recognized duty to supply the translations in advance to the person who would be going to the blackboard.

Readiness to translate correctly was really vital, because Mr. X would apply his dreaded paddle to anyone who failed to write out the day’s assignment correctly on the blackboard. It was rare, but every once in a while some truly feckless idiot would neglect to seek out Kenny Hollenbach, Jack Rigrotsky, or yours truly, and would arrive at the blackboard, chalk in hand, unprepared.

Mr. X typically broke the current paddle over the defaulter’s posterior, and the mental defectives in shop class would gleefully commence the fabrication of a new, yet more elaborate, edition of the famous paddle.

Every March 15th, two 9th and 10th grade Academic Curriculum sections would look on with the same sadistic interest of Roman spectators at the gladitorial games, as Mr. X conducted his sacrifices. I can recall that he struck the pretty strawberry blonde with the well-developed embonpoint so hard that he raised dust from her skirt. We were a bit puzzled that girls actually submitted to being beaten with a paddle for no reason, but all this went on undoubtedly because the legend of Mr. X the fierce disciplinarian had enormous appeal in our local community. The whole thing was fascinating, and it all made such a good story that everyone, student and adult, in his heart of hearts, enthusiastically approved.

Mr. X would never be allowed to get away with that kind of thing today. Alas! In Hades, poor Caesar must do without his sacrifice. And it is my impression that Latin instruction has rather overwhelmingly also become a thing of the past. Kids today learn Spanish. Modern languages are easier and are thought more relevant.

My high school Latin teacher is the large chap wearing glasses. He also coached one of our sports teams.

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An annual post in memory of my Latin teacher.

#Ukraine #Russia ⁦@PaulBrislen⁩ pic.twitter.com/NGB5xsllUq

— Senior Chief (@SeniorChiefEXW) October 23, 2024

This is Don Enrique Esparza, the last surviving witness of the Battle of the Alamo, late in his life. This photo of Enrique Esparaza is courtesy pf the Dolph Briscoe Center for American History at UT-Austin.

In November, 1902, the San Antonio Light Newspaper published the following article about Enrique Esparza:

Since the death of Senora Candelaria Villanueva, several years ago at the age of 112 there is but one person alive who claims to have been in the siege of the Alamo. That person is Enrique Esparza, now 74 years old, who, firm-stepped, clear-minded and clear-eyed, bids fair to live to the age of the woman who for so long shared honors with him.

Enrique Esparza, who tells one of the most interesting stories ever narrated, works a truck garden on Nogalitos street between the southern Pacific Railroad track and the San Pedro creek. Here he lives with the family of his son, Victor Esparza. Every morning he is up before daybreak and helps load the wagons with garden stuff that is to be taken up town to market.

He is a farmer of experience and contributes very materially to the success of the beautiful five acres garden, of which he is the joint proprietor.

While claims of Enrique Esparza have been known among those familiar with the historical work done by the Daughters of the Republic, an organization which has taken great interest in getting first-hand information of the period of Texas Independence, the old man was not available up to about five years ago, for the reason that he resided on his farm in Atascosa county. This accounts for the fact that he is not well enough known to be included in the itinerary when San Antonians are proudly doing the town with their friends.

Esparza tells a straight story. Every syllable he speaks to uttered with confidence and in his tale, he frequently makes digressions, going into details of relationship of early families of San Antonio and showing a tenacious memory. At the time of the fight of the Alamo he was 8 years old. His father was a defender, and his father’s own brother an assailant of the Alamo. He was a witness of his mother’s grief, and had his own grief, at the slaughter in which his father was included. As he narrated to a reporter the events in which he was so deeply concerned, his voice several times choked and he could not proceed for emotion. While he has a fair idea of English, he preferred to talk in Spanish.

“My father, Gregorio Esparza, belonged to Benavides’ company, in the American army,” said Esparza, “and I think it was in February, 1836, that the company was ordered to Goliad when my father was ordered back alone to San Antonio, for what I don’t know. When he got here there were rumors that Santa Ana was on the way here, and many residents sent their families away. One of my father’s friends told him that he could have a wagon and team and all necessary provisions for a trip, if he wanted to take his family away. There were six of us besides my father; my mother, whose name was Anita, my eldest sister, myself and three younger brothers, one a baby in arms. I was 8 years old.

“My father decided to take the offer and move the family to San Felipe. Everything was ready, when one morning, Mr. W. Smith, who was godfather to my youngest brother, came to our house on North Flores street, just above where the Presbyterian church now is, and told my mother to tell my father when he came in that Santa Ana had come. (Northeast corner of Houston and N. Flores Streets.)

“When my father came my mother asked him what he would do. You know the Americans had the Alamo, which had been fortified a few months before by General Cos.

“Well, I’m going to the fort” my father said. Read the rest of this entry »

.@AOC got dance lessons on 12/13/2024 from Bombazo Dance Co Inc and made the US taxpayer cover the $850 bill for that “training.”

On the same day there was $3,700 paid to Juan D Gonzalez for more “training.”

Earlier, on 9/18/24, AOC spent $3,384.74 for food at Taco Bamba… pic.twitter.com/RPPVrQhJxR

— Paul A. Szypula (@Bubblebathgirl) March 8, 2025

Agriculture secretary cancels $600K grant for study on menstrual cycles in transgender men https://t.co/9vctbORc6q

— Fox News (@FoxNews) March 8, 2025

The US car market is such a bizarre joke.

Paying $35,000 to $70,000 for a complicated shitbox car that doesn't even run well. Most conk out before reaching 100k miles.

We used to have cars that were basic, affordable- and you could fix yourself.

What the hell happened?

— Retro Coast (@RetroCoast) March 6, 2025

The last BMW I bought came without a dipstick. You have to trust the car’s computer to tell you it’s low on oil.

These automotive computers freak out completely when it’s cold or really wet out there. You push the start button and you get the “Engine is Dying Tow It to the Dealer at Once” warming.

I will never buy another new car. I’m trying to decide what pre-emissions quality car I want next.

How did we get to this? It’s simple. In Washington (and at EU headquarters), the car companies, the big insurance companies, and the Eco-Enviro Religious cultists got together and drew up long lists of things they want in your car that screw up performance and that run up the cost TO YOU.

In the good old days, you could talk to Morris Garages in Oxford, England, tell them exactly what engine, how many seats, what extras you wanted, what color, and they’d build you a car.

Today, you need Big Brother’s permission and imprimatur, and have to pay the Big Insurance Company, before you can own a car and drive it on the roads your tax dollars built.