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        Friday, December 31, 2004


    I went into Johnny's room at the hospital the other day, and his new nurse, a kewpie of a China Doll thing, brightened and exclaimed "Oh, you must be Johnny's grandpa!"

    My face does a thing the kids call 'The Crazy Eye' when I am confronted with a 'Must Kill' situation, but my 'Too Pretty For Prison' circuitry activates, and freezes the parts that so truly, deeply want to see blood, taste blood...lots of blood.

    I can read her thoughts as if she had a plasma screen taped to her forehead..."Oh, litter rellow girrr, you fuk up lilly baaaad...klazy white devver goan fuk yu up an eat you rivva fo shu now..."...she kissed ass and apologised as only a true asian can, but the damage was done.

    Well, I went and did the only thing a man can do at times like this...drink heavily, and cut off my beard and moustache, with extreme prejudice. Yep...face like a pretty baby's butt. Freaked the kids out, too. I did it after we got home, and then charged downstairs from the shower, hair slicked back, snarling like a madman, to kids who had never seen their father's face.

    Nat just about shit. John, getting his bolts adjusted by mommy at the time, freaked out and actually squirted tears out, several feet. It either didn't go as well as I'd hoped, or better than I could have hoped for. You be the judge. Man, the little woman was pissed. My 21 year old Marine kept giving me 'looks' for days. "I have never seen your fucking face before" was the general theme.

    The Wife wants me to stay whisker free for a month, and then she will deliver the verdict as to whether I resport face-fur. I don't want the Goat again, if I have a choice. I've had a moustache since I was 15, but the Goat has been off and on. The 'recent' one was about 3 years old. I had let my follicles loose during a particularly nasty bout of the flu, and as I was defoliating my jowls upon recovery, the wife said "Hey, keep it!" So, it was her beard, and 30% of my face was off limits to razoring, and that suited me just fine.
    But...Gandalf The White is not one of my heroes, and there was way too much salt in my chin-pepper. The 'stache is manageable, still, with minimal are the eyebrows. I think the Old Lady just wants to ride my face, sans hair, for a bit. I'm cool with that. I shall warn her to not slip off and dislocate a hip...perhaps some sort of safety belt is in order.

    We'll see.


    Sunday, March 30, 2003...(Reprint)

    Some young Marines, yesterday, came upon a 4 year old Iraqi boy who had been cut in half by something fast and hot and final...the boy was still alive, and trying to crawl. Our Marines did what they could, summoning aid and whatnot, but I think we all know the outcome.

    Had I been their NCO, I would have ordered them to move on ahead, and then knelt and gently put that child out of his misery...we would have all gone on to have our own special nightmares...later.

    There is a job to is messy, and only certain, very special people can do it. Compare the amount of deployed military to the population of just the United States, and you see that it is a very infintisimal slice, comparatively.

    I wish people would just shut the fuck up and back the fuck off and try to keep things in perspective. More people will die this Sunday in car accidents going to and from church than have died and been wounded and been captured and tortured to death in this whole fucking war.

    And there will still be the story of a little boy, seeing his own guts laid out around him, and some young Americans who will never forget that image for the rest of their lives.

    God Bless them all...


    A Study In Contrasts...

    I would dearly love to let this go, but between all the bloggers whining about it, and the news-pukes driving it into the ground, this whole tsunami business is starting to approach the Princess Diana level of annoying.

    They wouldn't show our people jumping out of the Towers the next day, but everywhere I look today, I see some soggy muslim or other, and proof that there really really needs to be some regulation of hand-held video cameras.

    I will say, though, that the film is getting better and better as this event continues. The folks holding out to get higher prices for their tapes have the best stuff. "I've got film of people getting washed out of a restaraunt!" "Oh yeah? Well I've got shots of floating little DEAD kids!"...and the news-whores run to and fro with their checkbooks, scribbling like mad.

    For those of you upset with me for enjoying all this while you have your compassionate, soap-opera cry...sorry. I actually care what a few of you think. A little. Get over it. Take heart in the fact that I would be just as cheerful about it if it was Los Angeles, or San Francisco. Heck, more so with SF. And here we have muslums and tourists. Throw in Buddhists and Hindus, and you have a trifecta of soggy goodness. Now, bring on the disease and starvation! I've got my feet up, popcorn and beer, and I'm rooting for the crocodiles.

    I don't think I mentioned anywhere that God did this to them. I wouldn't know. He doesn't tend to consult with me before He whacks someone. I have been praying for large quantities of extinct muslims to occur, but I've been praying to win the lottery, too. Some folks are acting like I douched Indonesia myself, from the sounds of things. Tsk. That's just silly. If I had that kind of power, this planet would look like a new cue ball when I was done with it.

    Considering the odd timing of the thing, though, what with another muslum squashing happening exactly one year ago on the 26th, it is not hard to imagine God firing a warning shot. Read the Book...He does like to fuck shit up every now and then. Of course, it's not hard to see a human hand in this either, some sort of Area 51 thing. I can imagine GW with his boots up on the desk in the Oval Office, rared back in his chair, talking on the red phone to Moscow:
    "Say there, Pooty-Poot, you see what I did to all them there diaper-heads in Induhmatra? Yeah baby! Hey, you been kinda pissin me off lately, too, come to think on it...keep it up an you better move yer knick-knacks offa the high shelf there, Pooty..."

    Or maybe it was space aliens. Heard there was some Christians as what got flushed, as well. Shoulda prayed harder. Or moved. You lie down with fags, yer gonna get buggered.

    Well, I better stop, for now. I think I've pissed off just about everybody but blind people, and they can't read anyways. Lessin you read this to em, of course, in which case: "Hey, blind people! Wear darker glasses! Them rollin eyeballs look disgusting! (You have to shout...they can hear you better when you shout).

    Hup! Gotta run, news is on!


    I don't know anyone who has found joy in this tragedy...


        Thursday, December 30, 2004

    Get It...

    ...while it's hot!



    Note the T-Shirt on the guy in the middle. I'm glad they are all dead. Give me the button, and I'll push it.

    On a semi related side note, I wonder how safe our kids are over here, now that thousands of perverted US 'sex tourists' are drownded? Oh, kiss my ass...if they wanted a beach, they could have gone to one of our coasts for their tans. And we have plenty of Thai food here.


    Has anyone else noticed that, as the ragheads begin to discover the money to be made from disaster, that the body count just rises and rises?

        Wednesday, December 29, 2004

    The Godess Speaks!

    ...and very few of you are worthy to so much as sniff her Tampon.

    I mean it. When I hear dipshits judging her by whether they would fuck her or not, I know right away the quality of the 'mind' I am encountering. Intimidated by skinny chicks who smoke, and write better quality stuff on cocktail napkins than you have on your entire blog? Oh...kay...move along, Sparky, you need to be at least this tall to go on this ride...

    Some quotes:
    Like the archers of Agincourt, John O'Neal and the 254 Swiftboat Veterans took down their own haughty Frenchman...

    American hero Pat Tillman won a Silver Star this year. But unlike Kerry, he did not write his own recommendation or live to throw his medals over the White House fence in an anti-war rally...

    He died bringing freedom and democracy to 28 million Afghans – pretty much confirming Michael Moore's view of America as an imperialist cowboy predator. There is not another country in the world – certainly not in continental Europe – that could have produced a Pat Tillman...

    Amen, Sister. You try to write like that. Dare ya.

    If you don't love Ann, you are in the wrong bar...and about to get your ass kicked. Badly. And then I'll go outside and knock over your Vespa.



    My sides hurt...

    hi little kid victimized by the indonesian earthquake and subsequent tsunami.

    hi tony pierce!

    how old are you?

    i'm two.

    tell us what happened to you.

    big fucking earthquake, big fucking tidal wave, big fucking tree hit my big fucking head.

    i know youre probably hopped up on goofballs but how about taking it easy on us with the language.

    sorry tony that's how they fucking talk here.

    they talk like that in thailand?

    they talk like that here in fucking phucket thailand. it's awesome. sorta wish i could enjoy it though.

    why cant you enjoy it?

    fucking tidal wave took my fucking parents away.

    well what's their names, i'll find em for you.

    i'm two. i dont know their fucking names.

    ok, well whats your name.

    fuck if i know.

    shit. yep. do you miss em?

    the bash against the tree cleared my two year old fucking memory. i dont even fucking know what they look like. you could be my mommy for all i fucking know.

    i've been accused of stranger things. fuck it. so hey. what are your plans now? like what are you planning on doing tomorrow?

    well, if im not sitting here crying because im fucking orphaned and homeless i was thinking about seeing the rerun of your appearance on the Screen Savers on G4TV.7pm ET + 4pm PT

    they got that out there?

    G4TV is broadcast in over 50 million homes around the fucking world.

    no shit

    fuck yeah.

    well thats cool. so, good luck with whatever youre doing over there, victimized little kid.

    thanks tony, later


    Link fixed. Now go read his part two. I think I dislocated my scrotum, laughing.


    Okay, It's Time To Praise God, Dammit...

    How anyone can have the mental paucity to be an athiest is beyond my ken. "I'm an athiest" is all I need to hear from someone, and I know I am either dealing with a member of genus dipshittus flagrantus, or someone who is pissed at the Father and is trying to hurt His feelings. In other words, genus dipshittus flagrantus.

    Tuesday of last week, my family was facing the very real possibility of the death of our son; we had no money, and no place to stay when we got up to Portland. We stood at the edge of a deep precipice, the wind of turmoil ruffling our hair, and still we held out our arms and stepped off, confident He would catch us.

    The step was inevitable. We had no choice. We had been 'set up', and it had become obvious that He insisted we do this thing for His Glory. Well, obvious to me, at least. There was some cajolement on my part to me esposa, because, churched as she is, she is still a mother. We must note, here, that God chose Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. He knew dang well Sarah would have told Him to fuck off.

    Okay, so where wuz I? Oh yeah, broke, and homeless. At Christmas. Don't go all symbolic on me. Joseph and Mary were rich. Just knowing they owned a donkey tells you that. If someone tells you they own a Hummer, you know they have muchas ducats. The 'stable' was likely a nice, warm cave. Our Lord did not suffer too much more than any other healthy infant who was God just a minute ago would, methinks.

    As I told my parents last night, in an attempt to put this whole experience into perspective:
    "We had hundreds of people praying for us, and it showed. A surgery that was scheduled to take all day was over in four hours. He was in recovery for less than a day. They could have released him, but they couldn't believe their eyes so they held him over to be sure. He should have swolled up like a pig, but there was none. He was eating and shitting in less than forty-eight hours, and asking his big brother to race him around the hospital in a wheelchair. We were planning on staying in Portland into mid-January, we came home Monday. We had no place to stay, and a half hour before we arrived in Portland, we got a phone call telling us we had a room. We had no money, and people from my blog, the church, and several strangers gave us over five-hundred dollars, far more than we needed. We left all kinds of food behind in hopes that it would benefit some family in crisis, and as a matter of fact, just before we left, two Life-Flight helicopters and one ambulance brought kids there. We hadn't been able to buy a single present for the kids. Christmas Eve, I found a 4' by 4' box full of presents outside the door to our room, with presents stacked up in and above it nearly to the ceiling. I couldn't move it by myself. When we got home, there was another box-full waiting for us. These presents include the full Leap Pad set, several Hot Wheel sets, and the apparently rare and ellusive Barbie Faerie doll. Not one stinker in the bunch. The Marines let my son go at a moments notice, and he took up the slack with Thunderbunny, brought us food, and was a general all around life saver. I would hate to imagine going through this without his help."

    You see the theme, here? Yes, it is obvious once you step back and look. My family was put into a situation for His deliberate Glory, and He blessed us far more than we needed, expected, or imagined that we could be blessed.
    At the risk of sounding like I am waxing all Evangelical, I know that I must communicate this to you all, and to anyone who will listen. God scares the shit out of me, and I do not care to piss Him off.

    Faith is not hard, but it requires a mind-set. I have been cuffed around enough times by God, had my ears boxed and suchlike, that I begin to see the pattern...the Plan, if you will. He left us the Manual, and it is a bitch to read. I rarely do. He also gave us His Spirit...kind of a Universal Translator, if you will. The voice is still, and small, though, and not intrusive at all. Painfully reticent, and not seeking to overpower you. Sometimes you just have to find a quiet place, and...


        Tuesday, December 28, 2004

    Our Good Friends And Allies...

    ...the Israelis.

    Someone is going to get their dick caught in a crack, here. I think it is high time we preemptively nuke the piss out of China.


    Why Sucky Movies Suck...

    This about says it all:

    Again, I say this: Please don't tell me there are no movies to see this holiday season. There are at least 10 very good-to-excellent releases being largely ignored.
    Listen, friends: "Meet the Fockers," "Christmas With the Kranks," "Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events," "The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie," "Ocean's 12" and "Fat Albert" are not films — they are entertainment. There is nothing cinematic about them. They will fizzle and dissolve into the stratosphere long after "Sideways," "Finding Neverland," "Million Dollar Baby," "The Aviator," et al are added to all-time favorites lists.

    Who's all-time favorites lists? I will never see any of the movies that this fag touts, and it is prevailing attitudes like his that keep Hollywood pouring out high-priced shit that people who go to movies for 'entertainment' will never bother to watch. I gots news for you, Hollyfruits...most of us read your reviews now either after the movie, or to see what you like so we can avoid some overwrought piece of Hollycrap.

    Get a clue, and quit throwing the budgets of small countries at schmucks (like Oliver Stone) who make shit that most of us won't even buy from the discount DVD bin in three years, let alone sit through in a high-priced theatre seat.



    I love saying that. And the newswags love highlighting that word on their maps. All of the other place names are small and thin, but Phuket is nice and big and a different color. And that just about sums up my attitude about the whole thing. Phuket.

    I not only don't care, it actually cheers me up. I started to feel a little guilty about that, what with my recent dousing in God's Mercy and whatnot, but then I said "Phuket!" Drownded little kids? Phuket. Drownded little mooselum kids, destined to grow up into mooselum adults? Phukem. I watched the fathers carrying their dead sons, and I felt nothing. I have yet to see one crying over the body of a daughter. I won't hold my breath. Those people are animals, and they are nothing but a bunch of turds that got flushed as far as I'm concerned.

    So there.

    Hey, at least I'm consistent. Ya gotta give me some props for that, dontcha? Y'all scream about the evil ragheads, and cheer on our troops as they blow the shit out of them, and then try to pretend that entire families haven't been turned into collateral hash by our tax-bought bombs. That's the difference between most of you, and me.
    I A) don't give a shit, and B) get cheered up by it when I do bother to think about it. Phukem. Islam, and all Islamists, are the sworn, deadly enemy of the West, of Christians everywhere, and of progress and civilization. They would cheerfully blow up (or drown) your children, and then celebrate in the streets and hand out candy. And you know it. And if you don't know it...

    ...Phuk you.

        Monday, December 27, 2004

    We Now Resume Our Regular Programming...

    Johnny...home. Today. Fell flat on his face after ricocheting off the front door. Blood happens. To ER, apparently no harm, no foul. I missed out. Thank you, God. Got to see the pool of blood and soaked paper towels, though. Christmas colors. Festive! Thank God for vodka! Don't like vodka. All I can afford, right now, in any useful quantity. the gallon.

    Bolts in his neck...Johnnenstein...we have a special wrench and instructions to rotate his ears twice a day. I want to hook my Dremel Tool to them and see if I can re-enact a certain scene in 'An American Werewolf In London'. The wife disagrees. I scheme. Let's get this process over with.

    Little Sister. Jealous. Fascinated by said cranks installed in brother's head. Knows where pliers are kept. Hey, I can't be blamed if she has at it, eh? Hmmmm...patsy...

    Johnny. Plastic surgery. Racoon face. Festive. Green, red, and a nice Merlot purple. Mmmmm. Wine. Yummy. Mommy. Wuss. Stressed out, passed out. On couch, boy on recliner, propped up, doped up, and messed up. Boogers like melted cherry Gummy Worms. Snot Roll Ups. Mmmmm.

    Guns. Lots of guns. Bigass Trunk-Full O' Guns. Took to the House O' Pain. Burglars...bad. Winter. Cold. Now must check for rust and whatnot. Work cut out for me, tonight. This is how psychos 'nest'. Sleep better with a fine sheen of oil on death-dealers. Packed ten full 15 rd mags of 9mm, 600 rds boxed. Three thirty rd mags of 9mm. Forgot 9mm pistol in kitchen. Stress...don't leave home without it. Oh well, the 10mm and .45, with 500 rds apiece, more in mags (10 mags per pistol) took up the slack. Comfort food. Chicken Soup for the Paranoid Soul. As it were.

    It was a good day...I didn't use my AK.

        Thursday, December 23, 2004

    Darn Macs...

    Man, they have one of those goshawful Macs (well, actually 5 or 6) at Ronald McDonald House, and now I really hate them. Why would you have one when you can have a PC? I am using an XP machine over here at the hospital, and how wonderful it is to use a computer that was designed for adults.

    Well, the food here is pretty much just awful, but the weather is nice and clear. Cold as heck, though. Brrrr! Oh, and...what? You want what? Pffft, always thinking about yourself...

    Okay okay! Johnny's doing just fine. Looks like something that flew out from a car fender at high speed, but the docs are amazed at how quickly he is recovering. I tell them it's because he's had practice. Lots and lots of practice.

    This one may have been the worst for me, though. He's had bigger scars and whatnot, but when I first got to see him, there was blood pouring in a steady trickle out of his nose, down his cheek, and into a wad of gauze that was sopped with it. The trash was filling with those, quicker than I'd like. They had warned us that this was going to be a particularly bloody procedure. Yep.

    He is still intubated, but they are weaning him from pumped air, and we hope to have the tubing out of his mouth tomorrow. I wonder if he will bitch us out. He did not want to go in at all, and if it wasn't for good drugs, he would have fought like a wild man. Tube free, we will get to hear the crying. Oh well, that's what morphine is for. He has a frigging plastic spike sticking out of his forehead about an inch or so like a damn toy unicorn. They are sending him home with this. It ought to be interesting. I may need a crowbar handy to unstick him from the walls.

    Well, gotta go. Santa has lots of loot for the kiddies. I got his heart rate down yesterday from 125 to 110 by telling him stories about how big a pile of loot Santa is going to bring him, while I held his little mutant paw, sticky with blood, and festooned with adhesive and tubing. I mean it, this kid looks like something a Komodo Dragon coughed up. I was leery about letting Nat see him, but she insisted, and it doesn't bother her a bit. She just wants him ready to play, dammit. The adult kids were pretty fucked up over it, though. I got to call them wusses. It was fun.

    Ta Ta, and thanks for all the kind words and the money. I guess not all of humanity needs to be destroyed...

        Monday, December 20, 2004

    For What It's Worth...

    Johnny has to be in surgery at 6am, Wednesday. We still don't know if we have a room at Mickey D's, and won't know until 11am tomorrow. We do know there are six people ahead of us on the list as of this afternoon. I'm only telling you this now, so I can brag how God took care of us later. We got $700 from three different people today, so the four of us who aren't getting fed through our arms will survive...thanks, God! RMD House has an arrangement with a hotel to charge $40 a night instead of $100, so we'll have some place to hang our mukluks for a few days should push come to shove. Gas has dropped from $1.98 per gallon, to $1.85, today.

    Not too many years ago, Johnny's birth would have been a death, it is a beacon of hope.

    Thanks again for all of your prayers, donations, and Happy Thoughts, y'all. I need to try to get some sleep tonight, and I hope my sweet wife gets some, too. Johnny is absurdly excited about the whole adventure, as is Nat.

    What a couple of numbnuts...


    The War Against Christmas...

    Go read how O'Santa Bin Clausen is weilding his AK-37 here.

    What a good idea.


    My Take...

    ...on the issue of a National ID Card. I'm all for it, but with caveats. We all have to, by law, have an ID or drivers license to present to a police officer upon request. Many of us travel interstate. Why not a National ID? Kim du Toit is virulently against it, but he might change his big mind if my suggestions below are implemented.

    BUT! Here is what I want:

    First, it replaces the state issued ID and Driver's licenses. One card, good in every state. No double billing for ID. The name of your state of residence will be noted clearly on the card.

    Second, it uses your Social Security number as the ID number, this to be verified at the now Federalized DMV at time of application. Not a citizen? No card.

    Third, this card, and this card alone will be used for voter identification. Your Social Security number will be input before you can vote. More than one use of a SSN during a voting period will result in all uses of that number being invalidated, and a criminal investigation started, with severe penalties on the fraudulent. Severe. Furthermore, a phone system for voting, whereby you can phone in your SSN and press numbers for your choice will be instituted immediately, the work done for free by the various phone companies, with stiff fines for every day after one month they take to complete the work. Furthermore, voting will be extended for a period of not less than two, nor more than five days, depending on the number of issues or candidates in question.

    Fourth, this ID card would function as a national concealed carry permit, to any American with a clean record who chooses to carry. The card should be annotated by those who wish to carry concealed, to alert law enforcement that the citizen potentially has a firearm on their person. There should be a simple test, with a clear handbook to study from, to be taken at the time (or a time of your choosing) the drivers portion of the test is taken. If a person is ineligible to carry a concealed weapon, the card should be clearly marked 'No Carry', just as certain driver's licenses are currently marked that the possesser is too young to drink or buy cigarettes.

    Fifth, possession of a counterfit Federal ID card shows clear intent to violate the law, and the possesser of such a fraudulent ID card should be transported immediately upon apprehension to a Federal work camp, where they will serve at hard labor for not less than twenty years. No trial, no appeal, bingo, you're gone. Counterfitters, when caught, should be executed within one week by firing squad, or hung...their choice, no appeal.

    Until I get all five of those provisions, I refuse to participate in a National ID Card program. I will go find some illegal aliens, and get a good fake from them. They seem to do quite well at that.


    I Swear...

    If I lived near this guy, I would find him, take him somewhere nice and private, and dismember him while he was still alive. I'd keep a soldering gun hot to cauterize the veins so he'd live longer.

    You don't want to know what I'd do if it was my kid he'd done.

        Sunday, December 19, 2004

    Hypocrisy...(Reprinted from Oct 28, because I can)

    I don't want this blog to start sounding like I'm some sort of tattered preacher, running wide-eyed down the street, preaching the gospel and telling folks how to live. I'm not, unless folks want to pay me well for it. I'll bend over for Jesus.

    See? Hypocrisy. Blatant example. Even if no one else can see yours, you can, and you know it least until the scar tissue forms. People who were once fat, and have lost weight, will call someone a fatso. Ex-smokers may be the worst. They've been classified with reformed prostitutes. That's one of the reasons I don't go to church. Don't wanna sit around with a buncha whores. Plus, there's the football.

    See? Hypocrisy. And I call myself a Christian. Well, I did put a qualifier on it. I said I was a Bad Christian. So that makes it right, right? Porno...I did make a crack about flogging my dolphin to Japanese schoolgirl porn, once. I lied, it was Big Black Girl Tittie Porn.

    See? Hypocrisy. I hate smoking, yet I smoked longer than some of you have been alive. I raised my kids to hate smoking, and now at least three of them smoke. Sigh. I lectured them against drinking and driving, with a beer can in the cup holder.

    See? Hypocrisy. I think people put too much stock in it. It has fouled the relationship between the public and it's politicians, the public and those the public have lifted to celebrity. Who wouldn't want to get a blowjob in the White House?

    Hypocrisy. God Bless it. it is the last moral reflex we have left, this outrage against hypocrisy. All of our other, better natures have been numbed into non-existence by the constant onslaught against decency and morality. All we seem to have left is the playground impulse that tells us that something is wrong, because we did it too, and it made us confront our own...




    Well, this is interesting. As if you needed another reason to despise Democrats.

        Saturday, December 18, 2004


    I just finished splitting some kind of sand-nigger looking asshole down through the collarbone to his pelvis with a sword I took from his brother, who I killed a few minutes ago...I took a break, leaning on the sword, breathing hard, breath tasting of blood and shoulder was sore, and three arrows were stuck in my ribs through the armor, and were skritching on the bone and smarted like shit, I'll tell you...fuck! Swing from somewhere around my ankles and split his pissed off wife through the crotch, kick her twitching body off my blade, drop, turn, snap a boot into some little fuckers knee, splash his brains with the pommel, toss the sword, and unlimber the crossbow. PftPftPft and another one drops screeching, brain blood spurting into the air in a violent arc as he drops...rush forward, drop on his chest hard to the sweet music of crushed ribs, slice his throat to the spine with my poignard, flip it into the crotch of something dead and insane and raising a war hammer over my head, then two bolts PftPft up into the throat and the head spatters nicely like a thrown bucket of bloody oatmeal and...

    fuck. email. S'cuse me...hit Pause. Slug some wine. Trying to play a game here! Dammit.

    Got Sci-Fi on the tube, too. A new, instant classic. 2004. Get this, starring...wait for it...Corey Feldman! Yes! Puppet Master vs Demonic Toys! Need I say more? Corey? Puppets? I think not. What is there not to love? Well, there is Vanessa Angel, featuring her Ass-Lips of Doom, but you can forgive her, because she is running a toy company called, get this...Sharpe Toys! Get it? Oh, I have soaked a Maxi-Pad over this one, I'll tell you. Imagining those lips, where they belong, crinkling as they work like an underfilled waterbed mattress, burdened with their injections of Dead Man's Ass Fat....ohhhh..oh..oh..I spend!

    So, how's your Saturday night been?


    I didn't write this, but I really enjoyed it. A lot.

    A Different Kind of Christmas

    I had no Christmas spirit when I breathed a weary sigh,
    And looked across the table where the bills were piled too high.
    The laundry wasn't finished and the car I had to fix,
    My stocks were down another point, the Redskins lost by six.

    And so with only minutes till my son got home from school
    I gave up on the drudgery and grabbed a wooden stool.
    The burdens that I carried were about all I could take,
    And so I flipped the TV on to catch a little break.

    I came upon a desert scene in shades of tan and rust,
    No snowflakes hung upon the wind, just clouds of swirling dust.
    And where the reindeer should have stood before a laden sleigh,
    Eight Hummers ran a column right behind an M1A.

    A group of boys walked past the tank, not one was past his teens.
    Their eyes were hard as polished flint, their faces drawn and lean.
    They walked the street in armor with their rifles shouldered tight,
    Their dearest wish for Christmas, just to have a silent night.

    Other soldiers gathered, hunkered down against the wind,
    To share a scrap of mail and dreams of going home again.
    There wasn't much at all to put their lonely hearts at ease,
    They had no Christmas turkey, just a pack of MREs.

    They didn't have a garland or a stocking I could see,
    They didn't need an ornament-- they lacked a Christmas Tree.
    They didn't have a present even though it was tradition,
    The only boxes I could see were labeled "ammunition."

    I felt a little tug and found my son now by my side,
    He asked me what it was I feared, and why it was I cried.
    I swept him up into my arms and held him oh so near
    And kissed him on the forehead as I whispered in his ear.

    There's nothing wrong my little son, for safe we sleep tonight,
    Our heroes stand on foreign land to give us all the right,
    To worry on the things in life that mean nothing at all,
    Instead of wondering if we will be the next one to fall.

    He looked at me as children do and said it's always right,
    To thank the ones who help us and perhaps that we should write.
    And so we pushed aside the bills and sat to draft a note,
    To thank the many far from home, and this is what we wrote:

    God Bless You all and keep you safe, and speed your way back home.
    Remember that we love you so, and that you are not alone.
    The gift you give you share with all, a present every day,
    You give the gift of liberty and that we can't repay.

    Thank you from a grateful America!
    Thank you, God for our liberty and may we never take it for granted!

    by Barb Servello


    Making A List...

    ...and checking it twice. My wife packs like she is Admiral Byrd, reincarnated, and she is planning a trip to Mars. For her, and one-hundred of her closest friends.
    Seriously. And 90% of everything will come back into the house, unused. Trips are just an excuse to air all our stuff out.

    The kids are really in the spirit of the thing, and Thunderbunny is proving to be her mother's daughter. Told to pack three dolls (her 'Bed Baby', a bear, and one Big Dolly) she has insisted on packing a large lawn-garbage bag with every doll she can find. Looks like the dumpster behind a Planned Parenthood 'clinic'.

    Johnny, more practical minded, expropriated a suitcase and packed his Brio train set and his beloved Thomas the Tank Engine (& Friends). In less than a week, his little face is going to look like 'Raging Bull', and he'll be about as interested in toys as Elton John is interested in women, but for today, I let them have their packing and travelling fantasies.

    The wife and I did have a bit of a spat, though. Emotions are high, and fuses are short. And I tend to put out fires with gasoline, and everybody knows I say sorry just to stop the fight. My daughter was insisting on taking some treasured books to Ronald McDonald house "to weed." I told her solemnly that they had plenty of books there, and, besides, "we didn't want any filthy little foreign children touching them and giving us any of their filthy foreign diseases." Knowing your wife is overhearing you from the next room? Priceless. For all the rest, there's MasterRace.

    "As a matter of fact, honey, if you see any kids there, you should ask them 'are you one of those filthy little foreign children?' and..."

    Well, that did it. The wife, normally placid and serene, launches on me "Don't you tell her to say that crap! You know she will and it will just get us thrown out of there!"

    "Yeah, right, and I'll make Ronald McDonald my bitch, too. I'll get a gazillion dollars and free Big Macs for the rest of my effing life..." I'm trying to not swear around the children. My daughter has the 'Good one, Dad' face on. I have managed to make the Queen of Nice exude spittle. And say 'crap'. What's next, Dad, gonna geek a puppy? Monster...

    I shake my finger at the little urchin..."Don't you say that stuff I said! I was kidding!" But the damage was done, and the wife huffed off into the bathroom to shower. I suspect that is where she does her heavy cussing.

        Friday, December 17, 2004

    Man, I Hate Humanity...

    What's wrong with you bitches? Guys don't do this crap. And here is my favorite part:

    Several pregnant women have been killed in recent years by attackers who then removed their fetuses, in some cases to pass the children off as their own.

    Now, isn't that precious?


    Semper Fi...

    The Diplomad gets it right. Couldn't have said it better myself.

    God Bless the Marines.

        Thursday, December 16, 2004

    Oh, Goddess!

    She speaks, and your knees should be hitting the prayer rug. Is this one a rerun? No matter.


    Blade: Trinity

    I have loved all of the Blade movies, each more than the previous, and that is unusual, for sequels. Comic book movie sequels. Heck, any movie, for that matter, that does not contain Hobbits. Well, there is a small creature, with furry feet...I'll wait for you to figure that one out.

    Don't be a fag, go see this in the theatre! Big Screen. Surround sound. Ahhh, the techno score whilst blood-sucking vermin are ashed into hell...I made a little wet spot in my pannies...

    I wasn't. Gonna, I mean. I was being noble, and sacrificing. Silly to spend money I don't have on a theatre outing, when drama is coming into my life, wagging it's engorged member around next week. But, a generous donor, who has a great, masturbeautiful rack (and, who, alas, is married) told me to go out and have some fun, so I did. And, what fun I had. A Taco Bell Especial bean burrito, wolfed in the parking lot...pure decadence. I haven't been able to afford junk food for some time, now, and it was better than steak. A half-pint of generic 100 proof vodka, and Blade: Trinity. Heaven. I mean it.

    I could have written this screenplay. I am open to write the sequel. Have I mentioned that I own every Blade comic from Tomb of Dracula on? The action figures? The bobble-head doll? If you really love me, you will buy me the sword.

    Go. Like me, sit fifth row, center. If you ever want to kill me, look for the big guy in the fifth row, center, and put one in the back of his head.

    Well, you can try. You still reading? Hie thy ass to a theatre, and soak this up! Unless you haven't seen the first which case, you have some serious renting/viewing to do.

    I mean it. Get going.



    Working On Your Christmas List?

    "Few men have the virtue to withstand the highest bidder." (George Washington)

    "Firearms are second only to the Constitution in importance; they are the people's liberty's teeth." (George Washington)

    "It is far better to be alone, than to be in bad company." (George Washington)

    "Over grown military establishments are under any form of government inauspicious to liberty, and are to be regarded as particularly hostile to republican liberty." (George Washington)

    If the freedom of speech is taken away then dumb and silent we may be led, like sheep to the slaughter. ( George Washington)

    Firearms are second only to the Constitution in importance; they are the people's liberty's teeth. ( George Washington)

    The country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it, or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it. (Abraham Lincoln)

    The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure. (Thomas Jefferson)

    Now, go sell your cloak, and buy a gun.




        Wednesday, December 15, 2004


    Damn Moslems.

    At least they stay consistent.

        Tuesday, December 14, 2004

    Oh, Don't Worry...

    There'll be plenty to read when I'm gone. Start with that, and then find his archives, and devour everything.

    Merry Christmas.


    In case you don't know that Bane would sooner chew bees than link to any opinion Roger Ebert has on anything, you just need to pull your head out of your full point of contact and go here and read everything. The article in question is the one at the top. I redirected the original link, too.




    (click on it, dummy)

    The picture shows that this soldier has been thru Survival School and learned his lessons well. He's giving the sign of "coercion" with his left hand. These hand signs are taught in survival school to be used by POW's as a method of posing messages back to our intelligence services who may view the photo or video. This guy was obviously being coerced into shaking hands with Hillary Clinton. It's ironic how little she knew that he would so inform us about the photo - - - perhaps because she's never understood our brave military to begin with.

    (Via: My Sis)

        Monday, December 13, 2004

    For What It's Worth...

    I finished 'My Beloved Son'. I put the finale in the original post, because I think all three belong together.


    It just occurred to me that some people read this blog, a few even appear to enjoy it, and a couple may even become vaguely alarmed should I quit posting. My last post will probably be Dec 21st, or perhaps even earlier. I do not know how long before, or if I will be posting again.

    I have always lived in interesting times, but now I see a patch of white water coming up. If I make it through to the other side, into calmer waters, this blog may live again. Lord knows, I'm not making any money at this, and next year I have to find a source of money, or some poorly guarded banks. So far, there doesn't seem to be a big call for a 50% disabled 50 year old man with a huge amount of education, but no official piece of paper as such the Scarecrow was blessed with in Oz. All the jobs I find are 37 hours a week, where they are warning you in advance they are going to screw you out of a full time job.

    Ahhh, we shall see.


    Merry Christmas!

    Let's get ready to celebrate!

        Sunday, December 12, 2004

    My Beloved Son…

    Seven years ago, I cowered behind a curtain, while another man disemboweled my wife. It was quite sad, really. She was at the predicted end of her pregnancy, a long, tough one, and she didn’t deserve to have someone fishing in her guts with a knife, and I didn’t need to be hearing it, smelling her blood, and listening to her tissues part under the blade.

    That's as far as I got. A few months ago. Just when you think you are okay, it all comes flooding back and punches you in the gut, eh? Isn't that how it goes? PTSD, maybe. Enough to go around.

    I couldn't write any more on the subject. Oho, I had plans...I was going to tug on your heartstrings, push all the right buttons, play you all like emotional marionettes, and I got played instead. I found a stack of photos we thought we'd lost...more like hidden from view, hidden by us, without our knowledge. Isn't psychology interesting? I found them, we looked through them and cried, and I put them (face down) by my computer, so I could look at them for inspiration to write. Three months ago. Not a word since. Until now. Can I do it? Let's see...

    Oh, don't worry, this is not a dead kid story. I'll tell you that right up front. I wasn't. I was going to reel you in, and let you out, set and reset the hook until you felt my pain. Not lip-quivery like Clinton, but stomach-ache, root-canal...visceral. Invest you. Who needs that? I sure don't. Well, I don't have a choice, but there's no reason to pay that sort of pain forward, I think. You're welcome.

    In the interests of full disclosure, I just took a big knock of whiskey, and chased it with some Diet Rite Cola over ice. I feel like I'm in a car on a roller coaster, and the guy is coming down the line, checking seatbelts and dropping the safety bar over your midsection. Ahhhh, midsection...there we are. I remember now. Me, crouched behind the drape so I don't get a full Technicolor view into my wife's guts, and quite surprised to be here. She had been in hard labor all day. I had tried to explain to the various medical personnel the she was 'really small...down there' and I guess they all assumed I was just a bragging pervert, because they held with her wishes to attempt a natural childbirth, right up until my son started to die. At least that's what I assume happens when you don't get any oxygen for several minutes, while the womb is desperately trying to expel you into an impassable barrier. Death.

    We knew he was a boy. His first sonogram got me a picture of his penis. "Ahhh, his Father's son!" I exclaimed, and she snapped the photo especially for me, to put in his baby book. He became perhaps the most photographed baby in the womb in history. For the last couple of months of her pregnancy, my wife was on complete bed rest, afflicted with polyhydramnios, which the dictionary describes quite simply as "An excess in the amount of amniotic fluid." This is most commonly caused by a defect in the fetus that makes it so the infant can't swallow the fluid so it can be recycled. I was to find out later that a first year med student could have spotted this. As it was, in retrospect, the scale of his deformity was so obvious in his photos that even I, a talented layman, can spot them easily. But none of her doctors did, so we went through our suffering, and I can only assume God willed it.

    Johnathan, for that is his name, has something called 'Apert's Syndrome'. It's a mutation. Fate comes along, running Her fingers over the DNA double helix, cruelly snaps off a vital chunk or two, and a child is formed that has a possibility of cranio-facial disorder (monster-face), retardation, webbed hands and/or feet, and a skeletal system that can go off on quirky and imaginatively unnatural tangents at stages where other children are experiencing natural growth spurts. Apert's can also bring profound oddities to various vital organs. Basically, you get an infant that looks both internally and externally as if it belongs on the Island of Misfit Toys (or The Island of Doctor Moreau) instead of in a basinet, being cooed over by admiring relatives.

    In my case, crouched there by my wife in the surgical suite we had been rushed to from the Birthing Suite, when the sucking sound of his body being removed from hers came, and I peeked, my first thought was "Damn, she musta screwed a Smurf!" I had been downrange four times previous (with the births of my four kids to my ex and I) and none of them had been this lovely, cerulean blue. Did I say cerulean? Nay, indigo, navy, royal, sapphire, teal, turquoise, ultramarine...make up a new word for blue, as long as it's deep and dark, and not the color human flesh should ever be colored. And all of my other babies had squawked, nay, screeched, but this one was silent, and many robed figures were descending on him, panic evident in their demeanor, and my dear wife was asking me from between drugged, dry lips, her tongue barely able to form the words..."How does he look?"

    This is where everyone rips off their surgical masks and begins to laugh, and the hidden cameramen come out and the host of the show reveals that, yes indeed, you have been punk'd, and boy did we get you, ha ha ha! Let's all go to an after-wrap party and Thank God it was all just a funny and let's get drunk.

    Except, of course, that didn't happen, and I've got a horde of family and friends in the waiting area waiting for the good news, a wife trying to focus on my face, and my newborn son under a pile of what looks like ten or so green robed linebackers, scrumming for a football.

    "He looks fine, Baby...everything's gonna be just fine..." God? Don't make me a liar, please? There must be twenty-five people in the room, sewing is being done, suctioning sounds, and one of the people is letting out a pitiful, angry, strangled squeak. December 1st. Seven years ago.

    Sorry, but,

    To Be Continued...

    My Beloved Son, Part 2…

    There are pebbles, and ponds, and ripples. And then there are huge stones, coming from outer space, evaporating small inland seas. This was the latter.

    My Mother tells me I was calm. Not stoic, but peaceful. I called her today. I recall feeling calm at the time, but I wanted another opinion. She tells me that I inspired calm in my family, even as I sent them home for the night, telling them that there were “a few problems”, and there was no reason to stay around. I had two of my boys living with me, back then, one thirteen, and one nearly seventeen, and this month, seven years ago, would cause them to leave me. The youngest to go back and live with his mother, and my second oldest to go out into the streets, until my wife and I eventually helped him get an apartment.

    Would I change things if I could? I don’t think so. Before, I would use the words ‘retard’ and ‘crip’ and such talk, idly, with no thought of who or how they might hurt. So God gave me one. “Here, son, let’s see how you like this…” Oh, to be sure, I was spared a ‘tard,…he scored well on his APGAR tests, and, in fact, shows muchly that he has benefited genetically from my native genius, just have my other, very bright children. But Johnny is most definitely a ‘different’ child, in more ways than one.

    In that first day of that first month, we had no idea of our future. I just knew that we weren’t in Kansas anymore, and I had no idea where the house would land. I had successfully gotten rid of…er, sent my family home, now I just had to deal with a recovering wife, and a dying son. The same doctor that didn’t catch John’s defect approached me solemnly, surely having Christmas dreams of a fat malpractice suit dancing in his head. He gave me the news that my son would doubtless not last through the night, and asked if I would like to go see him. That is when I asked him straight out what was wrong, and he told me. My biggest fear?: “Doc, does he…have his wits? Is he…retarded?” He assured me that that did not appear to be the case, but his demeanor hinted that ‘Oho! there’s more, just you wait and see!’, and I followed a nurse to the isolette where they had placed my son.

    My very first thought was “Wow, that is one big little sonuvabitch!” Twenty-two inches long, eight pounds, thirteen ounces, to be exact. No longer blue, but a mix of healthy pink and angry, bilirubinic orange, and I remember thinking “Damn, there’s a proud looking Viking baby!”, and then, I began to notice the not so subtle differences.

    Don’t ever think that Hollywood does up all of the machines and hoses and wires for dramatic effect. They are just being faithful to real life, and in my real life, my son looked like a rocket ship hooked up to a gantry that was getting ready to launch. Lights blinked, beeps beeped, boops booped, and at the center of a web of tubing and wires lay my son. His four fingers were webbed, on each hand. His thumbs bent backwards at an unnatural angle…oh, I see his toes are webbed, too. Should assist with swimming, one would think, eh wot? And now to the face…lower jaw out in a severe underbite, no sinus ridge to speak of, nothing but a little button nose, above which two large, very blue eyes goggled in different directions. His tiny nose was stuffed with a nasal canula, pumping oxygen into his hitching, nearly Cheynes-Stoking lungs…his skull, dreadfully misshapen, went up to a rounded cone…I began to hear a voice. A real doctor, not the quack who had been my wife’s doctor through the pregnancy (have I mentioned that she had gone into ‘false’ labor at least once a week for two months? Sorry…) and he began to gently, clinically, apprise me of my son’s condition. I looked at him and said “Excuse me for a second, can I touch him?” He seemed surprised, slightly taken aback, but he said “Of course!” and, assisted by the nursing staff, rolled up the oxygen tent and allowed me to stand beside my son. At first, I just put my right palm on his chest, and felt his damaged little heart beating like a mad thing. It was pumping blood into all the wrong places, we would find out later, but I felt it beating, the heat of his skin, and, he turned his misshapen face to me, and fixed me with one intense, blue eye. He knew me, and I knew him. He stopped fighting, his breathing evened, and we regarded each other. His little arms jerked. On the tips of one mutated paw, they had affixed a glowing, red Pulsox monitor lead, and his other little paw lay free, on the bed, clutching at air. I put the index finger of my right hand into his little pink palm, and it closed on me with a surprising grip. He struggled to get both eyes to take me in, and his little rosebud mouth began to work and coo softly, soundlessly. I may have never been prouder than at that moment. I looked up, looked around, and said out loud “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased!” I turned back to look at him, and he slowly closed his eyes and went to sleep, still clutching my finger in his tiny paw.

    An hour later he would be in a special ambulance, surrounded by nurses and doctors, running code three the whole two hour drive up Interstate 5 to Portland Children’s hospital.

    To Be Continued...

    My Beloved Son, Part 3…

    You’ve all seen the cartoon ploy where they have a large pile of protagonists, involved in a fight, rolling down a hill in a big tumbling ball of dust, the occasional foot, fist, head pops out, and then dives back in to keep fighting, oblivious to whatever fate awaits at the bottom of the hill? Story of my life, story of our last seven years, template for my future, it seems. You might ask, why has this all come up now? Hmmmm, good question.

    How many surgeries has my little man had? I honestly can’t remember. I asked my wife, she having been the primary care provider, and she looked quizzical and said “I dunno, I’d have to check…” That translates, pretty much, I think, as ‘a lot’.
    I see Wes says, in the comments: “Really touching and terrifying. I certainly hope your post ends on a high note. I look forward to the rest.” You look forward to the rest? I don’t. But, then again, I am still strapped in the ride, right there alongside a little boy who is excited about pushing the buttons in the elevators at the Children’s Hospital, and has no idea that on Christmas Day, he will be fighting for his life.

    "Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more, or fill the wall up with our English dead." Henry V used those words to urge his soldiers forward during the siege of Harfleur in 1415, asking them for just one more push. One more effort. One more sacrifice. The battle preserved the independence of England, which, of course, made it possible for the USA to be the USA, but that’s another story. Circumstances beyond our control have asked my little family to make just one more push, but then we know, as long as he remains alive, he is a work in progress.

    His heart, as I mentioned, needed repair. Badly. It was pumping bad blood back into the good, and he was as feeble as a drowned kitten. We had to wait a few months for that, until he grew big enough to survive it. We spent the entire first December of his life in Portland, living at Ronald McDonald House, and staying with him constantly, one or the other of us. I would come home to work my job, and try to go up and spell her on the weekends. Then, in January, we brought him home. The living room of our apartment was turned into a hospital room for my wife and baby, and my older boys left us soon after. The drama must have been horrible for them. I would have left if I could have. Hearing his mewls and gasps, and the alarms, and watching my wife wear herself down…well, if you’ve been there, you know. If you haven’t, you really don’t need to. Sorry. And then back up for the open heart surgery. He has a nice throat-to-groin scar from that one, with many others that look like healed bullet holes where the Technicians of Life dug their holes, and inserted hoses and wires as necessary.

    Unable to close his mouth properly, or make a seal with his lips, he was unable to nurse, so my wife expressed her milk constantly, and they fed it to him through a tube down his nose. The doctors say the elixir kept him alive. Powerful stuff, that mothers milk. Since he couldn’t suck properly, we figured we were probably going to lose him then, because feeding tubes present problems at the best of times, and his situation was profound. Like a White Queen from the West, a Lactation Specialist, assigned to our case, rode to the rescue, bearing Haberman Nipples, and my wife (and I) were, for the first time, able to hold our son and get that special bonding when you are looking into your child’s eyes as they feed.

    Another Christmas comes. Another December spent in The House of Pain. This time, they took his skull apart, grinding and shattering it into pieces, while his scalp and face were pulled down over his chin like a turtleneck, and then the pieces were rewired and sculpted into a semblance of a skull, one where there was no longer a gaping soft spot on the back of his head where you could see his brain pulse with his heartbeat. As he grew into toddler-hood, he would exhibit an unreasonable hysteria whenever my wife would use the blender, the electric knife, the mixer, or most especially the coffee grinder. He would literally go ballistic, showing genuine horror. Did you pick up the operative word in that last sentence? Yes…grinder. As an experiment, after one episode, I looked him in the eyes, and then I mimicked the grinding noise with just my mouth…”ZEEEEEE!!!”…and he went berserk. I had figured it out. He had been conscious, or just conscious enough, when they were taking his skull apart, that he associated that sound with the bone saw and other tools that were used on him during his trephination. He’s downstairs, right now, using the blender to help his mom blend up mix for pumpkin bread. We worked through it, but it took some time, love, and effort.

    He had already spent the first few years of his life flat on his back. The surgeons tackled his hands, splitting his fingers apart, leaving his little hands wrapped (from shoulder to tip) stumps for months. He learned to hold his bottle with his feet on his own, and to fetch toys with his feet and place them between his little bandaged stumps. We had to warn subsequent surgical teams to secure (read: ‘restrain’) his feet, or he would reach up with his feet and pull out wires and tubing or turn off beeping monitors that bothered him. He had no idea things could be manipulated, i.e., small motor skill type things, so his play was more of a series of appreciative contemplations, punctuated with laughter and smiles. For, you see, this may be the happiest, sweetest, most carefree little boy on the planet. Freshly cut open, bleary with drugs and residual pain, hooked up to every device medicine can bill someone for, and he beams at you like he is the Christ Child and you have brought him Gifts From The East when you hand him a toy you just picked up in the gift shop and had to sterilize before you brought it into the room. He glows, and, crippled as it is, he reflects back to you the face of God.

    I’m going to miss that face, too, because that is what is on schedule for next week. They are going to take that little face I have come to know and love, and with all of their arts and dark sciences, tear it apart, shatter the underlying bone, and rebuild him with metal bolts, screws, and his own vivisected bone and flesh into something new. They will be doing what they call a ‘mid-face advancement’. I am told that he will have hex nuts or something at the back of his skull we can adjust with the provided tool when we finally take him home next year. I think I speak for us all when I say “Yeeeesh!” Regardless, he…we, cannot go on like we have. He has always had terrible sleep apnea, and it has gotten progressively worse over the last few months. He literally stops breathing, long enough to where he could just not start again, were it not for one of us, with him, shaking him awake and telling him to breath. After night after exhausting night of that, we finally got the ball rolling for another surgery, the one that I have been personally dreading the most. They gave us a monitor to hook him up to so we could get some sleep. When his O2 levels desaturate to a dangerous level, it beeps and wakes us up. He has no sinuses, so they are going to give him some. I am told that this surgery will be the last big one. That we know of.

    My wife and I, try as we might, can only think of two Christmases we have spent at home with the family. The rest of the time, the Dark Time, the Cold Hours, the gray havens where the Old Year crawls off to die, we have been up in Portland for some new intrusion into his little corpus. Last year, or was it the year before? Whatever, we went up because he couldn’t keep food down, and was wasting away. ‘Oh, it’s the flu’, said our local genius pediatrician, and sent him home to die. Well, that is if I hadn’t have blown up and told my wife to get his little ass up to Portland and have a look under the hood. An hour after she got up there, I got a call saying ‘grab the Ronald McDonald House kit and get up here, he’s scheduled for emergency abdominal surgery in an hour’. Seems his shunt, running from inside his brain, and draining the overage of fluid happily into his stomach for a few years, had come loose and was scraping the inside of his stomach, creating scar tissue, and keeping him from absorbing nutrients. Duh, I could have told them that. Oh, wait…

    God has kept me jobless for a reason. There is no way our family could handle this with me trying to keep some career afloat, her trying to wrangle Thunderbunny and Surgery Lad, and both of us worried sick by the very real possibility we could lose him. My youngest Marine is able to take leave, and will be with us, thank God. Somehow, there will be food. Somehow there will be lodging. We don’t even know if they have a room at Ronald McDonald House for us. We won’t know until noon on the day of his surgery. We are stepping off in blind faith, and every one of these days up til then we treat as the last day we will have with him. My faith in God is such that He will do what He wants, and I just pray that He chooses to leave this little boy with us, whole, and as healthy as a kid like that can be.

    Thanks for going along with me on this strange, continuing trip. I hope I haven’t hurt anybody. If you have heard complaining, I have not been.

    I wouldn’t change anything for the world…


        Thursday, December 09, 2004

    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship!

    A quote:
    Curiously, of all the liberals launching racist attacks on black conservatives I've quoted above, only two are themselves black: the two who write for the New York Times. So I guess there are still a couple of blacks taking orders from the Democrats. Isn't there an expression for that? I think it begins with "Uncle" and ends with "Tom."



    When They Get Close... the end of the tunnel, they start looking for the light.

    Every time.


    Catching The Midget...

    It is with great sadness and horror that I report to you that they have finally caught Lucky, of Lucky Charms infamy.

    Decades of great marketing down the shitter, as a politically correctly colored group of kids apprehend the little Irish bastard, and relieve him of his bowl of cereal. Dumbshits! Don't you know that's what sold that vile crap that squeaks on your teeth like dying mice when you chew it? The allure, just knowing that that little Mick fucker was out there, mocking you, daring you to catch him. Flipping the bird and throwing potatoes while pissing drunkenly in your cereal when you weren't looking.

    And now, ruined, because kids today can't lose. They have to win, at all costs, for their self-esteem. So the little black kid gets to Lucky first, of course. Did they have a kid in a wheelchair buzzing ably along? I dunno. And I'm too distraught to go back and check. Besides, Dora's on, and you know how Those People love to carry their knives and razors. Her and her bestial relationship with that gay monkey. Gack.

    At least it keeps the kids out of my hair.



    Kind of like cat-blogging, but without the cat. Unless, of course you have eaten cat in the last couple of days. And no pictures, please.

    Dump-blogging. The kind of blogging you do when you don't have anything to say, but you have an urge to write, and the happy coincidence of peristalsis has occurred. It was amazing, is what I am trying to say, I guess. My wife had cleaned the bathroom, so cleanser smell reigned, but there was a piquant undertone of feminine stinkum she had applied to herself after her shower...humidity was, thus, high, so when I cut loose with what had been an absolutely lovely bowl of chili last night, enhanced with Jack Cheese, and fortified with two homemade biscuits, the resulting ordure odor was, dare I say, delightful. "Honey! Come in here and check this out!" Wisely, she demurred. Fool her twice, shame on her, I guess. With some regret, I flushed it away, feeling the regret an ice sculptor must feel as he watches his masterpiece melt away.

    Speaking of cat, while I've eaten my share of pussy, actual felis cattus is on a par with Mister Rattus as to protein I would not willingly consume. Nevertheless, I was in Tijuana one weekend while doing Amphibious Assault Training down at Coronado (Tijuana reminds me of that first town in Star Wars, where Han shoots Greedo in the bar. Cops stand in bunches..."You do not need to see this droids ID....") and people sell foodstuffs of all kinds everywhere. I and my mates, revved up on vast quantities of tequila and beer, realized, because of our good military survival training no doubt, that we should probably eat something so as to not, well, die and stuff.

    So, we found this guy selling tacos for a dime apiece on the street, cooking these ropy looking strands of meat over one hibachi, and tortillas over another. One of his sons was cutting up the meat small on a grungy board, another was making fresh avocado paste and cutting up fresh chives, and a daughter was assembling them and taking money. I ordered three (30 cents!) wolfed them, and then ordered ten more. They were still the best fucking taco I have ever had in all my born days. Ever. We all stood there, about a dozen of us, and scarfed until we couldn't hold any more.

    The earth spun on it's axis, time passed, and so did several beers, through my kidneys and thence to the release tubing, and I had to go now or it was wet pants for me. I had seen meat boy (the one cutting up the cooked meat) go around the building to the back a couple of times, so I scurried back there to wetten my spot on the alley wall. I shuffled between two dumpsters, unlimbered the hose, and let go. Ahhhhhh, sweet relief...and then I noticed all the eyes staring at me. No no no, I just wish they had been people.

    The dumpsters bulged to overflowing, and had probably been begging to be emptied for days. Flys buzzed and cavorted on the open dead eyes of uncountable cats and dogs. The heads were pretty much all that remained, and gobs of fur and clumps of bones, all jumbled together. Good thing I was pretty drunk. Finished, I resecured the spray nozzel into its storage area, and backed away quickly, holding my breath before any of that mess ruined the ambience of my beer-tequila-taco buzz. I got back out to the street and one of my buddies offered me a couple of his tacos. He'd eaten perhaps twenty or thirty, and was feeling generous. My stomach let out a little growl, and I shrugged. Why not?

    Those are still the best damn tacos I've ever had.

        Wednesday, December 08, 2004


    Bush buys bullets and suicide bomb belts for Palestinian terrorists! Well, that's redundant, as 'Palestinian' and 'terrorist' are synonymous.

    I understand us giving money to Israel, even Egypt, but Palestine? I just heard the King of Jordan tell Chris Matthews, with a straight face, that the Palestine/Israeli issue was the reason for all of the terror in the world. Coming from a man who could solve their problems with one check, and giving them a homeland himself, that is really rich. Oh, wait, they tried that once, didn't they? And it seems that the Palestinkians got themselves massacred in the thousands by their Arab Brothers.

    Must have been as Allah wills it.

    This shit gets more retarded by the day.


    Good On Ya, Specialist Wilson!

    I nearly cheered aloud when I read of this brave mans questioning of Secretary Rumsfeld.

    The final paragraph is telling:

    Colonel Zimmerman said he appreciated the efforts by Army supply officials here, but he and his troops said they could not help but fume at the sight of the fully "up-armored" Humvees and heavy trucks set out on display here for Mr. Rumsfeld's visit.
    "What you see out here isn't what we've got going north with us," he said.

    I can't tell you how many times, when I was in, that brand new stuff (or really good food) showed up before some bigwigs inspection, and then was whisked away, never to be seen again.

    If we're gonna ask these young people to go get blowed up, we should fucking-a well send them in with the best stuff we have, or not send them at all.


    Hmmmmm. Much ado? Rush is all over this this morning, trying to spin it as if, because the story was 'planted', that somehow it is not true. That is not a logical conclusion. Odds are just as good this reporter is a crusading hero. The men of the 278th sure appear to think so. I think Rush may be shooting himself in the tongue with this line of attack.

    Update # 2:

    Hear hear. Sounds like a lot of confidence, right there. No one hates the liberal scum media more than I, but I sense that I'm right on this one. I'll post it right here if I find out I was hoodwinked.

        Tuesday, December 07, 2004

    I'b God A Code...

    I took a big shot of NyQuil last night, and crashed until 11:30 this morning. I have unwanted guests in my sinuses, and they are partying hard. My nose hurts. Heck, my face hurts. And I think they are having sex in there, because this white goo keeps pouring out of my blowhole.

    Nothing for it but to slam another shot of N and hope to sleep til they leave. Posting, ever light, will likely be gravity free for awhile.

        Monday, December 06, 2004

    Nuff Said...





        Sunday, December 05, 2004

    Become As I Am...

    If you want to become as bitter and angry and consumed by hatred as I am, spend an hour or two reading through this site. For a supplement to Colonel Nick Rowe, and how he died, go here.

    If not, stick your head back in the sand, and contemplate your Christmas Cookie recipes.

    It jumps out at me that this bullshit was going on under a Republican Administration.
    By the way, I now hate Fred Reed with a passion. I am one of those card-carrying Disabled American Vets he disparages in the last para of his latest tripe. Fred has been rotting for a while, but now his nasty guts have burst open and spilled, so we can all see the cowardly yellow rot at his center. I will read him in future only as I do the other boll weevils, to see what mischief they are up to. What a maggot.

    Update: The first link above leads to a post titled 'Death By Insanity'. You'll have to scroll down a bit. The post below it ('Problem Number Four') is pertinent, as well. This is a site worth settling back with a drink (or three) and savoring.

        Saturday, December 04, 2004

    Yeah, What He Said...

    Haven't I been saying this for years? This is the most eloquent statement of this idea I've seen yet. Bush should give this speech tomorrow.

    Heck, today.

        Friday, December 03, 2004

    If I Were King...

    I was just toying with the fantasy of what fun I could have if I suddenly found myself inhabiting George Bush's brain, and was Master of all I survey...

    First off, I'd grab Laura and run upstairs with her and shag her socks off. I'd make her hum 'Hail To The Chief' on my scepter. Then I'd have her whisper filthy Texan talk in my ear while I drilled for oil.

    I'd sneak up behind Dick Cheney and pop a paper bag.

    I'd take to farting in the limo, and blame it on the Secret Service guy. I bet that'd never get old. "Damn boy, what crawled up you and died? Fuck, son, we better get you to the Surgeon General afore ya'll kill somebody!"

    I'd serve my Special Brownies at State Dinners, the ones with a little pot, and a lot of Ex Lax, so you think it's funny when you shit your pants. Let's say I've got the Prime Minister of Niggeria over, and he thinks it's just going to be a fart and tries to slip out an SBD. "For gosh sakes, Lumumba! Look what you done did! Here in America we just don't shit wherever we want, boy! Somebody get him a shovel and have him clean that mess up. Good Lord." Oho, my mirth would be acute.

    I would have someone reprogram some cruise missiles, and have them skywrite "SURRENDER DOROTHY!" over the Kremlin.

    Every time our naval ships passed any foreign flagged ship, I would have the crew line up from bow to stern and moon them.

    I would have two large spheres mounted at the base of the Washington Monument, paint the whole shebang pink, and turn it into a festive fountain.

    I'd keep a sniper rifle mounted on the outdoor balcony, and give the occasional protestor or hippy a flesh wound they wouldn't soon forget.

    I'd call emergency meetings of the Democrat leadership, and have Marine Recruits beat the shit out of them, but not in the face. Democrats would learn to flinch when I reached to scratch my head. Sometimes I would give them ice cream instead. Keep em off balance.

    I would invite Chirac to a 'rapprochement' meeting, and while we were starting to pose for photos shaking hands, I would instead yell "Rapproch this motherfucker!" and give him an atomic wedgie his grandkids would feel, then cane him all the way back to his limo yelling "Psyche! Psyche!" His personal physician would wonder in amazement at how underwear got wrapped around his duodenum. Of course, those nasty frogs probably do not wear underwear, so I'd have to settle for just the caning.

    Well, other than an Executive Order making pure cocaine legal only for me, and having Madeline Albright sodomized every Friday by the Marine Bulldog (is that bestiality? For the dog, I mean. Maybe incest...) while they bring the flag down, and having Innagaddadavida be made the National Anthem, I can't think of anything more right now.

    That may be a good thing...


    Convoluted Linkage...

    I was at this blog, which led me to this blog, which led me to this article, which led me to this conclusion.

    [Above links certified SAFE for Spacebunny...sfs]


    Fun With Etymology...

    Lileks has his Gnat, I have my Nat, and that's about where the similarities end, except that mine is way prettier, and is also four. Lileks never writes about getting slugged in the nuts, or mentions a scream that gives dogs boners from a mile away. I think we can safely assume his Gnat does not do these things.

    Nor does she, I'll wager, berate him with a fierce visage, and shout at him for not letting her jump on the trampoline. We do not have a trampoline. No one we know has a trampoline. As far as I know, there is not a trampoline for a hundred miles. I will not ever own a trampoline, and perhaps she senses my animus towards the filthy things, and instinctively rebels.

    Trampoline. The very word reeks of white trashyness. Doubtless so named because girls frequently bust their hymens whilst falling through the edge onto the bungie cords, thus becoming 'tramps'. Soiled doves. Never having known the touch of a man, and yet their resale value has been severely impacted (as well as their tender young vulvas).

    Trampoline...that would be a good name for a sexual lubricant, now that I think of it. "Show your ho you care, use Trampoline tonight..." Market it with NASCAR condoms that have tire treads imprinted on them. Have studded ones for that tricky winter copulating.

    No, a trampoline is something you buy for the neighbor kids. The little bastards that make noise in their yard til all hours, and ride their bikes over your lawn. In a week, they'll all be dead or in wheelchairs or iron lungs, and you can get some sleep. To ensure their demise, hire a couple of hot chicks to sit on lawn chairs near their yard and egg them on by making approving noises and clapping so as to jiggle their breasts every time one of the boys performs a particularly daring stunt.

    If your neighbors are girls, just enjoy the view from behind the crack in your curtains, and make sure to have plenty of Trampoline on hand.

        Thursday, December 02, 2004

    Salvation Army...

    I don't give to charity. Heck, I am a charity. I make an exception for the Salvation Army, Ronald McDonald House, and The March of Dimes. Last night, I slipped $10 I had just withdrawn from the ATM to the bell ringer outside the store, a donation from a reader. I payed it forward, and it felt damn good. I hope you do so, too. And I hope that you, like me, tell Target Stores to kiss your ass, and boycott them for at least the duration of the Christmas season. Fuckers.




    I found this very interesting. I knew all that stuff about Kinsey already, but I find the juxtaposition with Hugh Hefner fascinating.

    It's fun to look behind the curtain and find that, indeed, They really are out to get us.


    The Goddess Speaks!

    Go, and worship...

    She is most especially venemous today, fairly dripping with it. Now that the Legacy Media is getting shit-canned right and left (Bye, Dan & Tom! Don't let the door hit you in the ass!) I'd like to see some enterprising head of news somewhere give Ann her own televised forum. She doesn't do well in verbal combat with Demoncrap attack-gerbils, so I wouldn't recommend guests. No, I'd just like to see her do commentary on the days events, letting libs speak for themselves on clips, and then tearing them apart. If she has guests, I'd want them in a soundproof booth, with a microphone that she has the cutoff switch to. Then bring assholes like Carville and Begala on...

        Wednesday, December 01, 2004

    Something To Look Forward To...

    The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Fifth Level of Hell!
    Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

    Purgatory (Repenting Believers)Low
    Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Very Low
    Level 2 (Lustful)Extreme
    Level 3 (Gluttonous)High
    Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Very High
    Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Extreme
    Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Very Low
    Level 7 (Violent)Very High
    Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)Extreme
    Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Very High

    Take the Dante's Divine Comedy Inferno Test

    I would have liked to have scored higher for violence. Oh well.